Page 27 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

It’s been a week. Seven long days since I sent her home, and every goddamn hour since, she’s been making sure I notice just how fine she is without me.

I’ve seen her. Laughing with Noah outside the bakery, sliding into Elias’s truck like she belongs there.

Sometimes she wears her hair in this lazy knot at the top of her head, those smooth thighs bare beneath her dress, her apron slung low on her hips. Always moving like she doesn’t give a damn who’s watching.

But she knows I am. She’s doing this on purpose.

Rubbing it in.

I’ve kept my distance. I haven’t stepped foot inside Whisked since that night. It’s better this way. Cleaner. Let her have her games. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Like this goddamn hotel project that refuses to move.

I’m outside the assistant mayor’s office in my car, engine still running. I let the heat build inside me until I can’t sit still anymore, then climb out and head for the front doors.

Lockwood is waiting in the lobby, pretending he wasn’t hoping I’d cancel again. He straightens his jacket like that’s going to stop me from tearing into him.

“It’s still not approved?” I ask, no greeting. No patience left to fake.

He gives me a careful smile. “Well, there’s been some pushback from the council and the mayor himself—”

I laugh once, low and sharp. Then I reach into my coat, pull out my checkbook, and flip it open right there in the middle of his polished lobby.

“Name your price, Lockwood. I’m done waiting on this town’s endless fucking meetings and moral committees.”

He clears his throat, looking everywhere but my face. “Julian, it’s not about money.”

“Bullshit.”

He flinches but holds his ground. “Some in the community are still upset about how fast the harbor was demolished. They think we’re moving too fast with this hotel, and—”

“Fuck those meetings. And fuck the council. You gave me your word.” I take a step closer, jaw tight. “You find a way to push this through. Fast. Or you and I are going to have a different kind of problem.”

His mouth opens, then shuts again. Smart.

I rip the check from the pad, fold it once, and slide it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Make the zoning happen. I don’t care how.”

I don’t wait for him to respond. I’m already turning, already walking out.

The door slams behind me, but it’s not loud enough to match what’s unraveling in my chest. I don’t want to be here.

Not in this backwards little town that runs on coffee and gossip and whatever goddamn mood she decides to wake up in.

I climb into the truck and yank the door shut hard.

My phone buzzes.

Brielle.

Of course. The last voice I want to hear is the Omega I used to fuck, but I answer anyway.

“What?”

“Well, hello to you, too,” she says dryly. “Nice to know you’re still a ray of sunshine.”

“What do you want, Brielle?”

She clicks her tongue. “Thought you should know. Your father’s planning a trip down there soon.”

I sit back against the seat, jaw working. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“That’s why I’m calling. He’s with Damien in Lafourche right now. Southern edge. Some land thing. But he’s asking questions. Wants updates.”

“Shit.”

She pauses. “Want me to smooth it over?”

“No. I’ll handle it.”

I hang up, then dial him immediately. He answers on the third ring.

“Julian.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re heading here next?”

He sighs. “Was going to. Figured you’d have the hotel foundation wrapped up by now.”

I shift in my seat, stare out at the street where a family walks by holding fresh bread and paper cups of cider. “Still waiting on final zoning approval.”

A beat. Then, “That wasn’t supposed to be an issue. I told you to grease whoever needed greasing.”

“I did. Lockwood’s dragging his feet. Local politics are a mess. The demolition stirred people up and he’s afraid of losing votes.”

“Christ.” He curses again, louder. “We should’ve just gone with South Carolina. Or Vegas. This better be resolved soon, Julian. I’m not wasting more time or money chasing a dead town with pretty porches.”

“It’ll get done.”

“You said that a month ago.”

“I’m handling it,” I grit out.

“You better be.” His voice hardens. “Because if this drags much longer, we pull the plug. Walk. Find a town that knows how to play ball.”

I rub my eyes, fingers digging into my brow. “I’ll get it done.”

“You’ve got ten days.” He hangs up.

I stare at the phone for a long time. Ten days. Ten fucking days to fix this mess.

To put up with Lockwood. To survive this goddamn town.

To stop thinking about her.

Her laugh when she’s talking to Elias. Her smile when Noah carries her coffee through the door like he’s trying to win points.

The way she hums when bakes, how the smell of vanilla and warm sugar clings to her skin even hours after she’d left the kitchen.

I hate that she lingers like this. That even now, when my world is on fire, she still gets to live rent-free in my head. I dig the heel of my palm into my thigh and let the silence settle.

Then I turn the engine over and drive.

Not toward her.

Not today.

Two days after that phone call, I wake up to an email from my father. No greeting. Just a subject line: It was handled.

No body text. No details. Just those three words.

It’s not unusual. Alec Vance is a man of few explanations. When he says something’s handled, it usually is. The only issue is that “handled” can mean a dozen different things, most of them brutal.

I sit up slowly, scrolling the email again as if something new will appear. Nothing. I toss the phone onto the sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

My jaw’s tight through the entire morning routine—shower, shave, suit. Black tie today. It’s the kind of morning that calls for armor.

I plan to head straight to Lockwood’s office, demand to know what kind of deal he and my father made in the shadows. I figure there’s been some payoff, some corner-cutting.

Maybe permits were forged. Maybe the final signatures were bullied through. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But I never make it to City Hall.

Not with the crowd that’s gathered downtown.

They’re blocking the sidewalk in front of the bakery. From half a block away, I can hear someone shouting. And underneath that, the sharper sound of a woman crying.

My stomach drops.

I pull the truck up to the curb, tires grinding against the edge of the pavement. Then I climb out and start moving fast, my shoes hitting the street harder than they should. People part for me as I push through. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s not this.

The front of Whisked is a disaster.

The exterior is splattered with black tar. It drips thick down the white trim, staining the pastel pink paint beneath it. Eggs, smashed all along the front steps.

Flour dumped in heaps over the entryway like a mockery of her craft. Broken lightbulbs, twisted wiring from the outdoor sign.

Someone tried to rip the Whisked nameplate right off the awning. The letters dangle crookedly, like they barely survived the night.

Inside is worse.

I see through the window that they threw baking pans everywhere. Overturned trays. Sacks of flour sliced open and emptied all over the tile floor.

The display case is cracked. There’s glass everywhere. Chairs upended. Frosting smeared like blood across the counters.

And she’s standing there in the middle of it.

Cora.

Wearing jeans, a gray shirt with flour still clinging to the hem, and her apron twisted around her waist.

Elias is standing beside her, arms out like he wants to shield her from the wreckage. Noah has a hand on her shoulder. Neither of them is talking.

Cora’s crying, shoulders shaking. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing soot and tears across her cheek.

She looks up—and sees me.

For one second, the crowd doesn’t exist. Just her.

And then she storms across broken glass, straight at me.

“You sick bastard!” she screams, voice cracking. “You did this?”

I don’t move. I let her yell.

“Say it!” she’s pointing now. Her hand is trembling with rage. “Tell me this was your idea!”

I stare at her, mouth dry. “I didn’t do this.”

Her face twists. “Bullshit. You wanted me out of the way.”

Noah’s behind her, pulling her back gently. “Cora, stop. This... this isn’t something he can get away with. We’ll fix it, okay?”

She shakes her head violently, but she doesn’t fight him.

Elias comes up beside them, looking between me and the bakery. His eyes flicker to the smashed window, the letters still dangling above the awning. “We’ll help,” he says quietly. “Whatever it takes.”

Some of the townspeople murmur in agreement. An older woman offers her cleaning supplies.

A couple of guys from the hardware store are already pulling out plywood to board up the windows.

One of the firemen on the scene walks over, clipboard in hand.

“Looks like they came through sometime between midnight and four a.m.,” he says. “Vandals used a combination of tar and spray paint. Didn’t light anything, but they broke in and caused some interior damage. Nothing structural. Equipment is almost intact. It’s fixable. Ugly, but fixable.”

Cora doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the wreckage with this look I can’t scrub from my memory. Her green eyes are glassy, swollen, unfocused. She’s not seeing the bakery anymore. She’s watching everything she built go up in smoke.

I can’t stand there a second longer.

I turn and walk away, back to the truck. My hand shakes slightly when I unlock the door.

I get in and slam it shut behind me.

My phone’s already out before I hit the ignition.

He answers on the first ring.

“Is it done?”

“What the hell did you do?” I ask, quiet but sharp.

A pause. Then his voice, calm and unapologetic. “Lockwood mentioned one of the locals was particularly loud about halting the hotel project. Emotional, disruptive. I made sure she had something else to worry about.”

My stomach knots. “Jesus, Dad. Her entire storefront—”

“She’s not dead,” he snaps. “And neither is her business. This is what happens when people pick fights they’re unequipped to win.”

I lean back, pressing my hand to the steering wheel.

“You knew which one she was?”

“I don’t know anything except she was a problem. Lockwood said a woman. That’s all. I don’t concern myself with bakery drama, Julian. I remove obstacles.”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know her name. Or that I touched her. That I’ve had her in ways I never should have. He doesn’t know she’s not just some loud-mouthed local.

And thank God for that.

Relief hits hard. Too hard.

Because that means this wasn’t personal. It wasn’t punishment for my mistakes or for the way I kept going back to her. It was just business. One move in a long, bloody game.

But when I remember the way she looked at me, the pain carved into her voice when she screamed, that relief rots into something bitter.

I stare at my hands, clean and useless in my lap.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel ashamed for being a Vance.

For letting her cry while I walked away.

And for being the reason she cried in the first place.