Knot a Drill (Packs of Fox Hollow #1)

Prologue

WREN

“Did you come?” Rob’s voice is low as he pulls off the condom and ties it off. His shirt is already half on again, sleeves rolled, and his hair is still mussed.

I nod, smiling as if it was good for me, too. He grins and tosses the wrapper into the waste bin under the sink.

He’s already reaching for his phone when I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I smooth my dress down, fix the straps, and glance at the mirror over the dresser.

I look like I’ve been lightly wrecked. I dab under my eyes with my thumbs. There’s a smudge of mascara near my temple.

Rob tugs me back for a kiss. It’s slow, open-mouthed, lazy. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum. My boyfriend is better at kissing than anything else.

He’s got the whole soft lips, easy confidence, morning-after stubble vibe down to a science. It’s familiar. Predictable. Safe.

“I’ve gotta run,” I say against his mouth. “Meeting in twenty minutes.”

“Kill it,” he says. His hand slides up my thigh. “Come back after. I’ll order from that Thai place you like.”

The clock on the nightstand behind him catches my eye.

Shit.

“I really have to go.”

He lets me go with a quick pat on the ass and a wink. “Good luck, designer girl.”

I grab my tote, with my portfolio already tucked inside, and slip on my flats. Pancake, my Maine coon cat, yawns from the couch and blinks at me like I’ve just interrupted his meditation.

We got him on impulse three months ago. Shelter cat. Big paws and a bigger attitude.

As I pass the hallway wall, I glance at the framed photo from last month. We’d gone hiking in Indiana, the only place within two hours of Chicago that had anything close to a real trail. Rob hated the bugs. I didn’t.

I grew up surrounded by trees, mud, and creeks around every corner. Fox Hollow is carved deep into my bones, no matter how hard I try to forget it.

But I push that thought down—hard—and focus.

Today matters.

Today, I pitch to Everhart Resorts, the new boutique hotel chain backed by an Alpha tech billionaire with a house in Aspen and a wife who posts curated morning-routine reels. The man himself will be at the meeting.

If I land this, I’ll finally stop being the girl who takes the leftovers from design leads. I’ll get my own clients. My own nameplate. My own assistant, who will bring me overpriced coffee with oat milk and a lemon twist.

I step into the hallway, press the elevator button, and open the portfolio to review the layout one last time.

Color palette: clean neutrals with a warm, light tone.

Textures: natural linens, modern cedar paneling.

Mood boards: hand-drawn by me.

My phone buzzes once.

Rob: You got this, babe.

I don’t respond. Not because I’m mad, but because I know exactly how this will go.

I’ll crush the pitch.

He’ll say he’s proud of me.

We’ll eat Thai on the couch while Pancake tries to stick his paw in the curry.

Then we’ll have mediocre sex again, and I’ll pretend it feels like something it doesn’t. Because the truth is, my life here is fine.

Better than fine.

I have a good apartment, solid friends, a job with benefits, a boyfriend who kisses well and listens more than he talks. And yet…

Beneath all that polish, I can feel the crack.

It’s small, but it’s spreading.

Sometimes I catch it when I look at myself in the mirror before bed. Or when the scent balm I wear every day fades just a little too early and someone’s Alpha scent almost brings me to my knees.

But mostly, it’s when I close my eyes and dream of pine needles underfoot.

And the sound of someone growling my name like it’s a prayer.

If I were having orgasms, then my life would be nearly perfect.

But perfect was never the goal. Survival was. And that’s the problem. Because I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m starting to want.

And historically, that’s always when things fall apart.

The Everhart lobby is a blend of marble and steel, exuding quiet confidence. Neutral tones. Living walls of green moss. Receptionist in minimalist cream.

I walk in exactly three minutes early, flats traded for nude heels, hair pulled back in the low bun Rob once called my “don’t-fuck-with-me look.”

My palms are dry. Portfolio ready. I’ve rehearsed this pitch in the mirror, in the shower, on the train. I know it’s good.

But the moment I step into the boardroom, I know I’m not ready for him.

He stands at the head of the table like he owns the oxygen in the room. Which, technically, he does—Everhart Resorts, Everhart Investments, Everhart Tech. Alpha. Late thirties. Sun-warmed skin. Dark eyes. A suit tailored to sin.

I recognize him from the press features: Wolfe Everhart. Aspen house. Climbing hobby. Too many foundation grants are suspect, not enough authenticity to be trusted.

His eyes meet mine.

My body locks.

Not from attraction. Not even recognition. It’s something more profound, chemical. Uncontrolled. My glands flare behind my ears.

I have balm on. I’m wearing a double layer of scent-neutralizing powder under my wrists and along my neck. It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, his nostrils flare just slightly. Like he already knew.

“Miss Aldridge,” he says, his voice like suede and gravel, hand extended.

I shake it. Firm. Professional. No tremor.

He doesn’t let go right away.

I pull back.

My manager, Scott, launches into the intro. I follow. I’m good. No—I’m great. I walk them through the pitch: eco-forward interiors that evoke a sense of grounded luxury. Each room is a sanctuary. Every suite is a sensory experience.

Wolfe listens with his hands clasped under his chin. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t blink.

He stares like he’s imagining me naked in one of those rooms.

Halfway through the scent-map—yes, I had one made with a certified scentologist—he cuts in.

“Do you wear that lavender cedar blend every day?” he asks.

My mouth goes dry. “I—excuse me?”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, watching me like a predator. “Your balm. It’s lovely. Subtle. But I get a hint of Omega beneath it. You must have a strong natural profile to peek through that.”

The room freezes. Scott clears his throat. A marketing assistant coughs into her water.

I grip the table’s edge. “This is a professional setting.”

He smiles. “I’m being professional. I notice things. It’s what makes me good at my job.”

I pivot. Wrap up the pitch. Wrap it up fast.

As I pack my portfolio, Wolfe comes around the table. He steps too close. His scent hits me in a wave. Not just Alpha. Aggressive. Pine and leather and ozone. My knees almost buckle.

“You could do very well at Everhart,” he says softly. “If you ever want… mentorship.”

His hand touches my lower back.

I flinch and step away.

Then he grabs me.

Not hard. Not brutal. But possessive. A palm at my hip. His nose skims my neck like he’s scenting me—and my whole body locks in horror.

I shove him off, stumble into a chair, and when he comes forward again, I claw at his face, nails catching his jawline. Then I slap him, hard, across the mouth.

“Touch me again and I’ll scream this whole building down,” I hiss.

His eyes blaze more turned on than angry. But he steps back.

I don’t wait. I grab my bag and run.

The elevator is too slow.

My hands shake so hard that I drop my phone trying to unlock it. The mirrored walls show my reflection: wild-eyed, lips parted, like I’ve just come off a rollercoaster. Or gone into heat.

I catch my breath just as the screen lights up. Incoming call. Scott.

I answer. “I’m fine.”

His voice is clipped. “Wren… the Everhart project is off. Wolfe says you came on to him. He’s pulling the whole contract.”

I go still. “He what?”

“He’s spinning it. Saying you commented. Pressed your hand to his chest. The partners don’t want a lawsuit. They’re asking you to go home. HR will follow up.”

Silence.

“Wren?”

I end the call. I can’t speak. My mouth won’t form words.

Back in the apartment, everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright. Pancake watches from the counter, tail flicking. My palms are raw from gripping the elevator railing. Rob is already home.

“You got fired?” he says as soon as I close the door.

“Not fired—”

“But you will be. Jesus, Wren.” He runs a hand through his hair. “What happened?”

I try to explain. I tell him the truth. Every detail. His expression shifts from one of concern to one of coldness.

“You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that this Alpha billionaire—who had everything to lose—just assaulted you in a meeting room?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you didn’t… I don’t know… lean into it a little? Omegas don’t always realize—”

“Don’t say that.”

He throws his hands up. “You wear balm, but that doesn’t mean you’re not giving off signals. I know how you get when you’re stressed.”

“That is not what happened.”

He stares at me, like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or just stupid. “You’ve always had this thing, Wren. This… neediness. I try. I try to be enough, but it’s like you’re wired to crave something I can’t give.”

His voice breaks at the edge. Insecurity slips through.

“You think I don’t notice how you look at other men? How you always sleep on the edge of the bed?”

“Rob—you’re a Beta,” I say quietly. “You don’t understand.”

His mouth tightens. “Exactly. I don’t understand what it’s like living with someone who has to drug herself just to be normal.”

“I told you that the meds…”

“Enough about the fucking drugs, Wren!” he cuts me off.

“I told you from the start that my ex was a Beta. You convinced me that this wouldn’t be a problem, but you never miss the chance to remind me that I’m just a Beta in your eyes, huh?

You should have been with an Alpha from the start.

I can’t believe I didn’t listen to my mother when she told me this was going to be a problem. ”

The mention of his mother is like a slap to my face. I knew Rob’s entire family was made of Betas, and I knew for a fact that his mother had this notion that an Omega would be promiscuous and unfaithful and cheat on her precious son.

She was wrong. I thought he was on my side.

I’ve been nothing but faithful to Rob. How can he not see that?

“That was uncalled for,” I mutter, blinking my tears away.

“I can’t do this anymore, Wren. This isn’t working.”

No, no, no. “Please, Rob, let’s just talk about this…”

He completely ignores me. I watch as he picks up his bag, angrily huffing as he moves. Pancake bolts under the table.

The door slams.

I stand in the silence, shaking. Then the pain starts.

It’s not grief, not exactly. It’s lower. Deeper. A burning that starts between my hips and spreads like fire through my veins.

My skin goes hot. My breasts ache. My thighs clench.

“Oh no,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”

I stumble to the mirror. My pupils are blown wide. My lips are flushed.

My scent balm bottle is empty on the counter. My emergency vial is in my purse. Gone. My hand trembles as I open the medicine cabinet.

Only three pills left.

I’ve taken suppressants daily since I was fourteen. Since the first time I went into heat during finals week and cried in the school nurse’s office for four hours.

My father called it hysterics. Said Omegas in his pack learned discipline.

That night, he took me to Hazel and Vine. Miss Thea didn’t ask questions, just handed over a bottle of amber pills and a tea that tasted like wilted roses. I’ve never missed a dose since.

Until now.

I swallow one, force it down with a shaky sip of tap water.

But it’s too late.

The wave hits. My body screams. I drop to my knees, forehead against the cool tile. My thighs are soaked. Slick pools between them, viscous and humiliating. My stomach cramps. My core pulses, desperate and empty.

“Help,” I whisper.

I call Rob. Voicemail.

I try again. And again.

“Please.”

No answer.

I consider 911. But what would I even say? That I’m having a heat spiral? That my boyfriend touched me and my scent receptors exploded?

I open my phone. Google: “Emergency heat suppressant doesn’t work.” The top result is a clinical blog from another Omega.

If nothing works… climaxing can sometimes reset the spiral.

My hand shakes so badly I nearly drop the phone.

My body is aching for physical contact. Not someone—not that Alpha, not Rob—but relief. Release.

The drawer beside the bed holds my vibrator. I’ve used it before, of course. Quick, practical, empty. But never like this. Never when I’m gasping, crying, pressing my hand between my legs like I might die if I don’t.

I grab it.

Crawl into the bathroom.

Back against the wall. Cool tile. My body is slick and desperate. I push my underwear aside, legs trembling as I slide the vibrator against my aching clit. It’s already wet. Too wet. The moment it touches me, I burst into tears.

I don’t want this.

But I need it.

I close my eyes. Try to block everything out—the boardroom, the betrayal, Rob’s voice calling me needy.

I picture pine trees. Fog. A growl in the darkness.

My thighs quake.

And I let go.