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

CORA

Something isn’t right.

Too early. Too late. Doesn’t matter. My head aches. My skin hums, but lying here makes it worse. The fever has started again, as it always does.

I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I drag myself, muscles sluggish, sweat cooling against my skin, into the bathroom.

The cold water does nothing to chase away the heat curling beneath my ribs, but I let it run over me anyway, standing under the spray until my fingertips prune.

It doesn’t help. The heat lingers beneath my skin, stubborn, clinging like it has no intention of leaving.

By the time I’m downstairs, the coffee maker gurgles its final notes. The scent is familiar, grounding. I pour myself a cup, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, and take a slow sip. The first swallow soothes my throat, but the rest settles uneasily in my stomach.

It’s fine. This happens every other month, like clockwork. Dr. Avery has me on suppressants. I’ve taken them religiously since I was thirteen, since the day I made the decision that heat was one complication I didn’t need.

With no family history, no way of knowing what genetic mess I might be carrying, it wasn’t a risk worth taking. So I stopped it before it could start. That, paired with the birth control pills I take regularly, means I never have to worry. No heat. No surprises. No stress.

But today, something is wrong.

My skin buzzes. A restless, unsettling energy curls low in my stomach. I roll out my yoga mat, forcing myself through the motions. Stretch. Breathe. Hold. Control.

My body protests, but I push through. It’s just an off morning. Nothing more.

I finish the routine, still unsettled. Still hot.

Another shower. This time, I stand under the spray longer, hands braced against the tile as water sluices over my back. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I need food. Maybe…

The sound of the front door unlocking snaps me out of it.

Noah.

He doesn’t knock anymore. He just walks in like he owns the place. Like he has for years.

I get out of the shower and quickly pull on a pair of shorts and a tank top, then make it downstairs just as he steps into the kitchen.

He looks the same as always—flannel rolled up to his elbows, well-worn jeans, boots that have seen one too many construction sites. Sandy blond hair a mess, like he didn’t bother brushing it before leaving the house.

Brown eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. “You eat yet?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t get around to it.”

His brows draw together. It’s barely a flicker, but I see it. The shift. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just not hungry.”

The silence stretches. Noah knows me. Probably better than I know myself. And right now, he doesn’t believe me.

He exhales through his nose. “I’ll make breakfast.”

I don’t argue.

I watch instead.

He moves through my kitchen like he belongs there, opening cabinets, pulling out a pan, grabbing eggs and bacon from the fridge. The burner clicks, flames catching, and soon the sound of sizzling bacon fills the space.

His forearms flex as he flips the bacon, biceps tightening under the worn cotton of his flannel.

I shouldn’t be staring.

But suddenly, I am.

Noah is attractive. That’s a fact, one everyone knows. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. The kind of solid, quiet presence that makes people trust him instinctively. But I have never looked at him like this.

Never sat in my kitchen and wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in those arms—completely naked.

What the hell? Where did that thought come from?

The fever spikes. That’s what this is. A mistake. A misfire in my brain.

I shove back from the table so fast the chair scrapes against the floor.

Noah glances over, spatula in hand. “Where are you going?”

“I need another shower.”

His eyes narrow, but before he can question it, I turn and bolt upstairs, slamming the door behind me. I brace my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection.

This is not normal.

Something is very, very wrong.

I’ve known Noah forever.

Since I was ten and he was twelve, since the day he shoved a playground bully off me and got himself a black eye in the process.

Since we grew up in the same overcrowded foster home, looking out for each other when no one else would. Since he stole scraps from the kitchen when I was sick, since I patched up his scraped knees, since we made a pact to never let each other go hungry or alone.

And yeah, when I was younger, I might have had a crush on him. It was stupid, fleeting. A childish thing. But I outgrew it, just like he outgrew the lanky frame and soft edges of boyhood.

And as time passed, I watched him move on, watched him take other women home, watched enough meaningless hookups to know we were never going to be that.

But today...

Today, his scent clings to me, seeping into my skin even from downstairs. Sandalwood and fresh pine, but there are also hints of sawdust, leather, and earth after rain. It has always been there, always familiar, but now it’s too much.

The air is saturated with it, coiling around me, heady and invasive. My stomach twists. My fingers shake as I yank open the cabinet and grab my pills.

Two more heat suppressants. Straight to the back of my throat, swallowed dry.

Another shower. This time, it works.

By the time I step out, the fever has settled, and my body is back to normal. No more itch under my skin. No more burning tension. Just Cora again.

I dress quickly, tugging on jeans and a sweater before heading back downstairs. The smell of bacon and coffee lingers in the air, warm and inviting.

Noah is still at the table, arms folded, watching me with that easy patience he always has. His plate is empty, but mine sits there, untouched.

“Breakfast is cold,” he says.

I take my seat and dig in anyway. The bacon is crisp, the eggs slightly overcooked, but it all tastes like care. I chew slowly, stealing glances at him between bites.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

His lips twitch into a smile, that boyish, charming, completely unfair smile that makes something in my chest go soft.

“You never have to thank me,” he says, voice warm.

I love him. Not in the way people whisper about in coffee shops or write songs about, not in the way I’ve been thinking about him today, though I shouldn’t.

But in the way you love a person who is part of your bones, who has been there for every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every god-awful decision.

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “You get your car checked out yet?”

I shake my head. “I’ll do it this weekend.”

A beat of silence. A slow nod. He knows me too well to argue.

When I finish eating, I take our plates to the sink, rinsing them while he grabs his keys. We step outside into the crisp morning air, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the town still waking up.

Noah’s truck waits in the driveway.

It’s his most prized possession, a 1968 Chevy, a relic from his late foster dad. Midnight blue, chrome trim gleaming despite the fine layer of dust from the job site yesterday. Bench seat, worn leather, a dashboard covered in small scratches and scuffs from years of use.

The engine rumbles as he starts it, smooth and strong, a sound that always reminds me of home.

I slide into the passenger seat, tucking my legs up comfortably. The cab smells like him, and I force myself to stare out the window as we pull out onto the road.

“There’s talk of a resort deal coming to town,” he says casually, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

I should be paying attention. I should care. But my gaze drifts to the way his hands grip the wheel, rough palms, strong knuckles. The solid set of his jaw. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, the way the morning light catches in the golden strands of his hair.

Seriously. What the hell is wrong with me today?

I yank my gaze away, swallowing hard. “Huh. A resort?”

He nods. “Some big investors sniffing around. Nothing confirmed yet, but if it happens, it’ll change a lot of things.”

I hum in response, still barely registering the words.

The truck slows as we pull up in front of Whisked, my bakery. The place that has been my dream for as long as I can remember. Soft cream-colored walls, big bay windows, a hand-painted sign above the door.

The smell of butter, sugar, and fresh bread always lingering in the air, seeping out into the street.

Noah shifts the truck into park and turns to me.

I reach for the handle, but before I can step out, he leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. Warm. Brief. Familiar.

“What are you working on today?” I ask, voice steady despite the way my pulse stutters.

“Thorne needs some work done on his boat. Some repairs on the Helene before winter rolls in.”

I nod, gripping the door handle a little tighter. “I’m making Danish cookies today. I’ll save you a couple.”

Something flickers in his expression. Amusement, maybe.

“You better.” Then he leans back, fingers tapping the wheel, as I step out. He waits until I’m inside before pulling away.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, breathing slowly, willing the last traces of whatever that was to disappear.

It was just an off morning. That’s all.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.