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

Chapter 29

chapter

twenty-nine

Didyou know that being incurably horny makes cardio a hell of a lot easier?

Just something I learned during my home workout this morning, after waking up to an upstairs hallway that was absolutely soaked in the scent of honey-drenched sex.

Tossing a set of thirty-pound free weights onto the rubber mat on the floor of our converted garage, I remind myself that I have a plan here. I want Remi to know how much she means to me—I want to know how much she means to me—before we go there.

I tell myself this is normal. Google even said so. Packs and bonds develop at different speeds.

And Cassian got a ten-year head start. The bastard.

I’m considering another twenty minutes on the treadmill when he comes shuffling into the gym. For the first time in a long-ass time, there isn’t a scowl on his face. In fact, one might even call that a smile. Sort of.

It strikes me that this is an opportunity. It’s been years since we talked as much as we have in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe I can keep the momentum going.

“I’ve never been prouder than I am in this moment,” I joke, gesturing at the nail marks visible under his gray tank top. “So our girl’s a scratcher, huh?”

I’m expecting some version of “fuck all the way off, Damon,” but instead Cassian winces.

Uh oh.

Considering I can’t remember the last time he even talked to a girl, there’s a chance he might have had some stamina issues.

“What?” I ask, pausing at the look on his face. “Were you rusty?”

His cringe stretches into a grimace. I wipe a towel over my forehead and drop onto the weight bench, giving him my undivided attention, along with a shrug I hope looks casual. “You can tell me. I won’t be a dick. Just this once.”

He lets out a deep breath, hanging his head back to mutter at the ceiling. “I cannot believe I’m doing this shit.” He rolls his head forward and his shoulders back. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Oh, fuck yeah. “I’m listening.”

His face falls into his familiar frown, but he lays out his offer anyway, snapping in his no-nonsense way. “I’ll teach you all about Remi if you teach me all about sex.”

I blink. Then blink again. “Oh-kay…”

“We can trade information,” he goes on. “Since you don’t know anything about her yet, and I don’t know anything about fucking or knotting omegas. Or… anyone.”

My eyes bug out. “You don’t—You didn’t?—”

“Not until last night,” he grits. “And she’s happy. Very happy. But she’s also the sweetest fucking thing, and I know she wouldn’t necessarily tell me if she wasn’t happy, so I need to learn… everything.”

My mouth drops open. “So. Wait. Wait. This whole time, you were?—”

“Yes,” he grinds out, losing his patience. “Jesus. Do you want to trade or not?”

I picture us trading tips. A smile stretches over my face. I reach behind myself and hand him one of the weights I was using. I know from experience—sometimes, when you have to humiliate yourself by admitting you need help, it’s easier when you have something else to pretend to do.

It works. He sits opposite me and starts doing curls. I watch the way he takes a deep breath and holds it for a second, feeling a pang of sympathy for him.

All this time, my random hook-ups and the bits of connection they provided were the only way I stayed sane. But Cass has been totally alone. More alone than I realized.

After a second, he blows out a sigh and nods at me, determination stealing his gaze.

Because he’s tough as fuck. The kind of guy I’ve always appreciated having on my team.

So I do my best not to let my shit-eating grin show as I settle in. “Okay, lesson one—wait. How long is your tongue?”

“So, these people just… bake?”

Remi sits next to me on the couch, nodding with big golden-blue eyes that reflect late afternoon sunshine back at me. “In the tent.”

“They bake in a tent,” I repeat, trying to get a handle on her favorite Netflix binge. “They bake in a tent, and they’re all British?”

“No,” she corrects, “They all live in the UK. They can be from all over.”

I squint at the white tent on the screen, the rows of pastel mini-kitchens set up inside of it. “And they… try to eat all of the desserts?”

Her giggle has become my favorite sound in the world. Whether I’m kissing her neck, twirling her around in her skirts, or tackling her into the couch every evening. That one little laugh sets my world right-side up.

“They are judged on how well they bake things,” she explains. A thought crosses over her face, a crease forming between her brows. She picks up the AppleTV remote and hands it to me.

I hate the phony smile she pastes onto her face. “Let’s watch what you want to watch,” she suggests, just a bit too bright to be believable. “I’ve…been here all day.”

She does that. The small white lies. Always trying to please us instead of telling us what she wants or likes.

I swear, I almost had to get an interrogation lamp out to get her to admit she doesn’t eat pepperoni. And the way she refused to give me her size so I could buy her a new jersey for our game this weekend was nothing short of exasperating.

But then, I just keep thinking: how scared must she be to feel like she has to put up this front all the time? And how do I prove she never has anything to be afraid of, as long as I’m around?

Reaching over, I grab her waist and lift her right on top of me. “Um, I don’t think so, sweetness. I was promised British tent baking”—I hit play—“Let’s fucking do this.”

I’m rewarded with another giggle as she snuggles into my bare chest. At Cassian’s very growly—very bear-like—insistence, I’ve been wearing sweats around the house. For now. But I draw the line at shirts.

I don’t know what kind of weird chivalrous shit he’s playing at, anyway. As if I don’t hear the two of them going at it every night. As if I don’t use the sounds of her gorgeous moans and mind-shattering whines to stroke my cock next door.

So far, Remi and I have taken things slow. That’s new for me. Which is why I think it’s important.

This is my omega. I want her to know how I feel about her before we take things further than they’ve gone.

Of course, I’d never let that stop me from giving her whatever she needs.

Cassian and I have been taking turns sleeping in that stupid guest room with her. The bed really isn’t big enough for one alpha, let alone two. I barely fit on the thing with Remi wrapped into my side, so I have no idea how Beastly is doing that shit. Unless he just has her sleep directly on top of him, which might not be such a bad idea…

Remi shifts, crossing her forearms over my chest and propping her pointed chin on one to cast me a curious look. “What are you thinking about, Trouble?”

Oh. My scent is thicker, and she can tell. Her honey-cake lusciousness winds into the autumn spices and makes my mouth water as I toss her a wicked grin. “Your bed, baby.”

She starts to smile back, but a dark thought streaks through her light eyes. She tucks her face behind the barrier of her folded arms, hiding the lower half of it from me.

Fucking Smith.

I thought Cassian would rip his arms off when we found out our pack alpha hadn’t put our omega in her suite. And, worse, he locked her out of it.

It took almost an hour and every ounce of his pack leader power to subdue both us long enough to explain. Some bullshit about the room needing new floor varnish and fumes or whatever. He promised it would be ready soon, and then we made his insufferable ass clear out space in the adjacent guest room to give Remi some semblance of a nest.

The extra room is too big to be a proper one. And it doesn’t even have a mattress. Cass and I have already decided that if the suite isn’t ready by this weekend, we’ll just turn one of our bedrooms into her room and convert a walk-in closet.

Not having a permanent space of her own is clearly stressing her out. Almost as much as having a pack alpha who hasn’t even touched her yet.

This isn’t good for her. I may not be an omega expert, but I’ve downloaded four audiobooks about caring for our girl in the last week. And all of them stress the importance of alphas offering affection, reassurance, and connection.

So sign me up for British tent baking.

For a few moments, she watches the show while I watch her. She looks tired; the shadows under her eyes cleverly concealed with makeup.

She’s an expert at looking perfectly put-together, but I want her to feel like she can be herself here. What will it take to get her to stop wearing foundation and heels around the house? That bun doesn’t look comfortable either, pulling her hair back so tightly.

Remi’s phone vibrates. She holds it under my chin and reads the message, humming lightly. “Meg.”

I haven’t met her best friend, but I feel like I have. She talks about her so often that I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.

Smoothing my hand over her head, I loosen the hair pins there and start to work my fingers through her curls, purring for her. “Did you want to bring her with you this weekend? Our box has a ton of room, and no one ever uses it. She could bring her alphas.”

Remi gives a delicate shiver. “Smith would have a fit,” she mutters.

“He won’t be there.” I say the words to reassure her, but they come out much more bitter than I intended.

Our omega’s eyes flicker, processing what I just said. For a second, some steely look passes through them. It’s gone in a blink, and when she bites her lip and glances down at her phone, I know she really wants to take my offer.

“I’ll talk to Big Hoss and text Meg for you,” I decide, petting her silky black hair. “Right now, you only have two jobs.”

She arches one thin brow and half-smiles. “And what are those?”

I snuggle her securely, nuzzling my cheek into her forehead to scent-mark her. “To relax,” I whisper. “And tell me what the hell a crumpet is.”