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

Chapter 39

chapter

thirty-nine

Remi is perfect.

It’s a nightmare.

She floats around our kitchen like she was born to be there—an angel flitting between clouds, pulling heavenly baked goods out of thin air. So far, this week, she’s made bread, brownies, scones, and cupcakes. They all look and smell incredible; although, nothing smells quite as delicious as her.

It isn’t just her kitchen prowess. It’s the way she moves. The sway of her perfectly pleated skirts, a ladylike turn of her heel. She’s polished and pretty.

Perfection.

And I can’t touch her.

There’s one exception. Every morning, I bring her a latte in bed, and she lets me brush her hair back. I ask her what she’s planning to do that day and tell her to behave. She says, “Yes, Sir.” And I walk out of there with a throbbing knot and her pilfered panties in my pocket.

Because—yes, this omega is so perfect, she now leaves me her panties.

Without making a fuss or saying a single word to embarrass me, she simply began leaving a different pair of folded, silk panties out with my dinner note each night.

She must know what I do with them. She saw me do it. Yet, every day, I find a new offering.

I’ve been trying to make my own in return. Starting with making more of an effort to work from home when I can. Now, the kitchen table is covered in a layer of paperwork while I sit in one of the newly-acquired chairs, watching her.

She’s in a light purple sundress today—one with a proper pleated skirt and a thin belt at her waist. Her hair hangs loose, the black curls swinging down her back while she dips into the oven and produces a tray of muffins.

An expert, she angles the pan just so to check the edges, gliding a toothpick into the center of the least-browned pastry. She hums to herself while she works, the quiet strains of some pop song. It seems oddly upbeat, given the burned-honey aroma in here.

Remi only smells stressed when she has to be alone in a room with me. As soon as Damon swoops into the kitchen, wearing a red pair of his silky briefs and nothing else, she smiles and turns sweeter.

He still frowns at her, sensing the distress lingering in the air. Before he can open his mouth, though, the cunning little omega stretches up onto her tiptoes and presses her plump, pink mouth over his.

Damon groans, instantly putting his hands all over her. One grabs a fistful of her skirt, wrinkling it. I feel a vein throb in my forehead.

“You look so pretty, sweetness,” he tells her, all soft. He rubs his cheek against hers until she beams. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

Yes. She really is.

And she hates me.

Cassian comes in next, carrying a book in one hand and his phone in the other. Now that Remi’s here, he’s shirtless all the time, too. Much more than he ever was before. Though, maybe she likes it that way.

I wouldn’t know. Because of that whole hating-me situation.

Remi leans around Damon’s bicep to smile at my brother, her blue eyes alight. “Hi, Bear!”

I’ve never seen Cass grin so much. His face stretches into a wide smile while he bends to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Butterfly. I brought you something.”

He hands her the book in his hand. I see he has tabs in it, marking places he wanted to share with her. That notion might make me happy for him if I weren’t currently dying of envy.

Remi’s expression glows while she smirks. “So, funny story…” She trails off, leaning over the island to pick up a different book. She hands it to him. “I got this for you.”

Cassian blinks at the gift before lunging for our omega; sweeping her up onto the counter and stepping between her legs. She giggles and squeals, the sound muffled when he mashes his mouth over hers.

When he’s done mauling her, he presses his face into her neck. She pets his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world and holds her other hand out for Damon.

“I have a treat for you, too,” she tells him.

D instantly perks up, sliding in beside them. “A treat?”

She nods, gesturing to the pan of fresh muffins. “They’re your favorite.”

Damon pounces on the pan, popping two of the perfectly formed banana-walnut muffins out of the silicone baking sheet.

Did she bring that thing here with her? She had no nesting supplies, but packed a muffin pan? I almost smile at the thought, until I remember that I still haven’t been invited into her nest.

Have the others?

What will happen during her heat?

Omegas need their pack alphas there above all else during heats. That’s a well-known fact; but I’ve never looked into what happens when the omega has rejected that alpha. I, stupidly, never thought I would need to know that.

I assumed our scent-sensitivity would work all of this out. But that isn’t happening, is it?

We can’t help our attraction, but there’s no connection. Most days, she doesn’t even meet my eyes. I don’t think I’ve even seen her wearing a T-shirt, yet. It’s like she knows when I’ll be around and goes out of her way to make herself into a version of herself she thinks I’ll find the most palatable.

Could that be a pack leader thing? Do I intimidate her?

A depraved part of me wants to. Her shy sweetness radiates natural submission—and my baser urges shove at me, telling me to find out how deep that deference goes.

But, in the moments when I have enough blood in my brain for it to fucking work, I know none of this is good. She isn’t being herself. She’s still frightened of me. No matter how submissive that makes her, it isn’t right.

Besides, true submission is earned through trust. And the way her scent turns bitter and her fingers flinch at my proximity screams her discomfort.

She doesn’t trust me—with her body or her heart.

I don’t blame her.

But I think it may be time to do something drastic.