Page 48 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

ROWAN

The dream’s always the same. Her. Lena. The curve of her lips, the way her hair used to shine like sunlit copper. She’s under me, laughing softly, hands clutching my shoulders as I thrust into her. She whispers my name, the kind of whisper that stays in your blood. Rowan, stay with me…

Then the cold comes. It always does. The water rushes in, and she’s gone. Every damn time.

“Shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

The lighthouse is silent except for the faint creak of the beams and the distant crash of waves outside. I rub the back of my neck, already dreading the day ahead. Another morning in Driftwood Cove. Another goddamn reminder of everything I want to forget.

I throw on a flannel and jeans, tugging on my boots, the same as I do everyday. Thorne Beacon has been in my family for generations, passed down from one stubborn, solitary bastard to the next. It’s not glamorous, but it keeps me out of town, away from the noise and the people.

Not that I’m some hermit incapable of basic civility. I just don’t like the way folks in Driftwood Cove talk.

They’ve got too many questions, too many opinions. And Alphas like me are a novelty to them. The Betas are always trying to get a rise out of me, and the Omegas? Forget it. Their flirting makes my skin itch.

The clock ticks louder in the silence.

“Better get on with it,” I tell myself as I grab my coat.

The cold morning air smacks me in the face, salty and sharp. The lighthouse looms behind me, its faded white paint and rusted railings proof it’s stood guarding this cove for a century and then some. Like me, it stands because it has to, not because it wants to.

The boat waits for me at the dock, bobbing gently in the water. The Helene, its name scrawled in chipped blue paint on the side, is named after my grandmother.

Another Thorne claimed by the sea, or so the stories go. The superstitious fools in town whisper that the boat carries the curse, but she’s never let me down.

“Morning, girl,” I say, running a hand along the weathered hull. “Ready for another day keeping us alive?”

The Helene doesn’t answer, of course, but she’s steady under my hand. I check the lines, the nets, the engine. Everything’s where it should be.

Fishing’s not glamorous, but it’s quiet work and keeps the bills paid. I don’t need much. Just enough to keep the lighthouse running and a few supplies now and then.

The docks are empty this early, which suits me fine. No chatty vendors, no nosy villagers asking why I don’t come to the market myself.

That’s for Jake, the Alpha who runs the fish stall, to deal with. He’s one of the few people I can tolerate. Doesn’t talk much, just counts the crates and pays fair.

As I toss the last net onto the boat, a voice calls out from the end of the dock.

“Rowan! You out this early again?”

I glance up. Tom, one of the town’s fishermen, is standing in his usual spot, leaning on a mooring post. He’s an old guy, always chewing on a piece of grass like he’s in some goddamn folk tale.

“Yeah, Tom. Same as always.”

“You ever think about getting yourself some company? Ain’t right, a man your age all alone up in that lighthouse.”

“I’m not interested,” I say, keeping my tone flat.

Tom chuckles. “Suit yourself. But one of these days, that solitude’s gonna wear on you.”

I don’t bother answering. He doesn’t get it. No one does. Solitude doesn’t wear on me—it’s the only thing that makes sense. People just… complicate things.

I fire up the engine, the hum of the motor drowning out the conversation I didn’t want to have. The Helene glides away from the dock, her bow cutting through the glassy water.

Out here, it’s just me, the sea, and the ghosts of every Thorne man who came before me.

The sun’s not up yet, but the horizon glows faintly with a bruise of purple and orange. I grip the wheel, steering toward the fishing grounds, the familiar rhythm of the waves both comforting and maddening.

This is my life.

Another day of fishing. Another day of silence. Another day waiting for the sea to decide if today’s the day it takes me, too.

The nets are heavy this morning. Good haul so far—bass, halibut, even a couple of lobsters tangled in the mess. My gloves are soaked, and the saltwater stings my knuckles where the fabric’s frayed.

I pull up another net, my shoulders burning. The sound of water sloshing and the occasional flop of a fish keep me company.

The engine hums low, steady like the rhythm of the tide. I glance out across the sea, my gaze snagging on that part of the water.

It’s darker there, almost like it’s warning me to stay the hell away. I don’t need the reminder.

That’s where Lena went under.

A sharp ache twists in my gut. It should’ve been me. But she… She had this way of stepping in, making decisions for me, always too damn stubborn for her own good. And now she’s gone.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake the memory. It’s not like the sea cares about who it takes. Fairness doesn’t factor in.

The radio crackles when I flip it on, static filling the air. I twist the dial until a song breaks through, some old classic rock track I’ve heard a thousand times. It’s enough to drown out the quiet, at least.

By the time the sun has climbed higher in the sky, the storm starts showing itself on the horizon. Dark clouds roll in slow and steady, but ominous like they’re deciding how much trouble to cause.

I pull in the last net, already weighing my options.

“Not worth it,” I mutter to myself. Staying out here during a storm’s a crapshoot, and while I wouldn’t mind if the sea swallowed me whole, the town depends on the business now.

I’ve got contracts to fill, and Jake’s stall isn’t going to restock itself.

I steer The Helene back toward shore, the waves growing choppier with every passing minute. The docks come into view, and I can see a couple of boats already tied up, their owners probably making the same call I did.

Once I’m docked, I work quickly. The fish go into ice containers, packed tight so they’ll stay fresh. The lobsters get their own little compartment.

When I’m done, I load everything into my truck, parked a few steps away.

By the time I make it to Jake’s stall, the sky’s a bruised gray and the wind’s picking up. Jake’s sitting on his usual stool, a book in hand. The cover has some ridiculous drawing of a mermaid on it, all shiny scales and flowing hair. He snaps it shut the second he sees me.

“Rowan,” he says, looking up with a grin. “You’re early.”

“Storm’s coming,” I grunt, setting the first container on the counter.

Jake stands and brushes off his jeans. “Yeah, figured as much. You don’t usually let the weather chase you off, though.”

“Didn’t have a choice today,” I reply, my tone flat.

He nods, already pulling the lid off the first container. The smell of fish hits the air immediately.

“Damn, good haul,” he says, inspecting the catch. “Rhys was here the other day asking for something specific. Wish you’d snagged some red snapper. He’s got this new recipe he’s been raving about.”

“Uh-huh.” I shake my head. I know the guy. Alpha, owns that fancy restaurant uptown.

Good food, sure, but not my kind of scene. Too many people, too much noise.

Jake chuckles. “Not saying much today, are you?”

I give him a look, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. I know better than to expect a conversation.”

He moves efficiently, offloading the containers one by one, and then counts out the money before handing it over without another word. I tuck it into my pocket, nodding once.

“Stay dry out there,” he calls as I climb back into the truck.

“Yeah,” I reply, slamming the door shut.

The drive back to the lighthouse is slow. The storm’s not here yet, but the wind’s picking up, rattling the trees along the road.

By the time I park, the waves are already crashing harder against the rocks.

I unload what’s left in the truck—just a few supplies I picked up last week. The lighthouse door creaks as I push it open, the familiar smell of salt and old wood greeting me.

The storm’s gonna be a bad one. If it lasts through the night, it’ll scare off the fish, making tomorrow’s haul harder than it needs to be.

I glance at the clock. Still early enough to get some work done around here, but my mind’s elsewhere—on the sea, on the darker waters I’ll never sail into again, no matter how much they call to me.

Read The Rest of Here!