Page 68 of Knotted By my Pack

“Can you drop me at the clinic?”

He stands and walks toward the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Of course, baby. Get ready, and I’ll drop you off.”

That word. It’s the second time he’s ever used it. And this time, it lands differently. It sticks.

I follow his movements as he grabs eggs from my fridge, heart a tangled mess of yes, no, maybe, and God help me if he says that again.

20

JULIAN

The scent of her is still in my living room.

I scrub at the couch cushions like a man possessed with a lemon-scented industrial cleaner, the yellow gloves squeaking when I squeeze the spray bottle again.

Useless.

No matter how hard I clean, the memory sticks. Her thighs draped over my lap. That broken little noise she made when I sank my teeth into her shoulder.

The way her fingers gripped the back of the sofa like she was holding on for dear life.

My cock stirs, annoyingly responsive, even as I press the sponge harder. I growl under my breath and lean back, tossing it onto the coffee table.

It’s all in my head. That’s all. Just muscle memory and biology reacting to the last warm body I touched. Nothing more. It doesn’t mean anything.

My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter. I snatch it up, breath tight, a flicker of hope flashing through me before I even check the screen. But of course, it’s not her.

Damien.

I answer without hiding my irritation. “What?”

“Relax,” he says, voice smooth and always a little too cheerful. “I was calling to check in. How’s the project?”

“Fine. I’m making progress.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of a lighter flicking. He’s probably leaning back in some expensive chair in Houston, drinking a bourbon and pretending he’s already inherited the company.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable in that dusty little port town,” he says. “I’ve got a lead on another drilling site. Southern edge of Lafourche Parish, close to the wetlands but clear. I’m heading into a meeting with Dad in fifteen. Thought I’d let you know.”

Of course he does.

“Good luck with that,” I mutter and hang up before he can launch into his usual monologue about projections and profits.

I toss the phone on the counter and stare at it like it personally offended me.

The buzzing in my head doesn’t stop, not even when I step into the shower, cranking the water cold in an attempt to bring my body back under control.

I scrub my skin red. Her name repeats itself in my mind like a goddamn chant.

Cora.

She’s the reason I’m like this.

By the time I’m dressed—charcoal suit, navy tie, cufflinks that cost more than her entire bakery—I’ve got it all boxed up neatly.

She was a slip up. A distraction. My rut got the better of me, and she just happened to be there. Convenient. Willing. Too sweet for her own good.

The drive to the office is uneventful until I take the corner past the square and see her bakery still closed. Lights off. No “beback soon” sign. No gentle glow from the kitchen. Just cold glass and a locked door.