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

Chapter 38

chapter

thirty-eight

Sometimes,the only way to live without the things you want the most is to convince yourself that you didn’t really want them that much in the first place.

I’m an expert at it.

For years, I lied to myself about my little apartment. My tinier bedroom. The closet floor nest.

Because I didn’t want to let myself imagine this.

It’s adream.

Wrapped in the surreal dread of a nightmare.

Because it is perfect. But I don’t know where I am or how I got here.

Moving in a slow daze, I sit up on the huge, fluffy bed underneath me. Didn’t I go to sleep in the guest room? Crammed up against Damon?

Where is he? And why didn’t my alarm go off at five?

I don’t know how, but there’s sunlight streaming into this huge, rounded room. Too strong to be pre-dawn light.

The first thing I notice are the windows. There are eight—tall, narrow, and intricately arched, like something out of a cathedral. They fill the curved wall at my back, offering views of the front yard, backyard, and the horizon.

I’m still in the pack house, my brain peeps. That’s the new front walk I just had installed. And the pool repair supplies are piled out back.

Whichever room I’m now in must be at the very end of the house, because the view is beautiful. Treetops and golden light glowing through them. It filters into the bedroom, highlighting plush ivory linens surrounding me and the soft pink paint adorning the walls.

The rug on the floor provides color. It’s enormous, a pastel image of dozens of different blooms. I see that there’s a coordinating duvet folded into a neat rectangle at the end of the bed I apparently slept in.

It’s hard to say if it’s truly as large as it feels. With so much natural light reflecting off the crisp sheets, my eyes just catalog a sea of softness.

There’s also, I note, a canopy. Or the top part of one, anyway, flowing from the metal frame overhead and back down behind the white iron headboard.

Even without touching anything, I can tell whoever chose all of it selected the very best of the best. Silk thin enough for sunlight to slant through it. The thick, even pile of the rug. Hardwood floors that have been polished to a perfect shine. Someone even sourced molding for the doors and the ceiling to match the pretty windows.

It’s feminine and luxurious in a way I’ve only ever imagined. The more I look, the more I love it. Antique furniture that coordinates without matching. The engraved, scrolly mirror over the vanity. And—when I turn almost all the way around so I’m facing the doors again—a curved corner with three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

I think I’m hyperventilating. Did Cassian and Damon do this? If they did, will Smith be angry? And where are they?

This bed doesn’t have either of their scents and—after sleeping with both on my pillow each night—my Omega doesn’t like it. A whine spills out of my throat, echoing through the big room.

“Remi?”

I jump, squawking as my hands fly out to gather sheets over my nightgown.

Smith stands off to my left, leaning against the curved wall with both of his hands in the pockets of his pants. With all the natural light in here, his blond hair and neutral suit look especially polished and handsome.

Oh my God.

I missed work. I somehow ended up in a new room and my phone didn’t go off, and now I missed work, and Smith is here to fire me or ream me out, or tell me to pack my eight boxes and get out of his?—

“I made this for you,” he says, turning to the desk beside him and picking up… a silver breakfast tray.

My jaw drops.

With clipped footsteps, he brings it over to the bed and sets it on a nightstand within my reach. When I look down at, my jaw unhinges.

There’s a latte. And a flower.

Is it my birthday?

Do they even know my birthday?

No, to both, probably. Especially not this alpha.

I shrink back, overwhelmed by all of the things I don’t understand. Afraid this is some sort of trap. Or a test.

My voice wobbles. “Y-you didn’t have to do that. I can make your coffee before I leave in the mornings. And this room is—it’s too big for just me. I can go back to the guest room. D-did I sleepwalk in here or…?”

Smith frowns, the expression intimidating. “I carried you in here last night. This is the Omega Suite.”

He turns to scowl at the entire room. “It still isn’t finished,” he mutters. “I wanted it to be done before I gave it to you.”

I’m… shocked. Even though it makes perfect sense. Of course, this was all Smith. Cassian knows how much I love to read, but I can’t fathom him choosing luxury linens. And Damon may have style and taste, but he would never think of tiny details like crown molding or antique doorknobs to match the dresser’s hardware.

Smith raises his chin slightly, the muscles in his cut jaw flexing while he nods to the side. “Your bathroom is right in there. And the door beside it is your nest, little petal.”

I’m not sure if I like that nickname. On one hand, any term of endearment from this cold, distant alpha feels like a triumph. On the other, no matter what he calls me, I can’t stop hearing all of the things he once snarled at me instead.

“Some of us have shit we need to do. We don’t have all day to deal with your fucking incompetence.”

It’s hard to reconcile that cruel alpha with the cool, composed man in front of me.

Until I look a bit closer.

And see that the muscles in his jaw are ticking. The pulse in his throat throbs. And he appears to be gripping the insides of his suit pants.

He’s tightly-wound. It doesn’t surprise me, now that I see the level of perfectionism he’s capable of. No wonder he didn’t have it in him to do the whole house, if this is the sort of standard he sets for himself.

I’m not sure I like how much I understand that.

I’m not sure I want to admit that I’m exactly the same way.

Instead, I lean forward far enough to peer into the bathroom, past its open door. Just like the others, the portal is tall and broad enough for the alphas, made of solid wood, and carved to match the windows.

On the other side, I see an ensuite bathroom that looks more like a mini spa. Or perhaps something on one of my Pinterest boards.

For one, it’s pink. Blush quartz countertops and a trough sink with three brushed brass faucets. Pale pink paint with one feature wall covered in modern floral wallpaper. It takes a moment for me to realize it matches the rug in the bedroom exactly.

I do a double-take when I see that the chandeliers also match—both gold with glass bubbles. The bathroom version is a perfectly proportionate miniature of the big one.

Smith’s voice sounds quieter when he speaks again. “Your ensuite contains a walk-in closet, a separate room for a toilet.” His voice drops lower. “And a special nest entrance.”

My eyebrows jump. Meg’s nest has its own bathroom, which honestly sounds a bit overwhelming, in my opinion. It never occurred to me that I could have a traditionally-sized nest with its own special entrance to my bedroom’s ensuite.

Huh. I bite back a rueful smile. Not only is the alpha-hole a successful developer, he’s a good developer.

Smart, creative. Clearly too good at his job for his own good. Yet, somehow, he got over whatever hurdle prevented him from finishing the rest of the pack house in order to make this room perfect.

For me?

It might still be a test, I remind myself. He could be watching my reaction to see how I behave. If I’m grateful enough. Or worth all of this extravagance.

The problem is, I cannot currently access the instincts I need to please him. Because my Omega is irrationally angry about this scentless bed and my other two missing alphas.

When I blink up at Smith, the grooves around his mouth carve deeper. “What?” he demands. “What’s wrong?”

Great. Now I’ve made him angry. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to make him happy.

Everything inside of me coils low, hiding from the frustration on his face. The tightness pulling at his features gradually goes slack. He sighs, stepping closer.

“Remi, I—” He drops his chin, adjusting the monogrammed cuffs of his shirt before he clears his throat and raises his head. Our eyes lock, but there’s no command in his. For the first time ever, I can look at him without my insides going brittle.

“I would like to—I would like an opportunity to fix this. Starting with understanding you better.”

Is my mouth hanging wide open again?

Yep, my Omega chirps. It sure is.

“So, tell me,” he says, taking another step toward the bed. “What’s upsetting you? I want to fix it for you.”

My lips snap together as I try to swallow the hoarse lump rising in my throat. But he’s looking at me so intently, wanting to take care of me. Or at least, take care of this.

I force myself to speak. “The bed is so nice, but it doesn’t, um, smell right.”

If I weren’t ten seconds away from crying, I might think his face is sort of funny. His brows crouch low as he runs his eyes over the rumpled sheets behind me. And I can tell he hasn’t got the first clue what I’m talking about.

“It doesn’t smell right,” he repeats. “As in, you want new sheets? Different detergent?”

Lord help me, but this level of alpha cluelessness is actually sort of adorable. My lips twitch as I shake my head. “No. I mean, it doesn’t smell like you.”

He blinks. “Me?”

His incredulity steals my nerve. I bite my lower lip and sink back a bit. “Or Damon. Or Cassian.”

It’s supposed to be all three of you, knot-head.

You know, I tell my Omega. You really need to get this entitled attitude in check.

Bite me, she sniffs. Since, apparently, no one else around here is going to.

I watch as Smith processes this information, and his frown recedes. “Oh. Of course. Right.” Another uncomfortable half-cough. “How do we, ah, fix that?”

Part of me wants to groan, because this is painful. Another part just wants to grab him by his tie and yank him onto the mattress. Instead, a startled, disbelieving laugh trips out of me.

The second it happens, I start to panic. He’ll think I’m laughing at him. He’ll get angry. Will he take this room back?

But instead, his mouth curves up in the most handsome, wry half-smile I’ve ever seen. One of his thick blond brows arches.

“Am I funny to you, petal?”

I shake my head, trying my best to straighten out my face. “Nooooo, I just… Well, to answer your question, usually alphas sleep in an omega’s bed with them. Or they give the omega items that have their scent on them.”

Bless his heart, he actually looks around as if he’s going to magically find a basket of worn alpha clothing to hand me. “Right,” he mumbles, “That makes sense. All right.”

He turns back to me, frowning but also distinctly… not angry. Which is new. “What else?”

My mind spins, trying to decide where to begin and what he’s even asking for. Does he want some sort of list? Or a lesson on my designation? For some reason, both ideas make that coil in my center curl tighter, pulsing with hurt.

Smith watches me carefully and speaks before I have to. “No,” he says, quiet. “This isn’t right either. It shouldn’t be your responsibility to teach me. I’ll figure it out.”

The knot inside of me loosens a little. “Are you sure? I can?—”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re already doing too much. Which is something I need to talk to you about.” His dark eyes pierce mine. “Do you want to work?”

Do I…?

Who wants to work?

Then again, I guess some people do. Meg loves going into the office with Ronan. And I didn’t mind my job when it was just baking all day long.

Now that I’m here, though, with their amazing kitchen… It seems silly to ask him to reinstate my former position at Proper Coffee just to give me access to a decent oven.

Smith reads my expression, his own softening slightly. He lifts his hand and then pauses, halting himself for a long second before he reaches over and slowly smooths his palm over my loose curls, brushing some off of my face.

“You don’t have to go back there, Remi. Stay here. Keep making the house just the way you want it. Use that card I gave you to buy anything you want. And I mean that—anything.”

My brain conjures absurd images of dozens of things—outlandish stuff like yachts; and small things I’ve never had the heart to purchase for myself, like fancy headbands. He surely can’t mean anything.

Besides, there’s only one thing I really want. Or, need, rather.

Smith watches my eyes skirt toward the only closed door in the large, round room. “Especially that,” he growls, low. “Anything you need for your nest, you buy it. End of story.”

I try to ignore the stab of disappointment that hits me. We’re supposed to furnish our nest together, but he doesn’t know that. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

That would make sense. I can’t get him to come home for dinner; what are the odds he’s going to want to take a whole day to shop with me?

I’m guessing not great.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes, Sir.”

The hand resting in my hair flexes. I hear his sharp intake of breath, his scent spiking. Rich warmth fills the air, and my shoulders unwind, content to have one of their scents in my space.

His hand slowly slides off of me, bringing my attention to the pop of color tucked into his neutral suit’s breast pocket. Like his tie, it’s blush. But unlike the solid piece knotted at his throat, the pocket square looks like the one I noticed on him yesterday.

Patterned. Gingham, actually. Delicate white and pink checks, silky fabric. Much more cheerful than his typical, masculine accessories.

The fold is off, too. Instead of a simple square with crisp creases, this pocket square?—

—isn’t a pocket square.

Because it’s my missing panties.

And he’s wearing them as an accessory. Tucked into the front of his suit jacket where everyone will see them. Showing me off to the world, even though no one else will ever know what they are.

But I know.

And when I chance a glance up at him? I know that he knows that I know.

But what does it mean?

Smith gives nothing away. His eyes swirl, two whirlpools of dark heat. “Have a nice day, little petal,” he clips, walking toward the door. “Thanks for the pocket square.”