Page 2 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

My cock is still in her mouth when my phone buzzes. “Fuck,” I mutter, tilting my head back against my office chair.

The rhythm of her lips doesn’t falter. She’s good at this.

Too good. Warm, wet, eager—just the way I like.

One of her hands grips the base of me, the other braced on my thigh for leverage as she works me over.

I tighten my grip in her silky honey-blonde hair, slowing her down, savoring the slick slide of her lips.

Buzz.

I glance at my phone. Father.

The tension in my jaw locks.

Brielle watches through her thick mascara-coated lashes, a satisfied little smirk playing at the edges of her mouth. I should’ve known better than to let my assistant kneel between my legs in the middle of a workday. But I’ve never cared much for rules.

Brielle is everything I should avoid. Her body’s built like temptation itself: curves that don’t quit, long legs wrapped in stockings, and a blouse unbuttoned just enough to grab my attention.

“Get up,” I tell her, voice rough.

She slowly drags her tongue along the underside of my shaft one last time before pulling back. She wipes the corner of her mouth with a manicured thumb, rose-gold polish gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“You’re no fun, boss,” she purrs.

I tuck myself back into my pants and adjust my tie. “You weren’t saying that when you were gagging on my cock five seconds ago.”

She grins. “But you never let me finish.”

I groan. “You finish when I decide you do.”

Buzz.

I exhale sharply, pressing “accept.” “Yes.”

“Boardroom. Now.”

That’s it. No greeting. No explanation. Just my father’s voice, clipped and impatient, before the line goes dead.

Brielle hums, grabbing her purse from my desk. “Guess that’s my cue.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder, all casual. “By the way, thanks for the PTO. I checked out Driftwood Cove this weekend.”

I barely glance at her. “Yeah?”

She pouts. “Not even gonna ask me if I had fun?”

“I don’t care if you had fun.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says with a bitter laugh.

She always whines about me ignoring her, then comes crawling back when she wants to be useful. She is just an Omega. It’s in her nature.

She leans against my desk. “Cute town. My boyfriend wanted a weekend getaway, so we booked this place—Sleepy Shore Motel. Total dump, by the way. No WiFi, no decent plumbing. I almost died.”

I don’t give a shit about her boyfriend or her vacation. I should be annoyed she’s even telling me this, but the words “Driftwood Cove” stick.

I grab my phone and head for the door.

The boardroom is all glass and steel, perched high above the city skyline. The air is thick with money and expectations.

My father, Alec Vance, sits at the head of the table, the picture of controlled power. Late fifties, silver-streaked hair, the kind of man who built an empire from nothing and expects his sons to bleed for it.

One son already has.

I take my seat across from him, straightening my cuffs. My twin brother, Damien, isn’t here. He never is. He’s too busy being the golden fucking child, running his oil empire, making headlines with billion-dollar deals.

Meanwhile, I’m here—shadowboxing for my place at the table.

Around us sit the usual suspects: Patel from international development; Gerhardt from legal; my father’s right hand, Vincent Shaw; and a handful of junior execs trying not to look nervous.

A slick-suited analyst is droning on about the numbers—some struggling boutique hotel chain we’re supposed to be acquiring for pennies on the dollar. A “strategic opportunity,” according to the folder in front of me. I haven’t opened it.

Because I’m somewhere else.

I unlock my phone under the table and type: Sleepy Shore Motel. Driftwood Cove.

Nothing. No website. No press. It’s like the place doesn’t exist.

I frown, try again—just Driftwood Cove this time.

And there it is. A coastal postcard of a town I’ve never heard of.

Crashing waves, weather-worn docks, a mom-and-pop bakery, fishing boats rocking in the tide.

Sun dipping low over the ocean. It’s the kind of place people run to when they’re tired of being chewed up by cities like this one.

At first glance, it’s charming. But I don’t give a damn about charm.

What I see is untapped potential. A luxury resort. A high-end retail strip. A private marina with yacht charters, a golf course wrapped in sea breeze. It’s a blank canvas begging for gold leaf. A forgotten little town with just enough infrastructure to be rebuilt from the bones up.

And still—it’s not enough. Not yet.

Because money alone won’t make this place what it could be.

What it needs is vision. Power. Teeth.

What it needs—is me.

A quiet knock sounds at the boardroom door and Brielle slips inside, calm and flawless once again, heels clicking softly against the marble.

Her expression is unreadable as she makes her way toward me, a tablet in hand.

I don’t miss the way a few of the junior execs glance at her, then quickly look away. She’s a distraction, and she knows it.

She leans down, her perfume brushing past my jaw as she murmurs, “Printouts from legal. You left them on your desk.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the smirk in her voice.

I take the folder, set it on the table without a word. She turns to leave.

I slide my phone face down and meet my father’s gaze. “I’m passing on the acquisition.”

The room stills.

A few heads snap toward me. Someone coughs. Shaw stops typing.

Alec Vance doesn’t flinch. He folds his hands. “Why?”

I sit back. “Because I’ve found something better.”

My father’s gaze sharpens. “Excuse me?”

“This deal is dead weight,” I say, tapping the untouched folder on the table. “A failing hotel chain with outdated branding, inflated liabilities, and zero long-term value. We buy it, we bleed it, and maybe—maybe—we break even.”

He leans back, fingers steepled, watching me. Always calculating. Always silent until the moment you slip. “Go on.”

I slide the file aside and pull up my tablet.

“Driftwood Cove,” I say, flipping it toward him.

“A town no one’s looking at. Off the radar.

No tourism board, no big developers, no headlines.

But the location?” I swipe. “Oceanfront property. Direct access to major interstates. Undervalued land. Minimal regulation. And a charm factor that’s begging to be monetized. ”

Across the table, Patel frowns. “What are you proposing?”

“Not a hotel,” I say, leaning forward now, voice calm, controlled. “An ecosystem. High-end resort with private villas. A curated retail strip—artisan shops, wellness centers, luxury dining. A private marina.

Partner with a golf designer to build something that draws corporate retreats. Host seasonal festivals, yacht regattas. Make it exclusive but accessible. We turn this forgotten little town into the Hamptons of the Pacific Northwest.”

Silence follows.

Until—

“For the first time in a long time,” my father says slowly, “you’re not wasting my time.”

I freeze.

That’s it. That’s the flicker I’ve been chasing for years. The almost approval. The ghost of pride.

It should feel like a win.

But I’ve been fed scraps for so long, even this feels like hunger.

Still, I nod once, tuck it away. “I’ll head there tomorrow. See it myself.”

He gives a slight tilt of his head. Not a yes. Not a no. Just permission to try to prove myself.

As I gather my things, movement in the corner of the room catches my eye.

Brielle is silent, but she meets my gaze with that same smirk from before. The one that hints that she’s in on something.

She’s not.

She’s a distraction I allow. A convenient outlet. Nothing more.

I brush past her without a word.

Because in the end, it’s not her I’ll remember.

It’s that flicker in my father’s eyes.

And the town I’m about to make mine.

Driftwood Cove.