Page 10 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

ELIAS

It’s almost nine.

She’s never late.

Her car’s parked where I left it after the repairs, and I’ve been standing outside the bakery for the better part of an hour, hands tucked into my jacket pockets, leaning against the wall, watching the sky lighten by degrees. My eyes keep flicking to the street. Still no sign of her.

I glance at the time again. 9:02.

Then I see it—a familiar truck pulling up to the curb. She climbs out of the passenger side. Her head is ducked, hair tucked into the collar of what looks like an oversized flannel shirt.

A man steps out next. He doesn’t look at me, just walks around the truck, talking low to her as she adjusts something on her wrist.

I recognize him immediately. Same guy from the bakery the other day. Same quiet, possessive way of standing too close. Everyone says they’re glued at the hip. I didn’t believe it. Not really.

Until now.

She finally lifts her head and sees me. Her eyes go wide for a split second before she hurries over, the tails of the flannel flapping behind her like a too-long curtain.

The thing is massive, swallows her whole. It’s definitely not hers. The collar is stretched wide, hanging off one shoulder. The sleeves cover half her hands.

I don’t even need to ask. The shirt belongs to Noah, I realize as I watch his truck drive off.

“Sorry, Elias. I didn’t mean to be late.” She’s squinting as she approaches.

“You okay?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

She groans softly. “Just a hangover. Nothing dramatic. I’m good.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from me. “Rough night?”

“You could say that.” Her smile is tired. “Is the car okay now?”

I nod. “Running smoothly.”

“What was wrong with it?”

I start explaining, walking her through the problem with the ignition coil and the sensors, but I can see her eyes glazing over halfway through. She’s nodding, trying to follow, but it’s not sticking.

“It’s all fixed now,” I say simply, letting her off the hook.

She hums, then winces. “Sounds expensive.”

She doesn’t know the half of it. Between the parts, labor, and specialty tools I had to borrow from a buddy across town, it cost me close to twenty-five hundred. But I’m never telling her that.

Instead, I lift a brow and say, “How do muffins five times a week for three months sound?”

Her lips twitch. “Deal.” She unlocks the front door and gestures for me to follow. “Come in.”

The bakery is quiet, still dim from the early morning light. She doesn’t turn on all the overheads, just the ones above the prep area and the front counter.

The warm yellow glow softens the space, painting everything in gold and amber. My boots echo lightly across the tiled floor as I follow her in.

She moves around like she’s floating. Even in someone else’s shirt, even half-hungover, she has a rhythm.

She ties her hair up with a loose band from her wrist, revealing the slope of her neck, then wraps an apron around her waist, cinching it tight. I catch glimpses of her bare thighs where the shirt rides up and swallow a breath.

“I mixed the batter yesterday before I went out,” she says, pulling on gloves. “I’ll just prep them and pop them in the oven.”

“Can I watch?” The words leave before I think them through.

She turns, brows lifted in amusement. “You sure? It’s not glamorous.”

“I’m sure. I need to know how the sausage is made, or in this case, your fantastic muffins.”

She gives me a soft nod and waves me through the doorway into the back.

It smells incredible in here. Yeast, flour, a hint of citrus. The back of the bakery is warmer, filled with stainless steel counters, industrial mixers, racks lined with trays, and ingredients stacked in clear containers.

There’s a rhythm to this room, too. A quiet pulse.

We wash our hands side by side. She rolls her sleeves up to the elbows and checks the batter like it’s a sleeping baby. Her movements are precise. Methodical.

“Grab those muffin cups,” she says, pointing with her chin. I do, setting them into the tray. “Now the scoop. Like this.”

I mimic her. She nods approvingly, adjusting a few of my attempts.

Her scent is different today. Normally, it’s sugar and vanilla. Bright. Warm. Familiar. But that shirt? It carries Noah’s scent. Sharp. Alpha. Possessive. I try not to react to it, but I miss the way she usually smells. Miss the way her sweetness lingers even after she walks away.

We fill two trays, her giving soft instructions as I go. She brushes flour off my cheek once with her knuckles. It’s a small thing, but I feel the heat of it all the way down to my stomach.

“They won’t take long,” she says once we slide the trays into the oven.

Then she winces again, holding her head for a second.

“How much did you drink?”

She huffs out a laugh. “A lot. But I needed it.”

“Long week?”

“The longest,” she says. Then she leans against the counter and glances over. “You don’t go out much?”

“Not really. Not anymore.”

Her mouth tugs to the side. “Noah and I go out every once in a while. Blow off steam, drink too much, act stupid. You should come next time.”

I pause. “You’d want me there?”

“Why not?”

I study her face for a beat. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

We fall into an easy silence. She leans against the island. I take the stool across from her. There’s something soft about this moment.

It’s not charged or heavy… Just the low hum of the oven and her fingers tapping against the counter in time with her thoughts.

When the timer dings, she straightens and pulls on her mitts before opening the oven door and bending to retrieve the trays. The scent hits me immediately. Warmth, sugar, lemon zest. Heaven.

She surprises me by plating two and sliding one toward me. Then, she just breaks off a piece of hers and pops it in her mouth.

I do the same. Still warm. Soft on the inside, golden around the edges. Perfect.

“You’re good at this,” I say between bites.

Her eyes flick up to mine. “Thanks.”

We finish the muffins in silence, and when we’re done, she doesn’t rush to get up. Neither do I. It’s not much. But it’s something.

We’ve been sitting in the quiet hum of her kitchen for about ten minutes when she wipes her hands on a towel and sighs. “I should get started on the cinnamon rolls,” she says. “Mrs. Harrow likes them fresh.”

I nod, standing slowly. “I should head out anyway.”

She walks me to the front, thanking me again for the car. Her voice is soft, grateful. I don’t think before I do it—just lean in and press my lips to her cheek. Her breath catches. Her body stills.

She doesn’t move. Her eyes snap to mine, pupils blown wide, and there’s a charged pause between us.

Every nerve in me is lit. Her skin is warm where I kissed her, and I know she’s thinking the same damn thing I am. That we’re standing far too close for this to mean nothing.

“Where’s your phone?” I ask, voice rough.

She swallows. “At the counter.”

I walk over, tap in my number—something I should have done a long time ago—and hand it back. “I’ll be waiting for that invite.”

She’s still watching me like I just flipped her entire world on its side. “Okay,” she says, so quietly it barely registers.

I walk out of the bakery with the taste of her still lingering on my lips, and I’m halfway across the street when everything shifts.

There’s a sign on the building next to hers. Black with bold lettering. My steps slow.

VANCE REAL ESTATE.

All the warmth she filled me with is gone, drained out of me like someone pulled the plug. My jaw sets, muscles locking up as rage climbs through me, hot and blinding.

I don’t even notice the truck until it parks right under that sign. And from the driver’s side, like some fucking demon conjured from hell, Julian steps out, looking like he owns the goddamn town.

I stalk toward him, fists already clenched.

He sees me. “Elias?” he says, surprised.

“Don’t say my name,” I snap, stopping inches from him. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”

Julian shuts the truck door slowly, calmly. That infuriating smirk plays at the edge of his mouth. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“You showing up here absolutely concerns me,” I spit. “You and your brother think you can just waltz in after everything? You think people forgot?”

He laughs, a low, amused sound that slices through what’s left of my self-control. “I’m not here for that. And you, of all people, shouldn’t be playing the victim.”

I take a step forward so we’re chest to chest. “Don’t talk about things you weren’t man enough to stop. You just stood there, Julian.”

His expression shifts, still smug, but colder now. “That wasn’t my fight.”

“You are his brother. It was your fight the moment he touched her.”

A flash of something crosses his face. Guilt? No, not guilt. It’s pride. Or maybe ego. “This is about Damien. Still stuck on that, huh?”

I push him. “Watch your mouth.”

He doesn’t budge. “You lost. She picked him.”

That’s it.

The swing comes before I even register it. My fist crashes into his jaw, and the crack echoes loudly in the air. His head jerks, but the fucker stays on his feet. He grins like he wanted this.

Then he hits back.

We collide, fists flying. His shoulder slams into mine, and I throw another punch that lands hard against his ribs. We’re a mess of snarls and curses.

My knuckles split on his cheekbone, blood blooms, and I want more. I want to flatten his smug face into the pavement.

Someone yells. Doors open. But it’s all static.

Julian lands a blow to my side, but I twist and slam him against the truck, grab the collar of his suit, and punch him again. And again.

He’s trying to block, but I’m faster. Fueled by every goddamn thing I’ve buried—rage, betrayal, and all the things I’ve never said to him or Damien. The things I never got to say to her.

I’m pulling my fist back when I hear it.

“Stop! Elias!”

Her voice tears through the fog.

I freeze, head snapping toward her.

Cora.

She’s standing on the sidewalk, eyes wide, mouth open. Her apron still on, hair pulled back, lips parted like she was mid-sentence when she saw us.

“Stop it,” she yells again, louder this time.

I release Julian. His body slumps to the ground. People are holding him now, and someone’s pulling me back. I don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. My hands are bloodied. My chest is rising fast.

I look at her, at the expression on her face. Disbelief. Maybe fear.

No.

No, no, no.

I rip myself free and turn away. Her voice calls out again.

“Elias.”

But I’m already walking. Each step takes everything in me. I can’t let her see more. She wasn’t supposed to see that part of me. The part I’ve buried. The one I swore wouldn’t come out again.

I keep going, all the way back to the cabin.

Rusty comes bounding out as soon as I open the door, tail wagging like he doesn’t sense the storm in me. I leave the door open and head straight to the basement.

There’s a punching bag hanging from a hook on the beam. I don’t hesitate. I strip off my hoodie, tape my hands, and start swinging.

The first hit rattles the chain. The second makes my arms burn.

I keep going.

Every punch lands with the weight of everything I didn’t say. Everything I couldn’t do. I picture Damien’s smug face. Julian’s voice. The Vance name stamped on that sign. The crack of bone when I hit him. Cora’s expression.

Her eyes.

I slam my fists into the bag again. Harder.

I didn’t want her to see me like that.

I didn’t want her to see the monster I’ve tried to keep buried.

And now?

Now there’s no taking it back.