Page 17 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

The last two days have blurred together in a mess of dust, heavy equipment, and steel-toed boots. The crew from the city arrived early Wednesday, and Ron Beckett, the foreman, wasted no time.

By noon, the old dock was already a pile of splinters and rusted bolts. Beckett works fast, and more importantly, he works clean. Says what he means. Doesn’t ask stupid questions.

I haven’t stepped foot in the office since I drove Cora home, and that’s deliberate. I needed distance, space, and time to get my head clear.

An Omega isn’t about to ruin the control I’ve spent years building. Not when I’ve kept my instincts locked down tight since I was sixteen.

Beckett gives me updates by the hour. He walks the site with a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other, barking orders with that gravel-scratched voice that makes grown men snap to attention.

I nod when he talks. Tell him good job. He seems to appreciate that. Today, just before sunset, he claps me on the back.

“Heading into town for a beer. You should come. We’ll talk about the hotel project.”

I pause. Consider saying no. But then I think about her—how she looked in my truck, flushed and dazed and strung out on scent and need—and I know if I stay home, I’ll think about her more. So I say, sure.

The local bar is half-full when we arrive. Small-town place with worn leather booths, dull lighting, and a jukebox that only plays country or sad rock ballads.

We take a corner table, and Beckett orders two whiskeys. He talks while we wait, outlining his plans for the foundation, the beachfront pool, the high-end suites that’ll overlook the water.

He’s got vision, and I give him credit for that, but my eyes wander.

Then the door swings open.

And everything stops.

The air shifts. My grip on the glass tightens before I even register why. She walks in, hips swaying like temptation wrapped in linen.

Her short dress is ivory-colored, cinched at the waist and cut high on the thigh. Her legs go on for miles, and her skin glows like she bathed in moonlight.

Her curls are down tonight, wild and thick, catching the light as she walks.

Beside her is a man I don’t recognize. Tall. Polished. Beta.

They slide onto stools at the bar, her laugh cutting through the background hum like something sharper. She hasn’t seen me yet.

I don’t breathe. I just watch as she tosses her hair back, tilts her head when he leans in close, his elbow resting near her thigh like he belongs there.

A fucking Beta.

Two days ago, she was pressed up against me, scenting the truck like she was seconds from begging. Now she’s here. With him. Laughing. Touching his arm. Wearing that damn dress that barely covers her.

Beckett keeps talking. Something about soil reports and zoning permits. I nod, maybe grunt once, but I don’t hear a word.

My eyes are locked on her. On them. On the way that Beta lets his fingers trail along her bare leg like he earned that right.

I bite down on my tongue.

He makes her laugh again, and her cheeks go pink. She swats at his shoulder, playful and easy, like she’s done this before. Like this isn’t their first date.

Her scent drifts toward me, vanilla laced with something sharper. Something that makes my skin itch.

Alpha.

Elias.

Of course.

The realization hits hard, but it doesn’t burn the way it should. If it’s Elias, fine. He’s an Alpha. I hate the man but I know he’ll treat her right, even if he’s a cocky bastard.

But this Beta? This pretty, polished, boring nothing of a man? That’s what she wants? That’s who she thinks deserves her?

When he stands and excuses himself, muttering something about the bathroom, I move.

No hesitation.

Not caring that I leave Beckett mid-sentence.

I cross the room, every step deliberate, my eyes fixed on her. She notices me just as I reach her, her back going straight, those green eyes widening like she’s been caught.

“Julian,” she says, her voice low and wary.

“Ditch the fucking Beta.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get rid of him.”

Her spine stiffens. “I’m on a date. You’re making a scene.”

“Let that animal touch you one more time,” I murmur, my voice sharp enough to slice through her, “and you’ll see the kind of scene I’ll be making.”

Her lips part. Her vanilla scent thickens in the air, and for a second, I forget how to stand still.

There’s defiance in her eyes now, but beneath that, heat. Interest. Something she’s trying hard to smother.

“You’re out of line,” she whispers.

“I’m being generous,” I bite back. “Respecting your night. Respecting the fact that you’re trying. But don’t play games with me, Cora. You know damn well he’s not enough.”

Her hand tightens on her glass. “He’s safe.”

“He’s nothing.”

She stands up straighter, smoothing her dress with trembling fingers, lifting her chin like she’s composed. Like I didn’t just catch her looking at my mouth. “You need to walk away.”

“Try me,” I say quietly. Low enough that only she hears. Then I walk back to my table and sit, watching her with sharp eyes as she takes a steadying breath and tries to pretend she’s unshaken. She isn’t. Not even close.

The Beta returns. He leans close again, unaware, maybe sensing the tension but too dense to understand it.

She forces a smile and says something light. He laughs. And I sit in the shadows, jaw clenched, watching the Omega who dry-humped me into madness try to pretend she belongs to someone else.

It’s almost admirable.

Almost.

The Beta keeps talking like he’s got something worthwhile to say, leaning in, gesturing, laughing like this is the best night of his life.

I sit there, sipping my whiskey, eyes locked on them while Beckett keeps going on about the build schedule like nothing happened. I nod when I’m supposed to, but I’m not really hearing him.

Not when she’s still perched on that barstool, legs crossed, lips parted in a small, strained smile. She’s trying too hard to look like she’s enjoying herself. And then, just like that, the mood shifts.

Cora leans in and says something to him. He stops and blinks, looking surprised. She’s apologizing.

I can read her lips, even from here. Something came up. The Beta’s trying to play it cool, nodding, offering some stupid reassurance about rescheduling.

Of course he would. He probably thinks he still has a chance. Poor bastard.

Then she’s sliding off the stool, smooth and elegant, that tiny dress catching the light as she straightens. She’s halfway to the door before she turns her head toward me. Her mouth moves, and I catch the word. Asshole.

The corner of my mouth lifts as I watch her walk out. She can be mad. She can throw whatever words she wants my way, but she’s not sitting beside him anymore.

That tells me everything I need to know.

I reach for my wallet and pull out one of my black cards, sliding it across the table to Beckett. “Drinks are on me. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He raises a brow, but I’m already on my feet, pushing through the bar’s heavy door and stepping out into the cool night.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, her back to me. Inside the bar, there were too many scents for an Omega to pinpoint like I would.

That’s why she didn’t notice me as soon as she walked in. Out here, the air is clean. No sweat and smoke, no clashing scents. Just her.

She turns before I even call her name, her eyes locking on mine, and I see it—recognition. Fury. Need. All tangled up in one tight thread.

“You ruined my date, you arrogant son of a bitch.”

I walk toward her slowly, watching the way her chest rises, and how her fists clench at her sides. “Did I?”

“Yes,” she snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t own me. You don’t get to act like—”

I step in and slide my hand around the back of her neck, fingers tightening just enough to make her breath catch.

She’s still talking, voice pitched high, but the moment my mouth crashes into hers, the rest of her words dissolve against my tongue.

The first taste is chaos. Soft lips, angry gasps, her body rigid against mine. I take my time, kissing her deep, letting her fight it for a second before I feel her give in.

Her hands ball in my shirt, pulling me closer. My tongue traces hers, slow and demanding, and she whimpers as her hips brush mine in a desperate, traitorous press.

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wild. I grin. “Obedient. I like that.”

She scoffs. “You’re such an asshole.”

I kiss her again before she can throw more words at me. She melts faster this time, arms winding around my neck, her body aligning with mine like it’s meant to.

I drag my hands down her back, slow and possessive, until they settle over the curve of her ass. She gasps into my mouth, and I grip her tighter, pressing her against me, letting her feel everything she’s pretending she doesn’t want.

“You’re mine,” I breathe against her lips.

“I’m not.”

“You’re kissing me back.”

She’s quiet. Her fingers grip me harder, like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.

I exhale through my nose, amused and so far gone I’m already mapping out every way I’ll ruin her for anyone else.

“Lie all you want,” I say. “It won’t change anything.”

She swallows hard, her body still pressed against me, and that’s when I tug her hand and lead her into the narrow alley beside the bar.

The moment we’re out of sight, I spin her around and press her against the cool brick. My hand slides between her thighs and she shudders at the touch.

“You’re mine, Omega,” I growl, my fingers teasing the inside of her thigh, so close it has her squirming.

She moans, low and frustrated, and shoves at my chest.

“Elias is one thing,” I continue, voice rough in her ear. “But a Beta? That’s the line.”

“Don’t tell me who I can date.”

“I’ll tell you exactly who you can let touch you.”

She pushes me again, harder this time, and I stumble back just an inch. My mouth lifts again, but she doesn’t give me a chance to speak.

Her palm slaps across my face, sharp and stinging.

“Fucking Alphas,” she hisses. “I belong to none of you.”

And then she’s walking away. Heels clicking against the pavement, curls bouncing, spine rigid with fury. I move fast, calling her name, but she doesn’t stop.

She rounds the corner, and by the time I catch up, the taxi door is closing. She doesn’t look at me as it pulls away, doesn’t wave or scream or cry.

She just leaves.

I watch the taillights vanish into the distance, breathing hard, hands still curled into fists at my sides.

She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.