Page 1 of Knot My Luck

PROLOGUE

1 MONTH PRIOR

Devlin

I’m not sure if it’s the green beer or the shamrock balloons swaying overhead, but something about finally being back in Cork feels surreal. It’s been five long years since I last set foot in this city. Five years since I packed my bags for the UK and never looked back – until now.

“God, it’s been ages, Devlin! You look amazing,” an old school friend, Sinead, shouts over the music. The rest of the hen party erupts in cheers, but their excited questions about my life – and especially about my ex, Cathal – are a little too loud, a little too close for comfort.

I force a laugh, pretending not to notice the curious stares and the unsubtle nudges. The last time any of these women saw me, I was a heartbroken beta, seemingly chasing after the alpha who didn’t want me any longer. I can see the unspoken questions burning in their eyes – way more probing and intimate than the ones they are voicing.

As far as any of them are concerned, I’mstilla beta. No alpha’s ever going to look twice at a beta in a sea of omegas. And that’s exactly how I need it to stay. Shielding questions about Cathal, England, my job, my life, love, sex and relationships for the past few hours, has been more than enough. I don’t need to throw in a bunch of gossip about my designation too, especially not with it running the risk of getting back to the wrong people.

So I slathered myself in scent neutriliser before donning my Kelly green personalised hen-do t-shirt and bowler hat for tonight, ready to paint the town red…err green…with the rest of the city. Without it, the whole damn pub would know what I really am. One whiff of my scent and every alpha in this place would turn their head. Would watch. Wouldwant.

And I’m not saying that to be conceited. History has unfortunately taught me that my scent is particularly potent - and alluring - to many unbonded alphas. I don’t know why, maybe because my designation emerged so late, but it’s what I have to deal with.

I’m here to celebrate my old school friend, Nuala, not to dissect my past or my currently non existent love life. But the more they press me for details, the more my nerves fray.

“Be right back,” I say, holding up my empty glass as an excuse. “The bride-to-be needs another round.”

I weave through the crowd of revelers dressed in shamrock hats and patriotic face paint, my ears ringing with fiddles and laughter. Their scents are overwhelming, even with the pub half heartedly pumping some bargain bin scent neutriliser through the air. A tangled mix of alcohol, excitement, and something deeper – something biological. Alphas, betas, omegas. The city is full of them, but none of them know what I am. Who I am. And that’s the only reason I can breathe.

At the bar, I catch the bartender’s attention and order a tray of shots for the bride-to-be, the temporary shamrock tattoo on the back of my hand glinting in the light.

Before I can pay, a deep Irish accent offers, “Let me get that.”

That voice, like hot molten lava cake on a cold day, washes over me and makes me shiver from my head right down to my emerald painted toes. God, I’ve missed that accent.

There’s no scent, beyond that of his dark, rich cologne. It coils around me and before I can brace myself, I’m leaning, breathing deeper trying to scent him.

Slowly, I turn and find myself staring up at a tall, dark, handsome stranger. It’s no cliché: the man is stunning. He has an intense, brooding appeal, with a rugged yet somehow still slightly polished look. Striking green eyes are framed by long dark lashes, giving him a piercing gaze.

His facial structure is sharp and well-defined, with prominent cheekbones, a strong jawline, and light stubble that enhances his masculine, slightly unkempt look.

His expression exudes confidence and intensity, making him appear effortlessly cool and slightly mysterious.

With confidence like that, he has to be an alpha,I think, slowly taking him in. He’s tall and broad shouldered too, wearing a simple forest-coloured t-shirt that hugs his muscular chest and shoulders just right, and his tousled brown hair has a deliberately messy, windswept style, adding to his effortless charm.

His sharp bright eyes flick over me – assessing, curious, maybe even a little amused.

“Oh,” I manage, my cheeks heating. “That’s really not necessary.”

He flashes a grin that sends a jolt of awareness through me. “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, cailín. I insist.” He hands a note to the bartender, who nods and starts pouring.

I can feel my friends watching from across the room, but for once, I don’t mind being the centre of attention. Not when this stranger is looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing in the bar.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual. “But now you’ve gone and shown me up in front of my friends. They’ll think I can’t even afford to buy a round of shots.”

He chuckles, leaning in just enough that I catch another hint of his cologne – something warm and woodsy that makes my pulse quicken. “Then you’ll have to let me make it up to you…maybe after you deliver these shots to the bride?”

I swallow hard, a mix of nerves and thrill skittering through my stomach at his proximity. “Maybe I will.”

The bartender sets out the small glasses, each one brimming with bright green liquor. The stranger slides a shot over to me before I can pick up the tray.

“To old friends,” he says, lifting his glass. “And new ones. May your troubles be less…”

“And your blessings be more…” I add, before we finish the toast together. “And nothing but happiness come through your door.”

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