Page 7 of Knotted By my Pack (North Coast Omegaverse #3)

CORA

The smell of vanilla and cinnamon hangs heavy in the air as I wipe down the counter for the third time this morning.

The ovens hum in the back, cradling the muffins and pastries that are just about ready, and the front of the shop glows golden from the morning light slanting through the windows.

The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up without thinking, fully expecting Mrs. Harrow with her endless questions about gluten.

It’s not Mrs. Harrow.

It’s him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. That Alpha who lives out past the pines in the cabin near the ridge. I’ve seen him once, maybe twice, from a distance—at town meetings mostly, never close enough to catch more than a silhouette.

But now, with the sun catching in his tousled dark hair and those sharp silver-gray eyes scanning the room, I suddenly forget what I was doing.

He’s dressed in a dark green thermal shirt stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath it, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms.

Fitted black jeans hang low on his hips, and he’s got on work boots, scuffed and real, not the kind worn for style. He carries the scent of cedar and the forest after rain.

And now he’s walking straight to the counter.

My knees tighten as I straighten. I should speak, but his voice finds me first.

“Hey, Cora.”

The way he says my name isn’t casual. It slides over my skin, deep and smooth, warm enough to reach the spot low in my belly. I smile before I can stop myself.

“Hey.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. “What can I get for you?”

His eyes sweep the pastry case—empty at the moment—and then meet mine. He leans a little closer, and there’s that scent again, so good it’s dizzying.

“What do you have?” he asks.

“Right now? Some muffins. Banana walnut, blueberry, and a few cinnamon swirl scones. But they’re all still in the oven.”

His brow lifts slightly. “All of them?”

I catch the way his eyes linger on my mouth when I speak. “Everything,” I tell him. “They’ll be done in about six minutes. Maybe seven.”

“Is it okay if I wait?”

“Of course.”

He glances around, taking in the small space. The wooden beams, the mismatched chairs, the pale blue walls I painted myself just last fall.

“Nice place,” he says, voice softer now. “You’ve made it real warm. Inviting.”

“It used to be the Marshalls’ bakery before they left town,” I explain, watching the way his gaze settles on everything, like he’s not just seeing it but actually noticing it. “I bought it when they moved. Gave it a little face-lift.”

“You did a good job. It looks amazing.”

That last part hangs between us. Our eyes lock. My chest lifts on its own, like my body is trying to make more space for breath.

“Your name’s Elias, right?”

His head tilts slightly, a spark of something unreadable in his gaze. “Yeah.”

I raise both hands. “Not a stalker. Just a small-town thing—everyone talks about everyone.”

The oven dings. Saved.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping into the back kitchen.

My skin is warm. Too warm. I press my palm to my cheek.

What’s wrong with me? First Noah and now Elias?

It’s been ages since someone stirred something like this in me, not even the Betas I’ve hooked up with when things get lonely. I prefer those flings because they’re easy and temporary, allowing for clean breaks.

Elias is not that. He’s earth and power, all wrapped up in a frame that makes my thighs press together as I pull the trays from the oven.

I arrange two fresh muffins on a plate and carry it back out. When I hand it to him, our fingers brush. That single touch snaps through me like live current.

His eyes flick up to mine, like he felt it too.

“Would you like a hot chocolate with that?” I ask, voice lower now.

He nods once, eyes still on me.

I turn to the machine behind the counter, my hands moving from habit as I steam the milk and melt the dark chocolate, trying to steady my breath.

Then the door opens again.

Noah.

He walks in like he owns the place, as always. He’s wearing dark jeans and that olive jacket he favors lately, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tousled like he ran his hands through it a few too many times.

For some reason, he’s been looking... different. Sharper. Leaner. Hotter. And I hate that I even noticed.

He doesn’t waste time, comes right to me. “Stopped at the garage,” he says. “Mechanic said he’ll swing by this afternoon to check the car.”

“Thanks, Noah.”

“I’ve gotta get to work,” he adds.

“Wait!” I run to the kitchen, wrap up one of the scones, and hand it to him. “Take this with you.”

He leans down and kisses my forehead like he always does. I’ve never thought about it much before.

Until now.

Because I can feel Elias watching.

Noah gives Elias a short nod, and Elias returns it. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t really silence. My collar suddenly feels way too hot, like my neck doesn’t know what to do with all this attention.

Noah’s gone just seconds later, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

I turn back to Elias, setting the hot chocolate in front of him. He hasn’t moved from his spot.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low again, like it was before.

He takes a bite of the muffin, and I can’t help but watch him eat. The way his jaw moves as he chews, his tiny noise of approval—it makes something coil inside me, tight and low.

I lean against the counter, needing something to keep me grounded.

“You gonna be in town long?” I ask.

He finishes chewing, then looks up at me. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether there’s more of this,” he says, motioning to the pastry, “or more of you.”

My breath catches, sharp and fast.

I don’t respond. I don’t think I can.

He takes another bite, and I realize this heat is making me a completely different person.

As he makes his way through his breakfast, I try very hard not to stare at Elias. Seriously, I feel so creepy, but I am so drawn to him.

I’m cleaning the display case when he walks up to me. He leans one elbow on the counter, casual but confident, the kind of posture that shouldn’t make my breath catch but does.

“What’s wrong with your car?”

I shrug, keeping my gaze on the tray I’m wiping. “Not really sure. It was making this weird grinding sound and then just wouldn’t start.”

His silver-gray eyes stay on me. “Mind if I take a look?”

I pause. “I mean, Noah already called the mechanic. He’s stopping by this afternoon.”

Elias smiles, slow and unapologetic. There’s something dangerously charming in the way his lips tilt, like he knows things most people never learn. “I’m very, very good with cars.”

My eyes drop to his hands—rough, broad, strong. Capable. I blink and look back up to find him watching me, his gaze unreadable. Heat brushes the back of my neck.

“Really?” I ask.

He nods, tone casual. “Grew up rebuilding engines. Pickups, bikes, anything with wheels. Let me take a look. You don’t have to pay me anything. Except maybe in muffins.”

“That’s a deal,” I say before I can think better of it.

He stands straighter. “Gotta head home for a bit and get my tools, then I’ll be back.”

He walks to the register, pulling out his wallet, but I shake my head. “Nope. Consider this a down payment for the work you’ll do.”

His smile deepens as he tucks the wallet away. “Bye, Cora.”

The way he says my name. The gravel in his voice. The weight of it in the air sends a shiver down my spine.

I watch him walk out, tall and calm, boots heavy against the old wooden floor. As soon as the door closes behind him, I press my hands to the counter, trying to focus, trying not to moan.

My nipples are peaked under my bra, tight against the soft fabric. There’s an ache low in my belly, a quiet, hungry throb that makes me want to close the shop and drag him back in here. I bite the inside of my cheek and turn toward the espresso machine instead.

I need to get laid. Soon. Or this town’s Alphas are going to drive me completely insane.

The rest of the morning flows like it always does. Locals trickle in, tourists ask for croissants, and I sneak bites of the still-warm scones while pretending to be professional. I even manage to laugh with Mrs. Harwood, who tells me her cat has learned to open the fridge.

Everything’s fine. Until he walks in.

I spot him the second the bell rings.

He’s tall, maybe six feet, with black hair combed back neatly, the kind of face that makes women forget how to speak.

He’s dressed in a navy-blue suit, tailored so perfectly it’s like it was sewn onto him.

No one should look that good in a blazer, and yet here he is, moving across my bakery like he belongs here.

Julian fucking Vance.

He’s carrying a handful of rolled posters under one arm. My stomach turns before he even opens his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says with an easy smile. Even his voice is smooth—low and confident, the kind that’s meant to persuade. “Mind if I leave a few of these here?”

I cross my arms. “Actually, yes. I do mind.”

He stops in front of the counter, that smile dipping into something more curious. “You haven’t even seen what they are.”

“I don’t need to. I know what this is about.”

Julian sets the posters down and peels one open. A sleek image of modern condos and smiling families beams up from the glossy paper. “The development will bring jobs, increase tourism, give the town a needed boost—”

“Save it.” I reach for the poster and slide it back toward him. “I already made my thoughts clear. I’m not interested.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why are you so against this?”

His scent reaches me as he leans closer—woodsmoke, layered with something richer, like aged bourbon and crushed violets. It’s sin in cologne form, and it pisses me off.

I grip the edge of the counter harder. “Because it’s not about the town.

It’s about profit. You and your partners want to come in, build a bunch of luxury hotels no one here can afford, and then pat yourselves on the back for helping the ‘community.’ You’ll destroy what makes this place worth living in. ”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to. I know your type. Rich, out-of-town investors who think this town is just another blank space on a map to fill with overpriced shops and artificial charm.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the other one resting flat on the counter. “You should try being a little more... unbiased.”

“I’m a baker, not a reporter.”

“Still,” he murmurs, “a little open-mindedness wouldn’t hurt.”

I scoff. “Not interested.”

He leans in just a breath more, gaze intent. “I’ll be in town for a while, so I will be seeing more of you.”

“I doubt it.”

His mouth lifts into a half-smile, not amused, not quite playful. “We’ll see.”

And then he turns and walks out, posters under his arm, scent lingering in the air like temptation.

I exhale once the door shuts behind him. My knuckles are white on the counter, my pulse thumping somewhere low and infuriating. That man is the definition of everything I hate, and yet my body hasn’t gotten the memo.

Why the hell does he smell like that?

I grab a cloth and start wiping the counter again, harder than necessary, trying to scrub him out of the air, out of my thoughts, out of this whole damn day.

But the tension doesn’t leave. It pools under my skin, electric and impatient. Noah, then Elias, now Julian.

If one more hot man with confident eyes and broad shoulders walks into this bakery today, I might throw my apron at someone and lock the doors.

I glance at the clock. Just past noon.

Still four hours to go.

And I’m already counting down the minutes until Elias comes back.

Because pastries aren’t the only thing getting hot around here.