Page 14 of Taken By the Pack

“Easy to say when you live in a shoebox and don’t have a family to support,” Liam shoots back.

“Enough,” Mom says, cutting through the tension. “Ash, sweetheart, we’re just… concerned. You’ve always been so independent, but you don’t have to do everything alone.”

“Thanks for the concern,” I say, standing abruptly, “but I’m fine. Really.” I nod at Mom and glance at Dad, whose expression is unreadable. “I’ve got an early morning. Thanks for dinner.”

Mom protests but it’s clear that I’m not going to budge. I grab the untouched bottle of wine that I brought as I leave. No sense in them throwing it away as soon as I’m gone.

The night air hits me as I step outside, the crispness biting at my skin. I exhale slowly, the tension finally starting to drain from my shoulders.

Six months in Driftwood Cove. Six months away from the suits, the expectations, the endless fucking judgment.

I toss the wine bottle into the passenger seat of my truck and slide behind the wheel. Starting the engine, I pull away from the house, watching the lights fade in the rearview mirror.

5

GRACE

The sweatshirt swallows me whole, and the sweatpants are worse, bunched around my ankles like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. His.

Everything smells like Rowan, this mix of sea air and something darker. Musk, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s comforting in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

I curl up on the old, worn sofa, pulling my knees to my chest as he stands by the grill. The crackle of the fish sizzling fills the awkward silence.

What do you even say to the man who just had his fingers inside you? Not a damn thing, apparently.

How did this happen?

“This storm’s getting worse.” My voice is steadier now, but I keep my focus on the window, at the rain lashing against the glass. The wind howls, rattling the frame.

Rowan grunts, not even turning around. He is not a man of many words—that’s becoming crystal clear.

“You eat lobster?” he asks abruptly, flipping the fish with a spatula. His voice is rough, like gravel under tires.

I nod, even though his back is to me. “Yeah.”

He grabs a beer from the counter, pops the cap with one hand, and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. “Here.”

The cold bottle is damp under my palm. I take a sip, and for some reason, it sends a shiver—no, scratch that, a thrill—through me. I watch him return to the grill, his broad back blocking most of the small kitchen.

His shoulders roll with every motion, muscles shifting under his shirt. He looks like he belongs here, like the sea and this lighthouse have shaped him into something raw and untamed.

“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence. “I run Haven’s Nook. The flower shop in town.”

“That explains a lot.”

I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He half-turns, glancing at me over his shoulder. “You smell like flowers.”

“Oh.” I tug at a strand of my hair, twisting it around my finger. “Thanks, I guess?”

Rowan doesn’t reply, just goes back to grilling like the conversation never happened. I let my gaze wander around the room.

The lighthouse interior is sparse—bare walls, mismatched furniture, and a single bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. A storm lantern flickers on the table, casting soft, uneven light. It’s functional, not cozy.

“Food’s ready,” he says, setting two plates on the small table by the window. He pulls out a chair and nods for me to sit.

I slide into the seat, the scent of garlic and lemon wafting up as I eye the grilled fish and lobster tails. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the moment the first bite hits my tongue, a soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.

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