Page 37 of Knot for Me
REAGAN
Marco is a great teacher. I didn’t end up throwing him on his ass, but I’m getting better. He’s strong. It’ll take more than a little anger to make the move work right. Thinking about how big of assholes my brothers are did help me break out of the hold faster. The hardest part is catapulting him over my leg.
“You’ll get it next time,” he says, snatching my bottle of water from the floor and tossing it to me.
“How many times are we planning on this?” I ask, uncapping my water and taking a drink.
“Long enough to make sure you can toss a grown man on his ass, and then as long as you want after that.”
“Is Lucas okay with it?” I wrinkle my nose, disliking my own question, but I don’t want to give the alpha another reason to be grumpy.
“Don’t worry about Lucas. I’ll deal with him.”
I give Marco an appraising look. I guess there’s more to the funny guy than solid sarcasm and a big bulge.Don’t think about his dick, Reagan.I snap my eyes shut and spin away from him but that doesn’t help. My mind seizes on the thought of his dick and sends me visions of him and me together on a bed, wrestling without clothes on.
“I have to go,” I say, jogging toward the door when I get a whiff of my pheromones.
“Are you okay?” he asks. A second later he groans. I don’t turn around. I already know why he’s making that noise. I close the door and sprint up the stairs, hitting the first floor and bolting to the next set of stairs. The stairwell leading to the gym is tucked on the backside of the house.
“—we should have everything in order in time for the ball.”
I hear the voices before I see them, and I stumble to a stop, narrowly avoiding taking out a petite woman with a cute pixie cut and green eyes that are widened in surprise. Lucas is with her, wearing a pair of joggers—what is it with these men and sweats?—and a hoodie.
“Sorry.” I sidestep them, hoping Lucas won’t smell me but that’s a dumb thing to wish. Of course he can smell me. He’s born to scent out omegas.
“Oh my,” the woman says, eyes flicking between us. “Should I come back so you can take care of her?”
“No,” Lucas and I say together.
At least we agree on something.
“I’m fine,” I say with a fake smile, making my escape.
Lucas doesn’t call for me, and I make it to my room, stripping off my clothes and hopping in the shower. I leave the water cold and grab soap, scrubbing my body to try and rid myself of the scent. Once I’m trembling from the ice-cold water, I shut it off and wrap myself in a towel, stepping onto the bathmat.
Another scent, one that isn’t mine, slams into me in mockery.Emily. I glare at the closet and storm to the bedroom, quickly pulling on a fresh set of clothes. I dry my hair with the towel before blow drying it, scowling at the closet door the entire time. The bitch stinks. Or she did stink. God. It’s so fucked up how much I hate her, and I don’t know anything about her other than she was murdered.
I breathe through my mouth, trying to get through my hair as quick as possible, but eventually I forget, and her scent fills my nostrils once more, making my eye twitch. That’s it. Her shit has to go. I set the blow-dryer down and rip the closet door open, eyeing the pretty clothes and shoes. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if the guys will be mad then decide I don’t give a shit. This is my room now, not hers, and I won’t be haunted by the scent of a dead woman. It’ll only make me more agitated, so the sooner I deal with her stuff, the better.
“Sorry, Emily. I hate that you died, but your shit has to go.” I rip a handful off the hangers and toss the clothes into a pile, already feeling a little better. It’s like my body knows I’m going to get rid of the smell and it’s calmed down to let me focus. Omega instincts aren’t all bad, I guess.
Once I get all the clothes in a pile, I frown. What am I going to do with them now?
My bedroom door bangs open, and Lucas barges into the bathroom. I panic, stepping in front of the pile of clothes like I can hide the evidence from him and wave. Fucking waving, really?
“Hey.”
He lifts his eyebrows and looks down at the clothes. “What are you doing?”
“I have to get rid of them. Omega stuff.” His face tells me all I need to know. Men don’t like to deal with the messy side of women, so all I have to say isomega stuffand he doesn’t need more explanation.
“Okay. Let me help.” He goes to scoop some up, and while I appreciate his desire to lend me a hand, my mind is screaming at me that he cannot touch the clothes.
I grab his arm to stop him. “Don’t.” There’s a soft growl in my words that makes him smile, not a sneeringI hate you so much this is funny,but more of anaww, you’re like a cute little chihuahua when you’re madsort of grin.
“Why not?” he asks, eyes scanning my face.
He knows why the fuck not, and I will not be telling him why the fuck not because he fucking knows why the fuck not. Something, probably the slight angry tremble driven by my hormones, must make him think better of pestering me because he simply nods in understanding.
