Page 82 of Knotted By my Pack

I pull together something quick. Sautéed vegetables, grilled salmon, rice cooked slow on the stove. She offers to help, but I tell her to sit.

Rusty leans his chin on her knee the whole time like he thinks she belongs here.

After dinner, we rebuild the bed. She holds the frame steady while I slide in the screws. We don’t talk much. Just work. Hands brushing. Breath catching when our shoulders touch.

I find an old shirt from college, soft and worn, and toss it to her when she steps out of the shower. It hangs low on her thighs when she walks back into the room.

“I like this one,” she says, tugging on the hem.

“Keep it,” I tell her, already knowing I won’t be asking for it back.

We slide into bed. The room is quiet except for the cicadas outside and Rusty’s paws twitching as he dreams at her feet.

She turns her head on the pillow, eyes searching my face.

“You could stay,” she whispers. “At least give me time to figure things out before you disappear.”

I study her. My chest tightens again, but not in a way I want to run from.

I lean in, press a slow kiss to her lips—one she returns without hesitation. It’s not desperate. It’s not goodbye. It’s something else. Something hopeful.

“Okay,” I say against her mouth. “We’ll figure it out.”

She exhales, long and steady, like it’s the first time she’s breathed all day. Her hand rests on my chest, and I let my eyes fall closed to the sound of her breath folding into mine.

24

CORA

Iwake to the slow rhythm of his breath and the warmth of his body wrapped around mine.

The room is dim, early light spilling in through the gap in the curtains, brushing everything in soft gray-blue.

Elias is behind me, one arm curled under my chest, the other draped across my waist. His scent clings to the pillow and to me—something woodsy and masculine and deeply familiar now.

There’s heat pressed against the curve of my ass—firm, unmistakable. The thick ridge of him tucked against me, hard and throbbing even through the barrier of clothes.

I shift without thinking, just enough for the pressure to drag across the seam of my body. His hips jerk in response.

He exhales roughly behind me. “Jesus, Cora.”

A slow smile spreads across my face against the pillow. “I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I wasn’t. Not really.” His voice is gravel and smoke, low with sleep and need. He noses into my hair, breath warm at my nape, and kisses the back of my neck. Soft at first. Then deeper.

His tongue flicks against my skin, tasting. Marking. His fingers splay across my waist, holding me there.

“Ignore it,” he murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. “It’ll go down.”

But I don’t want it to.

I push my hips back again—slow and dirty. The heat of him presses right against where I ache, and he groans. The sound hits low in my belly.

“What if I don’t want to ignore it?” I whisper.

He grips my hip and rolls me onto my back in one swift movement. His body covers mine—heat, muscle, dominance in every inch of him.

Hair tousled. Jaw dark with stubble. Those silver eyes pin me like a blade edge. Hungry. Torn between restraint and ruin.