Page 31 of Knotted By my Pack
She turns to me, arms crossed loosely, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not worried. But I feel her eyes on me.
“You okay?”
“I’m an Alpha,” I say flatly. “I’ll heal.”
She nods, lips pressed together. Her gaze lingers on the dried blood at the edge of my collar.
“Why did you pick a fight with him?” she asks, and the question digs under my skin like a thorn.
“I didn’t,” I snap. “In case you forgot, this is my office. He showed up throwing punches. I was defending myself.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but she draws her bottom lip between her teeth, and I catch the flicker of hesitation. Then she says simply. “Are you sure?”
That pisses me off more. “Am I sure? That bastard punched me first.”
“Okay. I just wanted to make sure… and to see if you were okay.”
I straighten and point at the tray. “I don’t want your pity. Take your croissants and get out.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. She picks up the tray, not saying a word, and turns toward the door. That should be the end of it.
Let her leave. Let her go back to her bakery and pretend she didn’t just walk into my space, trying to patch things up with carbs and soft eyes.
But I stop her.
“Wait.”
She freezes, one hand on the handle. Slowly, she turns back to face me. Her green eyes don’t sparkle. They burn.
“What?”
I should ask her why she’s even here. Why she shows up concerned after days of asking me to leave her precious little town. But the words don’t form. Instead, I go cold. Businesslike.
“Have you thought about the proposal?”
Her brow lifts slightly.
“You said you’d think about it. Feeding the crew working for me. I’ll have thirty men in town, minimum.”
Her expression flattens. “One, I did not say I would think about it. Two, the answer’s no.” She walks out without another word.
I stare at the door after it shuts. Silence swallows the office, thick and absolute.
I shove the chair out of my way, grab my keys, and leave. I don’t even bother locking up.
The air outside is sharp with salt, and the sound of gulls screaming overhead makes my teeth grind. I drive home with the windows down, hoping the wind will scrape off some of the anger still boiling beneath my skin.
It doesn’t.
I park haphazardly outside my house, kill the engine, and head inside. The space feels too clean, too neat. Empty in a way that digs at something old in my chest.
I strip off my shirt and toss it aside. The bruises on my ribs are turning darker, the muscle around them tight.
I twist the lid off a bottle of water, down half of it, then head to the back room. The bag is already hung up. Heavy. Waiting.
Good.
I slam my fist into it. Once. Twice. The sound echoes through the room, and my knuckles scream in protest, already raw, but I don’t stop.
