Page 15 of Knotted By my Pack
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 tohis 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.
