Page 22 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

The scent of her is still in my living room.

I scrub at the couch cushions like a man possessed with a lemon-scented industrial cleaner, the yellow gloves squeaking when I squeeze the spray bottle again.

Useless.

No matter how hard I clean, the memory sticks. Her thighs draped over my lap. That broken little noise she made when I sank my teeth into her shoulder.

The way her fingers gripped the back of the sofa like she was holding on for dear life.

My cock stirs, annoyingly responsive, even as I press the sponge harder. I growl under my breath and lean back, tossing it onto the coffee table.

It’s all in my head. That’s all. Just muscle memory and biology reacting to the last warm body I touched. Nothing more. It doesn’t mean anything.

My phone buzzes from the kitchen counter. I snatch it up, breath tight, a flicker of hope flashing through me before I even check the screen. But of course, it’s not her.

Damien.

I answer without hiding my irritation. “What?”

“Relax,” he says, voice smooth and always a little too cheerful. “I was calling to check in. How’s the project?”

“Fine. I’m making progress.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of a lighter flicking. He’s probably leaning back in some expensive chair in Houston, drinking a bourbon and pretending he’s already inherited the company.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable in that dusty little port town,” he says. “I’ve got a lead on another drilling site. Southern edge of Lafourche Parish, close to the wetlands but clear. I’m heading into a meeting with Dad in fifteen. Thought I’d let you know.”

Of course he does.

“Good luck with that,” I mutter and hang up before he can launch into his usual monologue about projections and profits.

I toss the phone on the counter and stare at it like it personally offended me.

The buzzing in my head doesn’t stop, not even when I step into the shower, cranking the water cold in an attempt to bring my body back under control.

I scrub my skin red. Her name repeats itself in my mind like a goddamn chant.

Cora.

She’s the reason I’m like this.

By the time I’m dressed—charcoal suit, navy tie, cufflinks that cost more than her entire bakery—I’ve got it all boxed up neatly.

She was a slip up. A distraction. My rut got the better of me, and she just happened to be there. Convenient. Willing. Too sweet for her own good.

The drive to the office is uneventful until I take the corner past the square and see her bakery still closed. Lights off. No “be back soon” sign. No gentle glow from the kitchen. Just cold glass and a locked door.

I slow the car, staring for a second too long.

She’s hiding. Probably still sore, probably nursing that post-heat haze with a heating pad and contemplating what a bad idea this was.

If she thinks I’m going to chase her, she’s sorely mistaken.

In my office, the light bleeds in through the blinds, strips of pale gray slashing across the floor. I sit behind the desk, switch on the monitor, and try to focus.

Numbers blur. Reports don’t make sense. I run a hand down my face and toss the stack of paperwork into the drawer.

This Omega wrecked me. One night, and I’m acting like I’ve been cursed.

I lean back in the chair, eyes shut, and all I see is her: flushed skin, mouth parted, hair messy from my hands.

She let me do whatever I wanted. Took everything. Gave me more. And when it was over, she didn’t cling or cry or ask me to stay. She just slipped away like she was never even there.

And that’s the part I hate the most.

Because something in me noticed.

I’m not built for softness. I’m not built for the slow, sugar-coated pull of someone like her.

I came to Driftwood Cove to secure the land for my father’s expansion, make us a fuckload of money, and get the hell out. That was it. The plan was simple.

So why the fuck did I let her touch me like that?

I push up from the desk and pace the room. Her laugh drifts through my memory—light, caught somewhere between nervous and curious. She looked up at me like she wanted to unravel everything I spent years holding together.

And worse, she almost did.

I pour myself a drink and sip it slowly, trying to chase the taste of her out of my mouth.

But I’m back on the couch with her, her knees spread, making that ridiculous sound when I pressed my mouth to the softest part of her.

It’s the way she begged, barely holding herself up, the heat of her skin, her fingers tugging my hair like she needed me, that undid me.

Fuck.

I adjust myself through my slacks, jaw tight. It’s not about her. It’s the Omega scent, still tangled in my sheets, still clinging to the inside of my car.

That’s what this is. Biology. Chemistry. A rut spiraling longer than it should’ve because I got careless.

She’s not important.

I finish the drink and toss the empty glass into the sink. The crash echoes in the space, loud and sharp, and I stare at it for a moment before turning away.

Tomorrow, I’ll meet with Lockwood. Push the permits through. Remind the town why I’m here. Once the contracts are signed and the paperwork’s cleared, I’ll leave.

And Cora?

She’ll be exactly what she was always meant to be.

Temporary.

The harbor looks like hell.

Piles of torn asphalt, twisted scaffolding, and steel rods are sticking out of the ground like bones.

Machinery hums low in the background, and the smell of salt and diesel mixes in the air. Water laps just beyond the edge of the debris, but there’s nothing peaceful about the view now.

This place used to be quaint, sleepy. Now it’s raw and open, carved out and gutted—exactly the way I want it.

Beckett stands near a stack of blueprints, sleeves rolled to the elbows, clipboard in hand. He’s grizzled, built like he could wrestle a bear and win, but sharp enough to run a crew without chaos.

He lifts a hand as I approach, but doesn’t bother with pleasantries. That’s why I like him. He doesn’t give a damn who I am, so long as the checks clear.

“You’re late,” he says.

I step around a rusted-out container and stop beside him. “I’m not here to play foreman.”

“You’re also not here to keep disappearing on me,” he grunts. “If you want this place up before the season turns, you need to be making calls now. We can pay off Lockwood to look the other way.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t take the bait. He doesn’t know who she is. What she is. And it’s none of his business.

“I’ve made all the important decisions,” I say, nodding toward the exposed dock. “You just need to execute.”

Beckett flips through the plans. “We hit bedrock faster than expected. Good news. The pylons will go in early. But the east side?”

He points behind a bulldozer, where the ground slopes toward a half-demolished shack.

“It’s swampier than we thought. That runoff’s been pooling for decades. You want a luxury tower there, we’re going to need to bring in heavy reinforcements. And a hell of a drainage system.”

I crouch beside the plans, scanning the site grid. That tower’s meant to be the crown jewel. Thirty stories. Oceanfront suites. Infinity pool cantilevered over the water.

The kind of place that makes headlines—and makes investors salivate.

“Sink the extra cost,” I say. “Get me the team who did the Gulfport pier. I want that corner secured by next month.”

Beckett whistles low. “That’s a big ask.”

“So was tearing up an entire harbor in under four weeks. And yet, here we are.”

He eyes me. “You really think this place can handle what you’re building?”

I glance at the edge of town, where the rooftops huddle close together like secrets. “They’ll have to.”

The sun breaks through the clouds for a second, sharp and glaring. Sweat slides down my back beneath the collar of my shirt, but I ignore it, folding my sleeves and taking the clipboard from Beckett.

I scan the updated timeline. He’s moving fast. Too fast, maybe. But I want this done. I want to cut the ribbon, hand the press their soundbites, and disappear before anyone gets too close.

Especially her.

“What’s your plan for the locals?” Beckett asks after a moment. “The ones bitching about the noise? That bakery girl, especially. She’s usually loud as hell about zoning changes.”

My eyes snap to him, and he notices. I hand the clipboard back. “She’s not a concern.”

“I really think she is. People have already been talking.”

I turn away before he can keep poking. He’s not stupid. And I don’t need this site turning into a rumor mill.

“She knew what this place was when I got here,” I say over my shoulder. “If she wanted to protect it, she should’ve bought the land herself.”

Beckett chuckles. “Brutal.”

But he gets back to work, barking orders and pointing to the pit where the foundation’s set to be poured.

The buzz of saws picks up again. Concrete mixers grind into motion. And beneath it all, that constant thought hums low and heavy in the back of my mind: her lips. Her skin.

Her scent on my sheets.

I watch as they start drilling. The sound is sharp, rhythmic, grounding. I need the distraction. I need to remember who I am and what I came here for.

This isn’t about an Omega with soft eyes and a smart mouth. It’s about legacy. Profit. Control.

Everything else is noise.

Except she’s not fading like she should.

That bakery—quiet, dark—sits like a loose tooth I keep tonguing. Every morning when I pass it on the way to the site, I expect it to be open.

I expect her to be behind the counter, flour on her cheek, pretending she doesn’t see me. Instead, it’s just empty glass and silence.

She ran.

Maybe I scared her. Maybe she’s avoiding what happened. Or maybe she’s trying to convince herself that I didn’t mean anything either.

Too late.

There was a moment—half a second—when I sank my teeth into her neck and she gasped my name like it meant something.

I saw it. Heard it. Felt the way she pressed closer, like she wanted more, even though we both knew we shouldn’t.

And now she’s hiding.

I exhale through my nose and glance back at Beckett. “I want the tower frame up by November. No delays. No excuses.”

He nods. “If you want the penthouse ready for those big donors, you’d better tell the design team to get their shit together.”

“I’ll handle them.”

“Good. Because once we pour, there’s no turning back.”

My phone buzzes again, vibrating hard against my pocket. I dig it out, expecting another update from Damien or maybe something from Lockwood, but it’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.

Bakery is still closed. She okay?

I stare at the screen.

No name. Just the message.

I delete it.

The only thing that matters now is finishing this project and getting out clean. I didn’t come to Driftwood Cove to get tangled up in anyone’s life, especially not hers.

She was just a mistake.

A sweet, aching, addictive mistake I’m still tasting every time I close my eyes.