Page 38 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

ELIAS

Rusty’s tongue drags across my cheek with the persistence of a dog who doesn’t care if I was out dancing until two in the morning or if my body still aches from it.

I groan, not ready to open my eyes yet, but the mutt doesn’t stop. Instead, he gets more enthusiastic, front paws braced on the mattress.

“Alright, alright,” I grumble, voice rough and sleep-clogged as I shove the blanket off and sit up.

The cabin smells like pinewood and leftover whiskey. My shirt’s still on from last night, crumpled and half unbuttoned, jeans around my ankles because I never bothered taking them all the way off before passing out.

Cora had pressed her mouth to my ear before she slipped out, whispering something about pastries and opening shop early.

I’d just nodded, too tired to protest, my hands still tingling from the way her body moved against mine all night.

I drag myself into the kitchen, Rusty trotting ahead like he’s proud of himself. Sunlight streams in through the tall windows.

The lake outside is still misty. I’m blinking at the coffee maker, trying to remember if I set it last night, when a knock comes at the door. Not sharp. Not rushed. Just steady enough to be fucking annoying.

I open the door and nearly laugh.

Julian Vance looks like he spent the night in a ditch. His shirt’s wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. He hasn’t shaved.

His usually perfect hair is falling into his eyes, and there’s a bruise on his cheekbone that tells me he got into a fight.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “You get hit by a car or your conscience?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink.

“I need to talk to you.”

I stare at him for a beat, then step aside.

He walks in like he’s never been in a place built of real wood before, glancing around like the exposed beams might attack him. Rusty circles his legs, sniffing, then decides he isn’t worth it and flops near the fire.

I pour us both coffee, hand his over, then lean against the counter.

“Alright,” I say. “You look like shit. What the hell happened?”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, both hands wrapped around the mug like he needs the warmth to stay upright.

Then he tells me everything.

How he bribed Lockwood to speed up permits, how he used legal loopholes to get zoning pushed through when it should’ve been blocked.

How his father ordered the vandalism at Cora’s bakery to scare her off. He looks away when he says that part, his jaw tight, voice low.

“And now,” he says, eyes finding mine again, “if I walk away, Damien takes over the project. He’ll burn this town down to build his name.”

I exhale hard, setting my mug down with more force than I mean to. “I hate that man.”

Julian’s eyes flicker. “Yeah. I get it now.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

Then he says, “I’m sorry.”

Two words, stiff and hard-won. But honest.

I stare at him, part of me still wanting to throw the coffee in his face.

“You know, when your brother stole my mate,” I say, “it wasn’t just the betrayal. It was that he discarded her like trash afterward. Used her to win some pissing match with you, then walked away. And then your family buried it. Pretended like it never mattered. I hated him for that. Still do.”

“I know.”

“And you?” I ask. “You were never any better. Vance developers destroyed half the coastal wetlands to build those luxury towers. You paved over nesting grounds. Polluted the bay with runoff. I chained myself to a bulldozer one summer. Your company had me arrested.”

His mouth tugs at something close to regret. “I remember. You spat in my face.”

“Felt good.”

“I deserved worse.”

“Yeah. You did.”

He nods. Drains the last of his coffee, shoulders sagging now like the caffeine took what little strength he had left.

“So what should we do?” he asks.

I study him for a long moment. Then push off the counter.

“You? You’re still drunk.”

He lifts a brow but doesn’t argue.

“Go crash in the guest room. You’re no good to anyone like this. When you’re sober, we’ll deal with it. But one thing’s non-negotiable.”

He watches me, waiting.

“We tell Cora,” I say. “Before someone else does.”

His mouth parts like he wants to argue. Then he nods again, eyes dark with whatever guilt he’s been carrying since this shitstorm started.

“Yeah. Alright.”

He heads down the hall without another word. Rusty follows him halfway before losing interest.

I stand there a while longer, hands braced on the counter, staring at the dregs of my coffee. Outside, birds cut across the lake, their cries sharp against the quiet.

This isn’t just a cleanup job anymore, and I’m not standing on the sidelines.

The moment Julian passes out in the guest room, I pull out my phone and dial.

The sky’s bright, sunlight slashing through the treetops and casting fractured light across the lake, but the tight knot in my chest is already forming.

Noah picks up on the second ring, voice rough with sleep or something close to it.

“Yeah?”

“Get over here,” I say. “Now. Julian’s here. It’s bad.”

Noah’s quiet for a second. “I’m on my way.”

I put coffee back on the burner and rinse the mugs while I wait, nerves crawling under my skin. Rusty stays close, watching me like he knows the ground’s about to shift.

When Noah’s truck rumbles into the drive, I head out and meet him halfway. His eyes flick over my face, then past me toward the cabin.

“What the hell happened?”

“We’re gonna need more coffee.”

Inside, we sit at the table. I explain what Julian told me, piece by piece. Bribes. Forged permits.

That spineless bastard. And the vandalism—orders coming straight from Alec Vance like it’s just another line item in a quarterly plan.

Noah’s jaw clenches. He pushes his palms into the wood of the table, knuckles whitening.

“That bastard was at the bakery yesterday,” he mutters. “I should’ve punched his teeth in.”

I glance toward the hall, listening for any movement from Julian. Still out cold.

“We can’t let this stand,” I say. “We need to pull him out. Root and stem.”

“Lockwood?”

“Yeah. He’s in Alec’s pocket. Always has been. That permit went through too clean, too fast. But we can’t trust the council either. They’re half-paid off or too scared to cross the Vances.”

Julian comes out halfway through, still looking like shit but upright. His voice is low when he speaks. “We oust him. You take his place.”

Noah raises a brow. “Me?”

“You’re the only one people trust,” I say. “You’ve been part of this town since you could walk. Your name means something. If there’s anyone who can rally the council, the voters, it’s you.”

Noah looks between us, tension thick behind his eyes. “You think they’ll follow me into something like this?”

“I do,” Julian says. “But we need to start building it now. Letters. Testimonies. Get Cora. Get everyone who’s been brushed off or ignored.”

“We should make it to council first,” I say. “Small steps.”

Julian shakes his head. “Too slow. We need to cut the head off. The assistant mayor’s office gives you veto power over all the development going on in this town. Budget oversight. Everything.”

Noah leans back. “Fuck. I didn’t sign up for politics.”

Julian stands. “None of us did. But we don’t get to sit out just because it’s messy. Plus, I’m pretty sure that if we went to the mayor with this, he would give you his full support.”

That hits. Because he’s not wrong.

This town isn’t just buildings and streets. It’s Cora’s bakery. It’s Noah’s carpentry. It’s the old women at the farmer’s market and the little girls who dance on the docks every summer.

The old docks may be gone, but if we let Alec Vance have his way, he’ll bleed Driftwood Cove dry and build over the corpse.

Silence settles. Not awkward. Just heavy. Measured.

“We tell her,” Julian says finally, voice raw. “Today.”

“I’ll be there,” Noah says.

Julian shakes his head. “No. I should be the one to tell her just how badly I screwed everything up.”

“No,” Noah repeats. “We do this together.”

I nod, a slow weight in my chest easing as I realize this is what it means to stand with someone. For the first time in years, I’m not just watching from the margins. This is a pack. Broken, battered, unlikely as hell, but it’s real.

We pile into Noah’s truck and head down toward the harbor. The damage hits me like a punch when we round the curve. Piles of torn-up boardwalk scattered across the ground.

Heavy machinery parked too close to the shoreline. Broken glass glittering like someone’s idea of confetti.

Julian gets out first. Contractors pause when they see him, unsure. Beckett, the lead, walks up, clipboard in hand.

“Mr. Vance? We’re on schedule for—”

“Stop,” Julian says, voice sharp, cutting through the noise. “All of it. Halt construction. Effective immediately.”

Beckett blinks. “Sir?”

“Pull the crews off. Secure the equipment. I’ll issue a formal statement to the city later. But this—” He gestures to the destruction. “This isn’t happening. Not like this.”

Beckett stares. “Are you authorized to do that? We’re already mid-construction.”

“I’m Julian Vance,” he says, calm and cold. “I’m always authorized.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Beckett flinch.

The crew starts to move, tension dissolving into confusion and nervous chatter. Julian watches them a second longer, then turns back to us.

“Let’s go.”

The truck ride to the bakery is quiet. No music. No small talk. Just the rumble of the engine and the distant crash of the tides.

I look out the window at this place we’ve all given something to. Some of us gave years. Some gave blood. And now we’re about to give Cora the truth.

All of it.

And pray she doesn’t hate us for it.