Page 21 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

CORA

The sheets cling to my skin.

Warm, damp. I’m buried in a bed that smells like them—Elias’s sharp spice, Julian’s deep musk, Noah’s cedar and clean rain.

It’s everywhere. On me. In the air. I shift, and a sharp ache pulses between my legs, a reminder of the night before.

My body hums low, heavy with something that’s not quite pain. Soreness. Exhaustion.

Bits and pieces float in, like scattered memories—Elias’s voice close to my ear, Julian’s mouth between my thighs, Noah pressing into me so slow I wanted to scream.

My fingers curl into the blanket as heat flashes through me again. Not the same kind. Something quieter. It’s over.

I blink slowly, letting the room come into focus. It’s not mine. The sheets are dark gray, the comforter soft and worn.

Julian’s room, then. I can tell from the books stacked along the far wall and the scent of his cologne faint on the pillow beside me.

My body is bare under the blanket, skin kissed with faint bruises and raw pleasure. I pull the covers up to my chest just as the door opens.

Noah.

He steps in carefully, like he’s not sure I’m awake. A worn T-shirt hangs from his fingers. His eyes flick to mine and stay there, his mouth parting slightly when he sees me sitting up.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

I clear my throat, my voice catching. “Okay. I think.” I search his face. “How long have I been out?”

“A couple of hours.” He walks in, quiet, gaze slipping to the floor, then back to me like he’s forcing himself. “You passed out. We all did, eventually. But I wanted to stay up, make sure you were alright.”

There’s a tight flutter behind my ribs, something strange knotting in my chest. I swallow it down and glance away. “Where are the others?”

“Crashed on the couches. Julian’s half-asleep, but Elias is dead to the world.”

I nod once, jaw clenching as a flush creeps over my skin. I remember Julian’s hands holding me down. Elias groaning into my neck.

Noah—God. Him above me. Inside me. My thighs press together without meaning to, and I wince.

“Can you get me out of here?”

His eyes flick to mine again. “Yeah.” He holds up the shirt. “Your panties are useless. I can grab Julian’s sweatpants if you want.”

“Just get me out of here,” I whisper.

He nods, moving closer, then hands me the shirt instead of turning away. I slip it over my head as he politely looks at the floor.

It falls past my thighs, soft and worn and smelling faintly of him. I don’t bother asking for anything else.

We walk out without another word. My legs ache. I can still feel every stretch, every stroke, every breath against my skin.

Noah hands me a cold bottle of water once we reach the front door. I take it and chug half without stopping.

“I’ll drive you,” he says. “Julian’s truck. I’ll bring it back later.”

“Okay.”

He opens the door for me. I slide into the passenger seat, fingers pressed tight around the bottle, trying not to breathe too deeply.

The silence stretches between us, thick and uncertain. His eyes flick toward me once. Then again.

“This is the first time we’ve…” he starts, then cuts himself off.

“Yeah.”

His hands tighten on the wheel. The streetlights blur by. “What are you feeling?”

“Can we not?” I shift in the seat. My body is too sore for this conversation. My head isn’t clear enough. “I need time. I need sleep.”

He nods, gaze locked on the road. “Okay.” Then softer, quieter, barely loud enough over the hum of the car, “I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

I stare out the window until we pull up outside my place. Noah parks and kills the engine, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.

His hand rests on the gearshift. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Finally, “Can I come in?”

“No.” I start to climb out, but he reaches for me, fingers circling my arm.

“Don’t run,” he says.

I turn back, breath catching when he leans in. His forehead presses gently to mine. Then he kisses it. Soft. Familiar. Something he’s always done. But this time, he doesn’t stop there.

His mouth brushes mine next. Gently. Searching. His lips are warm, lingering just long enough to make my chest tighten.

“I’ll check on you in the morning,” he says and places my keys in my hand.

I nod and climb out without answering.

The moment the door shuts behind me, I press my back to it, knees shaky. My whole body is still humming, overstimulated and raw.

I make it to the kitchen, turn on one light, and pause. The silence screams at me. My skin is still damp. I smell like sex. I smell like them.

My stomach twists.

Three Alphas. All of them. My first time. With them. With anyone like them. I drop the water bottle on the counter and cover my mouth.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I race upstairs, every step a reminder of what I let them do, of how badly I wanted it, how much I still do.

The second I hit the bathroom, I grab the bottle from the cabinet and shake out a heat suppressant. My fingers fumble with the cap. I down two pills and sag against the sink.

I can’t do this again. Not without understanding what the hell it means.

My reflection stares back at me. Hair tangled. Skin flushed. Lips still swollen. I look—different. Marked. Used. Wanted.

And it was so much better than anything I’ve had with a Beta. More intense. Raw. It didn’t even compare. With Betas, it’s soft, quick, predictable. Like checking a box. But with them?

Every second was instinct. Every sound I made dragged something deeper out of them. My body lit up in ways I didn’t think possible.

I splash cold water on my face and press a towel to my skin. It doesn’t help. None of it does.

I’ll set up a meeting with my doctor tomorrow. I’ll figure out what happens next. For now, I climb into bed still wearing Noah’s shirt and shut my eyes.

I’m too tired to cry. Too full to feel empty. And maybe that’s what scares me most.

The sunlight stabs at my eyelids before I even open them. My body aches in quiet reminders, dull and stretched in places that were claimed far too thoroughly.

The sheets are twisted around my legs. Noah’s shirt is still on me, wrinkled and thin, barely covering anything.

I push myself up slowly and take in the mess of my room—the sweatshirt tossed over a chair, the water bottle half-drunk on my nightstand.

Every inch of me smells like sex and Alphas. I need a shower.

Steam clouds the mirror while I scrub my skin until it’s pink. I wash my hair twice.

Even after I rinse off, I stand under the water longer than I need to, eyes shut, hands braced against the tile. When I finally drag myself out, I wrap a towel around myself and head to my closet.

I pull on a black ribbed tank, something soft and snug that stops just above my navel. My sleep shorts are cotton, light gray with a frayed waistband, barely reaching mid-thigh.

I tug the tank down self-consciously, even though no one’s here. Or so I think.

The knock comes just as I’m tying my hair into a loose bun. Three soft taps. Not urgent, not casual. Just… sure.

I head down and open the door, and he’s there. Noah. He’s in a hoodie, hair a mess, eyes too focused on me.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“No,” I say immediately, stepping back. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

His gaze lingers on my bare legs, then snaps back to my face. Without warning, he walks in and pulls me close.

My breath catches as he carries me and then sinks onto the couch, bringing me with him. I end up straddling his lap, both hands planted on his chest.

“Cora,” he murmurs, looking up at me. “You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known.”

My heart jumps. I want to argue. Instead, I press my lips together. His hand slides up my thigh slowly, stopping just below the hem of my shorts.

“You were mine before last night,” he says. “Last night just proved it.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s softer than I expect, but it doesn’t stay that way. He pulls me closer, tilting his head, mouth moving over mine like he’s trying to remind me of everything we didn’t say the night before.

My fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie. He tastes like coffee and want and something sharp that makes my skin heat.

Eventually, he pulls back, breath shallow. I slide off his lap before I lose myself in it again.

He stands, walks to my tiny kitchen, and grabs a mug. “You want coffee?”

“Yes, please.” My voice comes out thinner than I’d like.

He brews it without asking how I take it. Of course he knows. When he passes me the mug, his fingers brush mine.

I settle on the arm of the couch, curling one leg under me. “What happened after I left?”

“I went back to Julian’s to drop off the truck and grab the things we left there yesterday. When he woke up, he lost his shit when he realized you were gone. I told him I drove you home. He wanted to call, but I told him to wait. Elias dipped back to his place not long after.”

I sip the coffee. Hot. A little too sweet. Just how I like it.

“You guys… talk about it?” I ask, not looking at him.

“Not really. No one knew what to say.” He watches me for a moment. “But I knew I needed to see you.”

He sits beside me, closer than before. His knee brushes mine. There’s something softer in his gaze now, but it’s no less intense.

“I mean it,” he says, voice low. “What I said earlier.”

I nod once. Then set the mug down and lean into him, wrapping my arms around his torso. His arms come around me instantly. His chest is warm and solid against my cheek.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For last night. For helping me out. But… I don’t think it can happen again.”

His fingers tighten slightly against my back. “Don’t do that.”

I pull away just enough to look up at him, confused.

“Don’t pretend this wasn’t real.” He pulls me back into his lap, and before I can protest, his mouth is on mine again. His kiss is slower this time. Deep. His hands frame my waist, holding me still as he moves against my lips like he’s already won this fight.

He kisses along my jaw, then lower, brushing his mouth against my neck. A sharp breath escapes me as he finds the spot just beneath my ear and lingers there.

“You don’t get to act like it won’t happen again,” he says, voice rough. “Because it will.”

My protest dies as he grabs my hand and presses it to his chest. The thin fabric of his hoodie does nothing to hide the way his body reacts.

My palm rests over his heartbeat, steady and strong, and then he presses it lower, until it’s over the hard muscle of his pec, just to the side. His own hand covers mine. His eyes never leave me.

When his lips return to my neck, I gasp. A broken little sound escapes me before I can stop it. He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye.

“I know it’s messy,” he says. “But you’re lying to yourself if you think you don’t want this again.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

He kisses my forehead. A touch that makes my stomach tighten in a completely different way. I stare at him, everything inside me humming with confusion and need.

“Stop staring,” he says, voice low, teasing.

My face burns. I shift off his lap and grab my mug again, trying to ground myself. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you drop me at the clinic?”

He stands and walks toward the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Of course, baby. Get ready, and I’ll drop you off.”

That word. It’s the second time he’s ever used it. And this time, it lands differently. It sticks.

I follow his movements as he grabs eggs from my fridge, heart a tangled mess of yes, no, maybe, and God help me if he says that again.