Knot Her Alpha (Pack Alphas of Pinecrest Harbor #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Emily

As I reach my truck in the pre-dawn light, I know something’s wrong. One corner of my toolbox, bolted to the bed of my truck, curls upward where someone wedged a crowbar under it and forced it open.

I quicken my steps and plant one booted foot onto the rear tire to vault over the side. I come down heavily in the back of my truck, nothing left out in the open for a casual thief to run off with. But as I kneel in front of my toolbox and spot the broken lock, I realize I wasn’t cautious enough.

The box should be crowded with metal, two drills, and a framing nailer I’ve babied for years, but this morning, it sits empty. Just an oily rag and a socket wrench rolling around where thousands of dollars’ worth of tools should be.

My jaw tightens. Someone at the docks had the guts, or the desperation, to jimmy my toolbox after I left it overnight.

I’d stayed here late last night, doing one last check on the water taxi loading area, double-checking that the lumber tarps were tight and the generators chained. By the time I finished and locked up, I was too tired to bother driving home.

So, I took advantage of the room the Misty Pines owners keep on reserve at the hotel near the docks and crashed there for the night, figuring Pinecrest was safe enough to leave my truck for a few hours.

Guess not.

I slam the lid harder than I mean to, the sound echoing across the quiet, predawn street.

My brain buzzes with calculations of what it will cost to replace, how much is in my bank account, and whether this will delay work for the day.

The Misty Pines Resort has had enough setbacks.

Nathaniel already took a risk in hiring my crew for a build this size. I can’t give him a reason to regret it.

I can’t let them down.

The battered cat carrier on the passenger floor rattles as I climb behind the wheel, and my stomach lurches. It’s been eight months, and I still can’t bring myself to haul it to the shelter. Every time I touch it, I see Auren’s face the day we brought Mixie home, and my fingers go numb.

When Auren left, he took Mixie with him. At the time, he said I could still come to visit and take our cat for weekend visits. But as with every other promise out of his pretty little mouth, it turned out to be a lie, too.

I should’ve learned my lesson then. Don’t trust, don’t share, don’t leave anything important where someone else can grab it.

My phone buzzes, and when I pull it from my pocket, I find a notification on the screen for a photo Auren tagged me in.

Before I can stop myself, I swipe to open it, and his beautiful image fills the screen, wrapped up in the plum-purple scarf I spent weeks crocheting after he went to bed so it would be ready when the first frost of the year arrived.

The caption reads:

Done with summer. Can’t wait for fall.

In the photo, his lush mouth tilts up in that coy way he used to save for me, and heat spikes in my belly before it sours. I need to block him. Same as I need to donate the cat carrier. Neither of them are coming back.

With a curse, I toss the phone into the cupholder and put my truck into gear. The radio plays static as I drive, the volume set to one tick above mute. Out the window, the trees whip by, lush and overgrown, shadows deep under their canopies, alive with the hum of summer insects.

Pinecrest’s main drag wakes with the rising sun, the heat of the day already promising another scorcher.

I roll past the bakery, its doors open for business, and consider stopping to pick up donuts for the construction crew.

They’ve been putting in hard work to bring our project on Misty Pines Island back on track.

But then I catch sight of the bus stop bench where Auren used to wait for me with iced coffee after work, and I keep driving.

I tap the steering wheel, count the seconds, and resist the urge to check my phone when it buzzes in the cup holder.

It better not be another notification that Auren tagged me in.

More likely, it’s an email from the Project Manager, Nathaniel, with the daily check-in.

He likes his lists as much as I do, and we touch base every morning to ensure we’re on the same page.

Or, god forbid, it’s the architect, Dominic, proposing another change to the Homestead.

If it is, I’m going to wring his neck. The man can’t stop picking at the plan.

The Misty Pines pack is small, and their resort project is a huge undertaking. I know it’s important to them. It’s important to me, too. But when I don’t want to hug them and promise it will all work out, I want to throttle them.

The light ahead turns yellow, and I flick the turn signal, though nobody waits behind me, taking the right as the light shifts to red.

By the time I arrive at Pinecrest Pawn, my jaw hurts from clenching.

The stretch of road in front of it sits empty, and I pull my truck over, angling the wheels hard toward the curb before I kill the engine.

The sudden silence leaves my ears ringing, and I miss the white noise that at least offered a little company.

I eye the cat carrier again. I should at least move it to the backseat, though no one sits up front with me anymore. But at least it wouldn’t be a constant reminder. It’s been long enough now. I need to move on.

The neon light in the pawn shop’s window comes on, announcing it’s open fifteen minutes early.

Leaving the carrier where it sits, I hop out of my truck and stride across the sidewalk to the front door.

When I step inside, the scent hits me, dusty and sour.

Every surface is packed with guitars missing strings, a blender from the ’80s, and box fans stacked three high, still dirty from last summer’s heat wave.

The man behind the counter looks up, down, and up again. He doesn’t bother to hide his surprise at my early-morning appearance.

“Morning,” he says, a little too chipper. “Searching for anything special, sweetheart?”

I cock a brow at him and step up to the counter, towering over him by at least five inches. “I’m looking for a set of brushless drills. Custom etched on the handles with an ‘E.W.’ and a framing nailer, same initials. Anything come in last night?”

He leans forward, pulling a greasy clipboard out of the drawer. “Tools come and go, but the boss logs anything with engraving. Let me check.”

“Thanks.” I scan the shop while he flips through the sheets.

A ceramic frog on the register brings a smile to my face. Cracks around the mouth show where it’s been glued back together, and a coin slot on its back asks for tips. I used to have a frog like that, before my dad decided it was too juvenile for a girl who could already out-bench-press him.

The man flips to the last page and shakes his head. “Nothing matches. If I come across anything, I’ll keep you in mind.”

“Thanks.” I pull a business card from my pocket. “If anyone comes by with them, I’d be thankful if you recover them. No questions asked.”

The bell over the door gives a single, lonely jingle as I head back out.

As I climb into my truck, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, the sunlight reflecting on my silver hair. Auren used to demand I dye it, saying it made me look old, but now I don’t bother. People in the construction industry treat me with more respect with silver hair, anyway.

I drive to the next shop, Harbor Street Exchange, and park in front of a mural of orca whales and other sea creatures.

The clock on the dash reads six o’ five. Which still leaves me twenty-five minutes to return to the docks and meet the rest of my crew to help load the water taxi and head to the job site.

Since I can still see the water from here, that’s plenty of time.

I wipe my boots on the mat set inside the door, though it won’t change anything. A patchwork of duct tape over the old linoleum gives the floor a perpetual sticky quality, and every square foot is jam-packed with items that once had value and the shop owner hopes will still hold worth for someone.

The air holds the ghosts of old books and tobacco, the kind not sold anymore, and I breathe it in before stepping past the register. The owner sits in his usual spot, sleeves rolled up and elbows propped on the counter, balancing a mug and a crossword puzzle on the dusty glass below.

He gives me a grunt of acknowledgment. “Morning, Em. How’s life treating you?”

“Could be better.” I scan the shelves to the left, where the power tools get lumped in with gardening junk and craft supplies. “You get any power tools walking through your door last night?”

He scratches the back of his head, eyes flicking down to the ledger under the crossword. “Few yard sale scraps, nothing you’d want. Anything specific you’re looking for?”

I lean on the counter. “Couple of drills and a framing nailer. Marked with my initials. Walked off my truck last night, down at the docks.”

Mr. Gregory winces and shakes his head. “If they turn up, I’ll buy them back and give you a call.”

I dip my head at him. “Thank you.”

He waves, already drifting back into his puzzle, but as I pull open the door, he calls out, “Take care, Em.”

I wave as I leave.

The next pawn shop is closer to the water, squeezed in between a paint supply store and the print shop where my first paycheck went to buy business cards that have been handed out to more pawn shop owners than business connections.

The bell over the door clangs loud enough to reach the back room, and the shop is cooler, less crowded than the first two. A glass case displays hunting knives, fishing poles hang from the walls, and a canoe is propped up in the corner.

Halfway to the register, I hear a man’s voice, edged with a frustration I know too well. He’s trying to negotiate with the owner, who has a reputation for being picky about what he takes.

I slow my steps so as not to crowd him.

“I’m telling you, it works,” the guy says, thumping a portable speaker on the counter. “You just have to jiggle the cord. It’s name brand.”

Unimpressed, the owner lifts it, turns it over, and shrugs. “Ten bucks.”

“It’s worth at least fifty,” the man argues, not sounding convincing.

I shift my weight, eyeing the name-brand watch, fishing reel, and a dented thermos also being bartered. The kind of stuff that’s expensive enough to not want to throw out, but also things people prefer to buy new, not second-hand.

The guy turns as I approach, and his sea-glass green eyes widen when they meet mine. In the space of a heartbeat, awareness passes between us, the kind of immediate assessment of threat and intent that happens between two Alphas.

He’s tall, but not my kind of tall. Lanky, awkward in the shoulders, still filling out in the way men do in their early twenties. His light-brown hair sticks up in wild curls, and a deep red flush climbs from his neck to his jaw as we stare at each other.

The shop owner clears his throat in annoyance, and the young Alpha startles, turning away from me. But after only a second, his gaze sneaks back, as if he can’t help himself.

Do I make him nervous? Female Alphas aren’t as prevalent as males, but we’re not exactly rare.

Then his pheromones reach me, and my pulse stutters, blood rushing to my cheeks.

For a second, the scent of salt and driftwood fills my senses, warm as if he’s been out in the sun and growing hotter by the second.

Not nerves, but something that hooks low in my belly with awareness.

I lock it down and force my own pheromones into neutral. Poor pup can’t control himself yet. No reason to overwhelm him with my own scent.

From the corner of my eye, I catch him sneaking another look at me, and his ragged breaths fill the air.

The Beta shop owner, oblivious to what the young Alpha’s pheromones are screaming, snaps, “You want the ten, or not?”

“Yeah,” the guy mutters, “sure. Whatever.”

He takes the money and gathers his things, movements jerky and rushed as the sting of embarrassment joins the other scents. The watch slips off the edge of the counter and clatters to the floor. Instinct tells me to step forward to help, but I stay put as he bends to snatch it up.

He scoops the rest of his pile into a faded green backpack, zips it shut, and bolts past me toward the door. He doesn’t look back, but the cloud of scent, almost electric now, follows him out into the morning air.

I wait a second before approaching the counter. The owner turns to me. “Morning. What can I do for you?”

I clear my throat, which is drier than it should be. “You have any power tools come in last night? Drills or a framing nailer, marked E.W.?”

His eyes crinkle at the edges. “No, just crap like that.” He gestures after the departed customer. “If you want to leave your number, I can give you a call if anything comes in.”

“Appreciate it.” I hand over a business card and head for the door.

Outside, the wind has picked up. I breathe in the salty breeze from the ocean, and sea-green eyes flash across my memory. My chest squeezes. I hope the young Alpha is okay. He seemed desperate for money.

If he’d stuck around, I could have directed him to the pawnshops further in town that would take his eclectic offerings. Could have found him some work on my crew, too, if he was willing to learn.

But he couldn’t be more than twenty-two.

Twenty-three at most. Still soft around the edges, muscles not yet settled into his frame.

The flush on his cheeks came not only from embarrassment but also from an attraction he didn’t understand how to handle.

I know the type. I used to be the type. Too young, too eager, too blind to realize when someone older was taking advantage.

No. I’m not getting pulled into that story again. Not with him. Not with anyone.

With a shake of my head, I climb back into the truck. Don’t need to be borrowing other people’s trouble when I have enough of my own to deal with.

I have enough time for one more pawnshop before I need to head for the docks.