Page 37 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

JULIAN

I’ve barely slept.

My head’s been full of her—of the way she looked curled against me, mouth swollen from how many times I kissed her. The scent of her still lingers, even after five showers, a hundred distractions, a thousand half-formed sentences typed into this damn proposal.

I’ve been in my office for hours, hunched over the draft, trying to find a way to spin this change in direction without lighting a match to everything our father expects of me.

Brielle has stayed quiet, mostly. I know she’s irritated. I know what she wants from me.

The way she moves around the office, tight-lipped and restless, scent flaring hot with frustration—Omega pheromones as loud as a scream.

But I haven’t touched her. Not in weeks. And now I won’t. Not when I have Cora in my head. In my chest.

I try to focus. Run my hand through my hair. Re-read the draft I’ve been laboring over.

Brielle knocks once, then opens the door. She doesn’t look at me when she says, “He’s here.”

That’s all. My father. Here.

I swallow past the tightness in my throat and close the folder. The paper inside is still warm from the heat of my palms.

I smooth it once, slide it under my arm, and nod at her. Brielle steps aside, quiet now in that calculating way of hers, watching me as I walk past.

The hallway to his office feels longer than usual, like every step forward somehow stretches the distance. I press my palm to the door, steel myself, and step in.

What I don’t expect is Damien.

And the board.

The room smells of expensive cologne, fresh paper, and tension.

Around the long walnut table sit the usual suspects: Patel, fingers clasped like he’s praying for the meeting to end; Gerhardt, sharp-eyed and already tracking my every move; Vincent Shaw, ever loyal to my father, flanked by two junior execs who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.

There’s also a fresh-faced analyst in a slick blue suit, probably trying to earn his stripes. All of them were at the luxury resort pitch in Driftwood Cove.

All of them know what I was meant to deliver.

My father doesn’t look up. “What are you doing here?”

I grip the folder tighter. “I wanted to speak with you. Privately.”

Damien’s mouth twitches. “Is this about the Harbor project?”

“This is between me and our father.” My tone cuts through the room like a switchblade. Eyes flick toward him, then back to me.

My father sighs heavily and finally meets my gaze. “Whatever you thought was so urgent, you can share it now.”

So much for private.

I move to the head of the table and set the folder down in front of him. “We’re running into delays. The Harbor project is bleeding resources. Permits are backlogged. The environmental assessment came back with more complications than we expected. I’ve been researching—”

“Is this about shutting it down?” Vincent cuts in. “We’ve already sunk a third of the budget into pre-construction.”

“Have you considered a public-private partnership to alleviate the strain?” Patel adds.

“Your brother was able to handle an oil contract, so maybe he can advise you on what we need to circumvent to get this started?” Gerhardt leans forward. “Because the clause—”

“I’m not scrapping the project,” I say, voice clipped. “I’m suggesting we shift the timeline and reinvest in a vertical that serves the people of the region instead of siphoning off what’s left of their resources.”

Damien snorts like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“I’m working in oil. You’re the one who had all these ideas of how lucrative your deal was. I thought your luxury resort would actually bring in jobs, tourism, media coverage. Don’t tell me this is some sudden moral awakening.”

My hands are clenched now, nails biting into my palms. “Stay out of this.”

“I’m being supportive.” That smugness always comes easy to him. Always delivered with that polished grin that never quite reaches his eyes.

My father stands.

The room falls still.

“Everyone out. Now.”

Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. No one dares question him. The room clears faster than I thought possible, until it’s just the three of us.

He turns to me, eyes sharp. “What the hell is this about?”

I shake my head. “This isn’t about the townspeople. I’m not trying to protect them from the big, bad company. I’m trying to offer something more sustainable.”

Damien lets out a low, cruel laugh. “I get it now.”

My father doesn’t look at him. “What do you think you get?”

“Oh, come on,” Damien says, leaning against the edge of the table like he owns it.

“You don’t see it? He’s screwing someone in Driftwood Cove.

That’s why he’s so eager to shut everything down.

Protect the little town. Rewrite the narrative.

He’s buried himself so deep between someone’s legs he thinks he’s found God. ”

I go cold.

Her scent. The trail she left on me. How close she was when she kissed my neck, her thighs locked around me in the dark.

I thought I’d washed it all away. The showers. The clothes I burned. But Damien, fucking Damien, has always known how to sniff out the softest parts of me.

“Is that true?” My father’s voice is low and dangerous. “You compromised this company over a fuck?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Because it’s not just about her. It’s about everything she made me see.

About how long I’ve worn this skin, pretending I cared about quarterly reports and land contracts, when the only thing I wanted was to build something that mattered.

“Her name’s Cora,” I say finally.

Silence stretches thin.

“She owns a bakery in the town. The one you vandalized. The town’s been up in arms since the first contractors started drilling. They don’t trust us, and frankly, I don’t blame them.”

My father walks slowly to the bar cart, pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. Doesn’t offer me any.

“You’ve gone soft.”

“No. I’ve gone aware.”

Damien makes a noise like a scoff. “You threw away months of work for a barista.”

“She’s more than that.” My voice hardens. “And this is about more than her. The town’s infrastructure can’t support the scale we’re proposing. We’ll crush them under the weight of this build, and then what? We’ll pull out and leave a shell behind?”

“You think this board cares?” my father says, sipping his drink. “You think the shareholders care?”

“I care.” My fists tighten. “And you should too.”

Damien laughs again, but this time there’s something bitter in it. “You’re willing to lose everything for her.”

I meet his gaze. “I’d lose a lot more if I walked away from her now.”

My father sets his glass down hard. “Get your shit together. Either you’re in or you’re out. If you’re out, I’ll hand it to Damien.”

“Fine,” I say, heart racing now because it’s not about choosing her over my career. It’s about choosing the part of me that still believes I can create something real.

His expression doesn’t change. “Then you’d better fix this. Fast.”

I turn, walking out, heat climbing my spine. Outside, Brielle watches me like she already knows everything. Her scent is muted now, bitter with disappointment.

I pass her without a word.

In my pocket, my phone vibrates. A message from Cora.

I miss you. Need you.

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

I need to get out of here.

My hand scrapes over the back of my neck as I head for the elevator, the echo of Damien’s accusations still ringing in my ears.

I can feel eyes tracking me through the halls, junior associates too afraid to meet my gaze directly but desperate to eavesdrop.

My jaw stays tight, my back straight, but there’s a sharpness inside me, like I’m walking around with barbed wire coiled beneath my skin.

The Uber driver asks if I want to go home. I tell him no.

The bar I end up in is a dim corner of a members-only club downtown. Discretion is baked into the walls.

There are no paparazzi here, no judgmental board members, no father waiting to hand out ultimatums. Just silence, low lighting, and expensive liquor that goes down like oil. I order something neat. Then another.

By the third, my scent’s starting to dull beneath the heat of whiskey and the slow bleed of anger I’ve kept bottled too long.

I press my fingers to the pulse point at my throat, count to ten, then ten again. It’s a basic regulation technique. Pressure to ground myself.

A soft drag of scent control balm behind each ear. It doesn’t erase the bond, but it mutes the ache.

Not enough.

So I drink more, ordering whatever they can pour fast. I keep to a booth in the corner, loose tie, open shirt, no fucking mask. Just me. Just this spiraling thing I’m trying not to name.

The air shifts before I see him. I should’ve known he’d show up.

Damien walks in like he owns the place, dragging chaos in behind him. And clinging to his side is Brielle. Tipsy, eyes glassy, mouth slick and parted.

She’s wearing something tight and practically falling off her shoulder. Her lipstick’s smudged. Her hand’s on his chest like she forgot who she actually works for.

“You really know how to fall apart, don’t you?” Damien calls, voice slicing through the low hum of the room as he drags Brielle over to my table. “Hiding out. Boozing. Classic Julian.”

“Fuck off.” I lean back, barely sparing him a glance. I swirl the dregs of my drink in the glass, then toss them back.

Brielle giggles. “You look so different when you’re angry,” she murmurs, leaning against me now. Her fingers trail down my arm. “You used to look at me like you wanted me.”

“Brielle, go home.”

“Not before you take me there,” she purrs.

Damien scoffs. “You’re pathetic. Both of you.

” He yanks her away from me, but not before she sways and almost spills a glass from the next table.

“You think you’re the only one who can close a deal?

You tank this resort and I’ll step in. Handle it like a true man.

Like a Vance. Maybe I can also fly down into town and find myself a nice little cunt like you did. ”

I’m already on my feet before I realize it.

My fist connects with his face so fast the bartender doesn’t even react until Damien stumbles backward, holding his jaw. A sharp, satisfying jolt spreads up my arm.

“You’re a fucking scumbag,” I breathe.

He straightens slowly, lips bloody, eyes full of smugness even now. “And you’re going to lose everything because you want to play house with a town girl.”

I walk away before I throw another punch.

Brielle follows me, mumbling and drunk. I get her a cab. She stumbles, still trying to crawl into my space, still whining that I’ve changed. I shut the door before she can lean in again. The cab drives off.

It’s late by the time I check into a hotel under a fake name. I don’t trust going home, not with the press sniffing around.

The room’s sterile and cold, a corporate gray suite with no personality and overpriced mini bottles on the nightstand.

I sit down and see the messages lighting up our group chat.

Cora is spending the night with Noah and Elias, but it seems they went dancing, too.

I throw my phone face down. None of them know. None of them realize my father vandalized Cora’s bakery. Any suspicion they may have had faded.

I don’t even know how to tell her—what it’ll do to her. I only know that the moment she finds out, everything between us might shatter.

I drink until I can’t taste anything. Until my limbs feel too heavy to move and the edges of my vision start to blur. I pass out, still in half my clothes, sprawled over the sheets.

Morning comes with the kind of headache that feels stitched into my skull. I squint at the bright light sneaking past the blackout curtains and blindly reach for my phone. Dozens of messages, but one from my father is pinned at the top.

Well done, idiot. You and Damien were photographed brawling at that cesspool you call a bar. Your face is all over the morning press. Fix it. You’re being sent a location to stage some photos. Smile. Pretend to give a fuck. I will not have bad press.

Then a follow-up text, short and sharp:

Or don’t bother coming back.

I sit up slowly. Read the words again.

My thumb hovers before I hit call. The second he picks up, I don’t bother with greetings.

“I’m not doing it.”

He laughs, low and disgusted. “Then you’re walking away from everything we built. Everything I gave you.”

“You didn’t give me anything. You built a prison and called it a legacy.”

“If you leave now, you’re done. You don’t get the inheritance. You don’t get the seat. And you don’t come back crawling when the town girl breaks your heart and you realize you gave up an empire for some sweet-smelling Omega and a half-dead seaside dump.”

“She’s not just—” I stop myself. My voice cracks at the edges. “You didn’t have to destroy her bakery.”

“I didn’t destroy it. I just sent a message.”

Silence.

I can hear his breath on the other end. Cold. “Here’s your choice. You finish the Driftwood Cove project and continue working for the family company. You come home. You let go of the girl. Or you’re done. You walk away with nothing.”

I hang up before he can say more.

The room’s too quiet.

I stare at the cracked screen of my phone, the fragments in the corner where I dropped it last night. I think about the bakery.

About her soft laugh behind the counter, the way she looked at me that first morning, like she hadn’t already known I was trouble.

About the way her scent lingered on my skin no matter how many goddamn showers I took.

I run a hand through my hair, jaw clenched.

There’s no way to win this without losing something.

And the truth is... I already know what I can’t afford to lose.