Knot Her Shot (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 2)

Chapter 1

chapter

one

This is fine.

Nothing to see here.

Grunting, I lean back and tug on the enormous canvas bag of coffee beans blocking our aisle-way. The sack inches across the floor of Proper Coffee while I stagger backward, using all of my strength to pull it around the bar.

Good Lord.

Is it time to go home yet?

Nope. It’s not even eight a.m. And everyone is staring at me.

Fantastic.

My manager is a young beta guy who almost never looks up from his TikTok feed. His thumb rolls over the screen hovering under his hooked nose. His voice sounds bored. “You good, Remi?”

Me?

Oh, I’m great.

My hands are raw from towing big canvas bags, and my fingers are numb from the weight of the latest one. Not to mention the pinch in my lower back. Or the fact that I haven’t taken a full breath in about eight minutes.

“Yep,” I pant, yanking harder. “All.” Tug. “Good.” Tug.

You know, given how often I conceal the truth, I really am an appallingly bad liar. How does anyone believe me? I wonder as I straighten and catch my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the espresso machine.

Staring at my face, all I see are fibs. In the layer of concealer caked under my eyes; see,I’m not tired. In the cream blush blended into my too-sharp cheekbones; look,I’m glowing with happiness.

None of it is honest, but the smile on my lips is particularly egregious. Slicked with some sort of tingly lip-plumping gloss. Wide, white, and positively thrumming with dopey doe-eyed optimism.

Pretty, though.

Just like the apartment I left before dawn, I’m a collection of cleverly disguised shabbiness. Pink paint smoothed over the craggy walls. Jars of fake flowers to cover water-rings on my second-hand furniture. Scented candles to mask the slight sourness of mildew. Thin curtains and bright sunlight to fill the cracks in the ceiling.

If no one ever looks too closely, I look nice, too.

An innocent, big-eyed, fine-figured omega. Whistles on the street, leering eyes across the counter at the coffee shop, phone numbers inked into receipts and drink sleeves, and—in one especially audacious case—my own wrist.

Which is why I now have on the baggiest joggers I could find in my size and an old hoodie that swallows me whole. Wouldn’t want anyone to, you know, see me. And heaven forbid someone catches a whiff of my omega-ness under the layers of de-scenter I spritz on each morning.

I usually wear a hat, too, but that fell off somewhere back by the storage closet. And I think I might just leave it there.

Not that I’m too exhausted to go grab it.

Which is another lie.

Put it on my tab, universe.

The sunshine slantingthrough the shop’s front window shifts from soft morning light to a harsh afternoon glare. The extra sun helps the small brick space’s overall aesthetic, but it hurts my eyes a bit. Omegas tend to prefer softer lighting and dim rooms.

We used to have curtains—but they were removed when the shop came under new management. Along with the hand-made pastries I used to bake in the back; the comfy armchairs people used for reading; and the previous shift leader—an eighty-year-old grandma called Nan.

Apparently, this new company has no interest in anything soft or homey. Even grannies.

I’m still sad about losing my baking outlet. Aside from the occasional batch of cookies, my kitchen at home is too small to make anything worthwhile. After four years here, I had gotten used to using Proper Coffee’s industrial kitchen for my more ambitious experiments.

Now, that space is used for storing the shrink-wrapped baked goods that come in on a truck every other Thursday.

I may not have any formal education, but I’m not stupid. I can see the writing on the wall. And when a group of suited-up alphas comes waltzing in, each of them squinting around the room and tapping at tablets, my stomach sinks. They’re here more and more, lately, which means they must not be happy with the way their investment is working out.

The men march right past the counter, heading to the back of the shop. I make a face at the latte I’m preparing, silently thanking the Lord that this place still uses decent industrial scent-neutralizers, so I don’t have to smell any of their alpha stink. Or worry about any of them scenting me.

It’s never been an issue before, but it’s become a problem lately. Ever since I had yet another solo heat over Thanksgiving, my hormones have gone from unpleasantly insistent to downright demanding.

I know I’m only twenty-four, and everything, but I think my biological clock may be broken. Because its alarm has been blaring at me for months, a shrill reminder that I need things no one is giving me.

“Hey, sexy!”

I jump, whirling and pressing a hand over my thrumming heart. When I see it’s my best friend, Meg, grinning at me from the other side of the counter, I shake my head.

We used to have a bell on the door to prevent this sort of thing. Guess that’s not necessary, either.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, whispering and glancing at the back door. “I’m working!”

Lord, if one of these uptight alphas sees me goofing off and fires me, I’ll truly be hopeless. It hasn’t been easy, being an omega on my own, with no access to education and no family support. If I lose my income, I’ll be right back in the same group-home situation I came from.

Meg tilts her head, sending her kitschy orange-heart sunglasses listing to the left. Her blonde brows snap into a frown. “It’s Saturday. You’re coming over for dinner, right?”

Oh. Right.

Above the mirrors, our clock tells me it’s well past four. I’ve been here since five a.m. and haven’t eaten a single bite of food. Maybe my stomach’s seething has less to do with my agitation and more to do with not eating.

Also, I was supposed to be off at two.

It would have been nice if the manager had noticed.

I untie the plain black apron tied over my baggy clothes and start to slip out of my hoodie, too. It’s big enough to tent me, which is exactly why I’ve always loved it. Underneath, though, I’m dressed for an afternoon at Meg’s place.

Calling it a “house” is like calling the Mona Lisa “a painting.” Really, it’s more of an estate. Much too modern and masculine for my taste, but still something a magazine could easily feature on its cover.

Which makes sense, since all of the alphas who live there have, in fact, been on magazine covers.

It’s easy to forget Meg is sort of famous now. Aside from being beautiful, she doesn’t even look the part. Currently, she has on a simple black bikini with a strapless romper over the top. And even though she’s the center of the most famous pack in professional sports, she’s still the exact same person she’s always been.

She picks up the hoodie with her thumb and forefinger, making a face at it. “What, were they out of car covers?” Her eyes light up. “Or did a guy leave this at your place?”

I almost laugh. Ironically, I spend most nights snuggling with that old sweatshirt because there isn’t anyone around to witness it.

I am surprised Meg’s never noticed, though. I’ve had it for years.

To be fair, I used to be fanatical about hiding it. My omega instincts insisted we kept it tucked away in whatever makeshift nest we used that year. But lately, wearing it to work has been the only way I feel safe here.

“It’s mine,” I fib, adjusting the frilled strap of my eyelet tankini top with a shrug. “I… found it.”

The second part is not technically untrue. I did find it one morning, sitting outside my door at the group home I used to live in. Meg probably doesn’t need to know where it came from.

Ever since she found her pack, she’s become obsessed with finding one for me, too. Any mention of alphas—even if they’re ones who no longer know I exist—sends her into matchmaking mode.

I’ve lost track of how many times she’s tried to parade me in front of her alphas’ football team. Before, I might have let her. But ever since I started feeling so jumpy and needy…

Geez.

I can’t breathe just thinking about being alone with some random pro-athlete alpha.

Meg narrows her blue eyes, bending forward to skim her button nose over the hoodie’s hem. I squash a beat of smugness, knowing she won’t get anything other than my scent. Any other smells wore off a long time ago. With a sigh, my best friend sets the sweatshirt aside, already bored.

One of her alphas must reach out to her through their bond. Probably Declan, if the way she rolls her eyes is any indication. She’d never dare roll her eyes at her pack’s leader, Ronan.

Watching her have her internal argument, I can’t help but smile. It’s strange; while I know I definitely want what Meg has, I can’t begrudge her any of it. She’s the only family I have, and I want all of this happiness for her.

I just want to cry at the same time.

The feeling isn’t new, for me. I spent years in government care, watching whichever friends I managed to make find their forever families. No one ever wanted to keep me, but I still tried to be happy for the ones who were chosen.

My best friend reads my face, her own scrunching with concern. “Are you okay? You look worn out.”

Really, I haven’t slept through the night in months. My last heat left my nerves a frazzled mess. And I’m beginning to wish I could avoid the rumpled mini-nest I made for myself in the bottom of my closet.

I force a bright smile. “Mmhmm, fine!”

Meg’s brows drop into an unimpressed glower. “Remi. C’mon.”

Hey, I told you; I’m a terrible liar.

“Seriously,” I insist, doubling down, “I’m good! Let’s get going before anyone notices I’m leaving.”

Meg narrows her eyes, pissed. “Are they still being dicks? You know we can get you another job, Remi. Anything you want. You don’t have to come here anymore.”

Irrational panic rises inside of me. I know she’s right, but I also know that this is the only place in the world that’s been consistent for me.

I can tough it out. After all, it isn’t as if I have anything else going on.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell Meg, bending to gather my things from behind the counter. I tap at the iPad there, punching out and accepting all sixteen dollars of tips I earned that day.

Thrilling.

“Declan’s making dinner,” Meg mutters, looping her arm through mine. “So I hope you’re not too hungry.”

I herd her toward the door, feeling antsy. I’ve got to get out of here. “Who’s driving?”

She knows I don’t have a car. And I know she rarely chauffeurs herself these days. A peachy blush warms her face. “Ronan’s waiting in the Rolls.”

“Don’t you mean ‘Daddy?’” I tease.

She snorts her denial. “No.”

So, I may be a liar.

But aren’t we all?