Her Knotty List (MVP: Most Valuable Pack Book 4)
Her Knotty List: Chapter 7

I’d bet all seventeen of the dollars in my wallet that this beautiful, half-frozen woman is an omega.

Normally, I wouldn’t presume based on appearance. I could ordinarily just scent her subtly. But she’s too cold to even have a scent. Her pores are completely sealed, trying to retain what little body heat she has left.

There are a few other clues, though. For one, it’s cold out here, but not cold enough to send a beta or an alpha into hypothermia this quickly. Granted, she’s completely exposed in this outfit. Still, anyone with alpha or beta biology would generally be a bit hardier.

Her instinct to stay put and essentially hide is another tip-off. My little brother is an omega; I recall many times during our childhood when he opted to hide in his closet instead of roughhousing with the rest of us. And I know from volunteering at the tri-county’s only heat clinic that it’s normal for omegas to cower when overwhelmed.

Poor little thing, I think, gently pulling her slumped body out of the backseat.

Solid and covered in soft curves, the way she fits against my chest makes my heart leap, but I ignore the impulse. It’s just my physiology reacting to hers.

Knox doesn’t seem to be faring much better. He comes to my side, his hands hovering like he’s ready to catch any part of her I might drop.

That won’t happen, though. I have a firm hold and she’s the perfect size for my arms.

Knox helps me load her into my truck. “Sit with her,” he suggests, climbing into my driver’s seat.

The other guy comes to the passenger side, still holding McKinley’s leash and our patient’s purse. It’s tiny and covered in pearls. He tucks it under his fur-coat-covered arm and climbs into the truck, sprawling like he walks around in furry briefs every day and doesn’t mind displaying his entire naked body in the process.

I mean, whatever. To each their own, I guess.

He obviously isn’t local. Even if I didn’t know every single person in the tiny town I grew up in, I would know he doesn’t fit in here.

For one, his clothes. Then there’s the haircut. His bare-ass chest doesn’t have a single hair on it. And—dear God—does he trim his underarm hair? It’s all the same length—only a bit longer than the stubble on his face.

I remember we’re right near the new “glamping” site on Highway 64 and resist the urge to snort a laugh. Paying eight hundred dollars a night to camp? City people. I swear.

Knox cranks the engine and blasts the heat. I move carefully, pulling the omega halfway into my lap. My right arm locks around the nip of her waist, holding her steady as her head lolls slightly in my lap.

The sunrise is just starting to turn the sky from pitch black to muted gray. I squint through the gloom, taking my first good look at her face.

She’s beautiful.

Most omegas are, but she’s especially striking. Something about the turn of her nose, I think. The freckle dotted there. And all of her other dainty features. Even her mouth is little more than a shrunken rosebud.

I look over her fancy outfit, wondering where she was heading and why she was alone on these treacherous roads at night.

Was she going to a party? Leaving one?

Leaving… someone?

Another wave of sympathy crests inside of me. I settle my hand on top of her head, petting her hair back while I gaze down at her shut eyes, wondering.

“What’s her name?” I murmur.

The stranger in the passenger seat rifles in her purse, wincing like he hates to go through her things. It’s a point in his favor. As is the way Knox’s dog has his whole body draped over the dude’s lap.

“Her ID says Emma Matthews,” he replies. “Twenty-five. Her home address is somewhere in Florida.”

So that explains why she had no idea what to do with the snow or the mountain roads, then.

My arm flexes around her protectively. She must have been so scared.

“I’m Zane, by the way,” he adds, reaching over to shake my hand. “Zane Madani.”

“Micah Patterson,” I tell him. “We’re lucky you heard the crash. I’m not sure how much longer she would have lasted.”

I don’t tell either of them that I’m still not sure. It isn’t good that she’s unconscious. I’m hoping her deep sleep is just the result of mild hypothermia and that lump on her head. But if it’s more serious, at least I know Knox’s place is well-equipped for getting her help.

I catch the billionaire’s frosty glare in the rearview mirror. “You still have that helipad on the roof?”

He grunts and nods. Zane’s eyes fly wide. “A helipad? What the fuck, Grizzly Adams?!”

I smile. “Knox is loaded. His house has everything.”

Knox’s silent glower intensifies. Zane gives a strained laugh. “No shit? Damn. So I guess you guys are friends?”

Now I have to chuckle. “God, no. Knox Beckett doesn’t have friends. He hates us all. I only know him because he volunteers at the firehouse sometimes.”

It’s half-true. I know I’m about as close to an acquaintance as the guy has, which is sad because the last time I saw him was the Fourth of July.

He’s a recluse, always holed up in his insane mountainside compound or trudging through the wilds with his dog. The only time any of us sees him is when he comes into town once a month to restock on coffee beans from the local shop. Rumor has it he gets all his other shit airlifted in.

Because, you know—helipad.

“Volunteer firefighters are real?” Zane asks, grimacing. “I thought that was only true on, like, Yellowstone.”

Knox rubs his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

“Our town only has four firefighters,” I explain. “We keep a rotation of volunteers in case there’s a forest fire or something big like that. They’re unskilled labor.”

Knox grumbles, “Even a monkey can hold a hose.”

I keep smiling, but it feels a bit frozen with this omega lying so perfectly still on my lap. “My point exactly.”

With an even deeper scowl, Knox navigates my truck up the winding snow-covered road to his place. Honestly, unless you knew exactly what to look for, you’d never know the whole damn property was back there. From the road, it all just looks like trees, trees, and more trees.

Until Knox pulls a small remote out of his thermal hiking pants and hits a button; then, the nearest group of trees moves. It takes a moment to realize they’re fake—attached to a concealed gate that falls away, revealing a winding driveway.

“Holy fuck,” Zane spits. He turns to our host. “Who are you?”

Knox scowls. “I’m the guy who’s going to kick your ass out of my house if you don’t put pants on.”