Knot Her Catch (MVP: Most Valuable Pack #5)

Prologue

twelve years ago

“There’s nothing we can do.”

That’s not what I want to hear.

But, more importantly, it isn’t what my mother wants to hear.

She gasps, her crystal-blue eyes filling as she covers her mouth with both hands. “Doctor, this can’t be right!” she cries, flinging a nervous gesture at me. “Her perfume is foul .”

The doctor is an alpha. And a man. Somehow, that makes his grimace even more mortifying.

“I’m aware it’s not an… easy scent to work with?—”

“I want her hormones tested again,” Mom demands. “A full panel this time.”

With a sigh, the doctor spares me a pitying glance and softens his expression for my mother. Alphas are always doing that—she has the kind of damsel-in-distress looks that inspire others to swing into action and rescue her. Even bonded men who know she’s bonded, too.

“Mrs. Woods, I know this must be difficult for you,” he continues, reminding her they’ve run every test under the sun. Twice . All to unriddle my particular brand of shame.

Or, really, the worst of my shame. As far as my mother—and perfect older sister—are concerned, there’s plenty more where that came from.

The doctor’s words echo in my head. Mrs. Woods, I know this must be difficult for you.

Difficult for her ? I think. What about me ?

You know? The omega who oozes acid ?

Does nobody care about how I feel about spending the rest of my life alone?

I’m only fifteen. Surely there should be some sort of therapist here to break this news to me?

“Now, Bridget, we know you’ve always dreamed of having alphas and a pack to take you far, far away from your family, but it turns out you’re medically impossible to find attractive.”

When my mother sobs, I tune back in to the conversation swirling around me. “Please,” she begs. “There must be something . She can’t—she won’t find an alpha without proper perfume.”

She doesn’t say the reason I don’t have a prayer of attracting matches without a better scent, but she doesn’t need to. It dangles over us, sucking all the air out of the room.

Look at her. No one will want her like this .

And, well, is she wrong?

Sometimes I think karma must be real, because I’m pretty sure I’m my mother’s.

A little reminder from the universe for The Great Catherine Woods: She may be the most gorgeous omega in our country club, with the wealthiest husband, most popular friends, one successful alpha daughter, and looks to kill…

but no matter how well she curates the rest of her existence, she can’t fix me .

Too pale. Splotches of freckles. Flaming-red hair. Acne. Terrible posture. Rolls of softness I can’t get rid of, no matter how much she threatens me.

And now this.

Acidic perfume.

So astringent, apparently, the doctor dealing with me needs two face masks.

Subtle, right?

I’m not sure what Mom wants this dude to do. It’s not like he can control any of this. She should know that better than anyone; she’s spent years fighting an uphill battle against my looks, scent, and “unseemly” personality.

“Bridget can always mask her scent,” the smitten doctor goes on, patting Mom’s shoulder. “There are excellent de-scenters available these days. I’ll prescribe a prescription-strength one.”

Mom cries harder, shaking her head. “There’s really nothing else you can try?”

The doctor frowns in befuddlement, raking tired eyes over my body. His brows leap up as the world’s least original idea springs to mind.

“Has she tried losing weight?”