AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No,” Theo snorts. “I think he hates how much he wants her. It probably reminds him of his dad and what he did, losing control and bonding like that. And, I mean, there’s probably some deep psychological shit about his mother being an omega and rejecting him and telling him he shouldn’t even exist… and now, this sweet omega… It’s gotta be fucking with his head.”
“So this is why he wanted us to build that home for abandoned and abused children,” I murmur, recalling how adamant he was. Half of his first year’s salary went to building that place.
“You know what’s fucked up?” Ronan mutters.
Other than everything?
“What?”
He sighs and looks down at Meg. “They’re sort of perfect for each other.”
chapter
forty-eight
*Meg’s Knot Collection*
Ronan
Declan, where are you?
Archer
Are you coming home tonight? We need to set the alarm.
Theo
Dec, come on man. Don’t do this.
We just want to know you’re ok
By the time I get home from the longest fucking day of my life, I’ve done what I do best:
Worked myself into quite the helpful rage.
Fuck me, fuck them, fuck this. I don’t need any of them. I definitely don’t need some omega brat running my life and ruining my career.
I don’t care what these other motherfuckers are doing.
I don’t care that it’s nearly one a.m. and none of them are in their own rooms.
I don’t care that this whole hallway smells like sweet-soaked sex.
Muttering pissy insults under my breath, I shuffle into my bathroom and start up my rain shower. It doesn’t matter that I washed off for the gala—I have to get the scent of Meg’s pheromones out of my nose before I go to sleep or I’ll have a whole different problem.
My shoulder tweaks when I reach for my soap, my mood plummeting from dark to black.
Hell.
If it isn’t better by tomorrow, I might have to have Arch wrap it. Which would piss him off since I haven’t mentioned the old injury to him in months. Not to mention, I’m not exactly his favorite person at the moment.
Plus, if I show up for game four with my shoulder taped, I might as well slit my wrists and stick them in a tank full of under-fed piranhas.
We’ve been winning. Barely. But our position for the season is precarious. Every sports network is already laying odds against me on a daily basis. I’m not sure how much longer Ronan can feed them the line about last year being a “rebuilding year.” I don’t know how much longer people will believe that our first season wasn’t a fluke.
It would help if Coach wasn’t hell-bent on his latest strategy. Like, my guy, I’m twenty-eight, not twenty-two. All these rushing routes? Pulling the O-line forward to make room for me to try to run the motherfucking football? Is he trying to actually kill me?
I’m going to get nailed into the turf tomorrow.
