Page 11 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

This town is fucking cursed.

That’s the only conclusion I can draw as I stare at the busted knuckles on my right hand, blood already drying in the creases.

I rinse them under the faucet in my office, ignoring the sting. Of course Elias had to show up here.

Of all places. Of all goddamn towns. After years of silence, the bastard barrels back into my life with fists, accusations, and enough hatred in his stare to burn through steel.

I should have expected it. Nothing about Driftwood Cove is simple.

The day started off with bullshit and it hasn’t let up. I was out before dawn, driving around to see if any of the local crews would finally take the job.

The docks are a mess, and the demolition needs to start, but apparently no one wants to work for me. Not surprising. The people here are pack loyal and stubborn as hell.

They don’t see they’re only hurting themselves. But this won’t stop me. I’ll just bring in crew from elsewhere.

First, I met with Jonah. I spotted him leaning against the railing near the harbor, his two packmates, Rhys and Declan, beside him like some kind of territorial wall.

I gave him the pitch, offering more than fair compensation, even threw in an upfront bonus. He barely let me finish before shaking his head.

Said it wasn’t about money. Said it was about loyalty. A dig, of course. I pushed harder, offered more. He didn’t budge. Neither did his boys.

By the time I drove across town to meet with Noah, I already knew what the answer would be. The man practically worships Cora, and Cora has made it painfully clear where her loyalties lie.

Noah wasn’t even polite about it. Just leaned against his truck, arms crossed, spitting sunflower seeds like I was wasting his time.

The rejection doesn’t sting. The inconvenience does.

After my encounter with Elias, I spent the next hour on the phone with Brielle. Told her to forget these backwoods hillbillies and call up the out-of-town crew we’ve worked with before.

They’re more expensive, but at least they don’t spit in my face when I ask them to do their job. She said she’d see what she could do. I told her to make it happen fast.

That was six calls ago. I haven’t looked up from my laptop since.

So when there’s a knock at the door just after three, I’m not expecting anything good. I open the door, ready to snap.

It’s her.

Cora stands in the doorway, her curls pinned back in that messy way that looks entirely too intentional. She’s wearing an oversized flannel shirt, clearly too big for her, with Alpha scent lingering on it.

Her eyes flick over my bruised cheek. She holds a tray.

“May I come in?”

I step aside, watching the way she walks past me like she owns the room. She places the tray on my desk. Croissants. Of course.

She turns to me, arms crossed loosely, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not worried. But I feel her eyes on me.

“You okay?”

“I’m an Alpha,” I say flatly. “I’ll heal.”

She nods, lips pressed together. Her gaze lingers on the dried blood at the edge of my collar.

“Why did you pick a fight with him?” she asks, and the question digs under my skin like a thorn.

“I didn’t,” I snap. “In case you forgot, this is my office. He showed up throwing punches. I was defending myself.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but she draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and I catch the flicker of hesitation. Then she says simply. “Are you sure?”

That pisses me off more. “Am I sure? That bastard punched me first.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure… and to see if you were okay.”

I straighten and point at the tray. “I don’t want your pity. Take your croissants and get out.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. She picks up the tray, not saying a word, and turns toward the door. That should be the end of it.

Let her leave. Let her go back to her bakery and pretend she didn’t just walk into my space, trying to patch things up with carbs and soft eyes.

But I stop her.

“Wait.”

She freezes, one hand on the handle. Slowly, she turns back to face me. Her green eyes don’t sparkle. They burn.

“What?”

I should ask her why she’s even here. Why she shows up concerned after days of asking me to leave her precious little town. But the words don’t form. Instead, I go cold. Businesslike.

“Have you thought about the proposal?”

Her brow lifts slightly.

“You said you’d think about it. Feeding the crew working for me. I’ll have thirty men in town, minimum.”

Her expression flattens. “One, I did not say I would think about it. Two, the answer’s no.” She walks out without another word.

I stare at the door after it shuts. Silence swallows the office, thick and absolute.

I shove the chair out of my way, grab my keys, and leave. I don’t even bother locking up.

The air outside is sharp with salt, and the sound of gulls screaming overhead makes my teeth grind. I drive home with the windows down, hoping the wind will scrape off some of the anger still boiling beneath my skin.

It doesn’t.

I park haphazardly outside my house, kill the engine, and head inside. The space feels too clean, too neat. Empty in a way that digs at something old in my chest.

I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. The bruises on my ribs are turning darker, the muscle around them tight.

I twist the lid off a bottle of water, down half of it, then head to the back room. The bag is already hung up. Heavy. Waiting.

Good.

I slam my fist into it. Once. Twice. The sound echoes through the room, and my knuckles scream in protest, already raw, but I don’t stop.

I keep going, imagining Damien’s smug face, Elias’s fist connecting with my jaw, Cora’s soft voice asking if I’m okay like I’m some kind of wounded stray.

I punch harder. Faster. My breath comes in sharp bursts. Sweat drips from my temple down my cheek. I block it all out and hit the bag until my arms go numb.

Eventually, I let my hands fall to my sides, chest rising and falling, skin flushed and slick.

I stand there in silence, staring at nothing, the rage still smoldering. It won’t leave me alone. Not while I’m in this place. Not while everything reminds me that I don’t belong.

I take another breath, slower this time. My hand tightens around the chain holding the bag in place.

This town thinks it can outlast me.

It’s wrong.

When Brielle gets that crew here, and the docks come down, they’ll all see what happens when I stop playing nice.

I head back upstairs to make dinner. The fridge might as well be a barren cave. I slam it shut, irritated by its emptiness, and reach for the bottle of whiskey on the counter instead.

No glass at first. Just a long swig straight from the neck, letting the burn trail down my throat, heavy and unkind.

Eventually, I pour a glass, set it down, and grab the steak I picked up earlier from the shitty market downtown. It’s thin, sad-looking.

I throw it in the pan, drizzle some oil over it, and stand there with my arms crossed as it hisses and pops. I watch the edges curl and blacken. Too much heat, not enough patience. Typical.

I’ve never been good at this—domestic things, cooking, shopping, being normal. At the penthouse, everything came to me.

Meals prepped, coffee steaming by the time I walked into the kitchen, shirts ironed and folded by someone I barely spoke to.

It’s the kind of convenience you forget you need until it’s gone. Maybe I’ll have the staff sent here. At least my chef. At least someone who can cook a steak without making it taste like charcoal.

I scrape the burnt meat onto a plate and carry it to the table. Cut into it. Chew. Barely swallow. It’s dry, rubbery, nearly inedible. I sit there for a moment, chewing like it’s my pennance.

Then I think about those croissants. Of course I do. The ones she brought earlier, probably still warm when she carried them over, because Cora never half-asses anything she bakes.

She’d stood in my office like she wasn’t the same woman who’d iced me out every time we crossed paths.

I glance at the steak. One more bite—that’s all I manage before I push the plate away in disgust and toss the rest into the trash.

The whiskey’s easier. I throw it back, letting the heat settle in my chest. It doesn’t soothe anything, but it gives the illusion of calm, and that’s good enough for now.

The bathroom is too clean. I watch myself in the mirror for a long moment. Deep violet blotches bloom over bone and muscle.

They’ll fade in a few days, but for now, they ache with every breath. My eyes look darker than usual, hollowed out from a day I want to erase.

There’s dried blood under one fingernail. My jaw clicks when I flex it. Elias didn’t hold back, and neither did I.

I step into the shower, and the water hits like needles. My skin’s raw, my nerves sharper than they should be. I close my eyes, lean forward against the tile, and try to drown everything out.

But she’s there. Not physically. In my head. In the scent of her, still clinging to my shirt somewhere on the floor. In the way her gaze cut through my temper like she knew exactly where the bruise beneath it lived. Cora.

I grit my teeth and tilt my face up toward the water, but it’s no use. I’m not even trying to block her out anymore. She’s lodged in too deep.

I think about calling Brielle. She’s been hinting she’d be happy to relocate here if I needed help. Technically, I do.

The office is chaos, and I need someone reliable. Someone who’ll say yes when I tell them to do something. She knows how to get things done. Knows how to take orders. Knows how to take cock, too. That’s never been an issue with her.

But I know exactly what would happen. Brielle would come in, all polished perfection and empty eagerness.

She’d bend over my desk with that smug little smile she wears when she thinks she’s in control of me, but even if I closed my eyes and grabbed her hips, it wouldn’t scratch this thing inside me.

Because Cora’s scent would still be in the air. In my lungs. Under my skin.

I slide my hand down, palm wrapping around my cock, and I stroke hard, fast, angry. The tile’s cold against my forehead. Her name isn’t on my tongue, but her scent is thick in my memory.

Vanilla and citrus, warm and clinging, the kind that always makes me want to sink my teeth in. I think about her mouth, the little gasp she would let out if I had her cunt on my tongue.

The curve of her hips in those silly little aprons. Her eyes burning green fire when she turned and walked away from me earlier.

My grip tightens. The way she said no. That quiet finality in her voice. Fuck this. Fuck her! I want to hear her whisper my name in the dark. I need to know every soft sound she makes when she breaks open under me.

I want that little Omega whimpering and begging for me.

I curse low, finishing with a grunt, panting against the shower wall. My hand slides from my body like it betrayed me.

I rinse off quickly, water beating down on skin that’s already turning red from the heat. I turn it off and step out, toweling off roughly, irritated by my own lack of control.

What the hell is wrong with me? She’s an Omega. That’s all she is. That’s all she ever should’ve been. Temporary. Forgettable. Nothing important.

And yet I’m standing in my bathroom, sore and bruised and angry, jerking off to the memory of a woman who can’t stand me. Who says no to me.

Me. Julian fucking Vance.

I toss the towel aside and stalk to the bedroom, pouring another drink as I go. I should call Brielle. I should set up a meeting with the crew the second they land. I should get back to work, make some damn use of this night.

But instead, I sit there, whiskey burning down my throat, her voice still echoing in the back of my mind.

No.

Like she has the power to deny me.

Like she doesn’t still want me.

She’s in my head. And no amount of work, no amount of whiskey, no other woman, is going to change that tonight.