Page 107 of Knot Only His

Parker’s expression darkens. “Yeah, I tried twice this morning. No answer. Figured I’d catch her at home later.”

“She’s not there,” Bardot cuts in, wringing her hands. “And she’s not picking up for me, either.”

My heart slams against my ribs. The protective gear suddenly feels too tight, too restrictive. I yank at the straps of my chest guard and pull it off.

“What are you doing?” Oliver asks as I kick off my skates.

“Finding her.” The words come out as a growl.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my gut, in that space that’s been connected to Harlow since the first time I scented her.

The sound of skates scraping ice fills the silence as Oliver turns to me, his face grim. “We need to find her.”

I nod as fear churns in my gut.

“I’m coming with you.” Oliver rushes off his gear too.

“Both of you go.” Parker’s voice carries the weight of an alpha command. “I’ll handle practice. Find her.”

Half an hour later, I grip the steering wheel tight as Oliver ends the call with Asher. My knuckles turn white against the black leather.

“He’s coming.”

“He better be quick,” I growl pressing the gas, impatiently as we wait outside the stadium, my Porsche purring beneath us.

“But she wouldn’t just leave,” Oliver mutters, drumming his fingers on my dash. “Maybe Bardot just missed her at the house. Perhaps she was in the shower.”

“Stop that.” I smack his hand away. “And she might have left if she thought she was protecting Jagger.”

“Fuck!” Oliver runs both hands through his hair. “That’s exactly what she’d do.”

Asher finally emerges, his face flushed.

“Really?” Asher eyes my car with disdain as Oliver unfolds himself from the passenger seat. “We could take my SUV.”

“Get in,” I growl. “This is faster.”

“Yeah, if we don’t mind being folded like pretzels.” Asher contorts himself into the back seat, his knees practically touching his chest. “This expensive piece of metal isn’t made for three grown men.”

“Stop whining. You’d think you were an omega right now,” Oliver says, settling back in.

“At least you’re not sharing the back with me.”

“Thank fuck for small mercies.”

Asher shifts, trying to find a comfortable position. “I might need a physio session myself after this.”

“You can treat yourself,” I say, pulling out of the lot with more speed than necessary.

“Easy there, Speed Racer.” Oliver grabs the handle above his door. “We can’t help Harlow if we’re wrapped around a pole.”

“Speaking of wrapping around things,” Asher pipes up from the back, “Oliver, move your seat up. My legs are going numb straddling your seat.”

“Children,” I mutter, but can’t help the slight smile tugging at my lips. Even worried sick about Harlow, these idiots lighten the mood. “Both of you shut up and let me drive.”

“I’m putting my feet on your leather seats,” Asher grumbles.

I don't care about my seats right now.

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