Her Knotty List (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 4)

I came to escape the soul-crushing dread and familial obligation.

I’m staying for the cinnamon rolls.

Or whatever the caterer is cooking up for this bonding ceremony because, damn. It smells great.

I probably don’t deserve so much as a piece of cake for what a shitty wedding guest I’ve been. I didn’t bring a gift; I didn’t RSVP. Hell, I’m technically not even invited.

It’s weird, being somewhere I wasn’t asked to be, against my will.

But leave it to my boss and his pack to utilize any means necessary to get my sorry ass in line.

Or attempt to, at least.

They’ve been trying to kick me into gear all season. Our hockey team, the Orlando Timberwolves, went to the playoffs for the last two years running. Now, with our other star forward and our goalie happily bonded with our team owner and their omega, this was supposed to be the season.

Since Smith Pierson took over, the team has run smoother than ever. We all make more money; our facilities are flawless. Their omega, Remi, bakes great muffins.

And they have me.

I’m supposed to be the game-changer. The one who turns the tides in our favor.

Instead, I’m the one fucking everything up.

The leaden weight of dread rolls through my middle again, along with a cringe-inducing jag of guilt. I hate that I’m the one ruining everyone’s season.

I hate the reason for it even more.

When it first happened, I thought there had to be a right way to tell people. I mean, surely, when they asked how my summer off had been, I wasn’t supposed to say, “It was bullshit; my mom died.”

I spent weeks mumbling my way through half-assed explanations and weird, stilted apologies. “Yeah, sorry—I can’t make it to that camping weekend after all. Turns out, I’ll be burying my mom.”

See?

Fucking dark, right?

But what the hell else do you say?

No, seriously. If anyone figures it out, let me know. Because I still haven’t.

Which is why I stopped telling people altogether.

Now, I’m less and less sure that complete honesty isn’t the best policy. Just rip the Band-Aid off and let the ugly wound show.

I tried that last week, though, and it didn’t exactly work in my favor. When Smith pulled me into his office to have a “talk” about “my future” and asked what the hell was wrong with me this season, I wound up blurting: “My mom died six months ago, my dad already has a new wife, and I’m supposed to show up for Christmas like all of this is normal.”

Without setting the tree on fire.

Or the house.

My mom’s house.

Jesus. Maybe I shouldn’t even be at this wedding. I’m pretty sure I have a permanent storm cloud hovering over my head. A stray bolt of lightning might hit the bride or something.

Emma.

That’s a cute-ass name. I’ve never met the woman, but I met her sister Lucy at a party last New Year’s. Where she perfumed and then got pushed into the pool.

Okay, okay.

I pushed her into the pool.

Not on purpose, of course. Lucy perfumed, and my body reacted. Saliva welled, my dick filled. I had to rear back and lock myself down before I could inhale, lunge forward, and sink my teeth into her.

But then… splash.

It was an honest-to-god accident, but I didn’t handle it particularly well. Partly because I’d been drinking all night, and partially due to the fact that my entire body felt like it’d been flipped inside out and dipped in a vat of squirming, life-altering urgency.

I didn’t even get a whiff of the girl’s scent. Just watching a shiver of arousal move through her, knowing she was about to perfume, was enough to turn me into a maniac.

So I kind of panicked. I just knew I had to do something—get out of there before I scented her and wound up truly losing my shit. I left the party before anyone could confront me, unable to shake the image of what Theo’s face would look like if he walked out of his house and caught me mauling his baby sister.

At first, I was in denial. Because, well, nothing happened, right? I didn’t scent her. Our skin didn’t touch.

I figured my Alpha just had a weird moment. Too many nights with puck bunnies drenched in fake-omega perfume had finally gone to his head, maybe.

But as weeks lapsed into a month, then two… I barely made it through the season without hunting Lucy down. I had to remind myself—over and over—that she was Theo’s little sister.

Off. Limits.

Because I couldn’t just tell one of my best friends that I wanted to court his sister…

Right?

Right. I don’t even have a pack. And then there’s, you know, my—admittedly—questionable history with dating.

By the time summer came, I hadn’t been able to enjoy a hook-up since New Year’s, and I was almost ready to admit defeat. I figured I’d go crawling to Theo, begging him to give me a shot at courting the little blonde I couldn’t get out of my head.

But then my mom got sick. And died.

And suddenly, everything seemed pointless.

Hence me sucking ass this season and Smith trying to get me in gear with a mandatory one-month suspension.

So, yeah, I have time to kill. But when Theo suggested this last-minute wedding invitation, I’d be lying if I said that Lucy wasn’t the real reason I agreed.

She must be here, right? This is her big sister’s wedding.

Which… I’m crashing.

I don’t have much of a choice, though. The other options were actually participating in my father’s farce of a family holiday or sitting in my apartment alone for the entire break.

I get what Smith and the Ash Pack are trying to do. They want to help me get my head on straight before the season starts to heat up, and they think time off, around friends, will help.

It makes sense, but it isn’t true.

Because I’m starting to realize: Nothing will ever fix this grief. And I just have to feel it.

Forever.

See what I mean? I’m bleak. I don’t think I can bring this energy into a wedding ceremony—or even this rehearsal dinner.

For a moment, I wish I had my vape in my pocket. Eying the distance to my Jeep, I consider grabbing it. Maybe… but Smith would have a shit fit.

He’s around here, somewhere, with his pack. They offered to let me fly on the private jet with them and Theo’s pack, but I decided to drive. Between the Piersons’ twin babies and another pregnant omega, it was just way too happy-family flight-from-hell for my bachelor ass.

Also, I may or may not have been too chickenshit to sit on a plane with Lucy. You know, just in case she’s still pissed about being pushed into the pool.

Unfortunately, ten hours alone in my car didn’t do much for my mental state, aside from making me bitter as hell. By the time I got to the grand mansion hosting the event, I had questions.

Who, exactly, planned a wedding this close to the holidays?

And also, why?

And how the fuck did I get suckered into this?

Which then reminded me that I had no other options. And triggered more bitterness, which⁠—

The side door of the stately manor house suddenly flies open.

Fuck. I automatically step behind the nearest column, scrambling to avoid being seen. The scent of the caterer’s delicious dessert wafts out of the kitchen, into the freezing air.

Because, yeah, in addition to all the other reasons I’m miserable—it’s like ten goddamn degrees out here. Frigid wind whips over the side of the mountain, rustling through all the bare, anemic trees.

That doesn’t stop whoever has stomped out of the house. A woman, I think. The quick clack of heels rings across the cold, quiet parking lot, along with the scraping sound of a suitcase dragging across the gravel.

I deflate, snapping back to bitterness. Not wanting to talk to anyone, let alone whoever got in a fight with their boyfriend or girlfriend and is now dramatically rushing out of someone else’s rehearsal dinner.

C’mon, lady. I may not be a model guest, but I’m not that bad.

Snow starts to flurry, the clean coolness of it smothering my scent before the person fleeing can catch wind of it.

Good. God knows it’s probably a burned-up mess.

Omegas have been running from me when I bump into them lately.

I can barely see through the white fluff swirling around, but when I squint hard enough, the tiny figure hauling an overstuffed suitcase into the trunk of a rental car has the distinct shape of a female omega.

For a second, I feel like a dick. I could have carried that bag in one hand—what the hell is wrong with me? My mom would have swatted the back of my head if she’d seen me hide from a fellow wedding guest and then watch her struggle with her bag.

Guilt presses me into motion. I step out from my hiding place and onto the threshold of the side door. Something crumples under my foot, so I stoop to grab it, thinking she must have dropped her packing list or a goodbye letter.

Pretty, girly handwriting stares back at me, only slightly smudged from the snow.

Um. Whoa.

I blink at the paper, all sorts of words I’ve never seen in print blurring in front of me.

Holy shit. It’s a list of… sex stuff?

Correction: a list of incredible sex stuff.

I’m ashamed to admit it distracts me long enough for the omega chick to get into her car and slam the door. My head snaps up at the sound. I squint through heavier snowfall just in time to watch the little silver sedan whip out of its spot and take off.

She sure is driving fast for a random person leaving a random wedding.

The name at the top of the personalized purple stationery clamped in my freezing fingers finally registers: Emma Matthews.

Emma. As in, Theo’s other sister? The bride?!

Oh, fuck me. Did I just witness the bride running away?

Two hazy red lights swerve through the snow, already halfway down the winding road up to the house. For a second, I’m completely still. Frozen between wanting to run after her myself and racing inside to tell someone.

But if she’s really running, will there be time? What if I’m the only one who saw her leave? What if she didn’t bring her phone or has it turned off and no one can find her?

Lucy might be able to forgive me for dunking her in Theo’s pool; but she probably won’t get over me losing track of her runaway sister the night before her wedding.

“Goddamn it,” I growl, shoving the paper into my pocket and grabbing my keys.

Guess I’m going after the bride.