Page 6 of Knot Like Other Girls

That private jet sure moves fast.

"Oh, my poor baby!" Mrs. Worthington wails, squashing Braxley's face into her ample bosom. "We came as fast as we could. Thank God we were at that retreat! What have they done to you?"

Mr. Worthington follows close behind, his face a mask of concern. "Son, are you alright? Do we need to call in specialists? I can have our family doctor flown in within the hour."

As I watch Braxley soak up his parents' attention, milking every ounce of sympathy he can get, I feel myself fading into the background. The Worthingtons cluster around Braxley's bed, fussing over him and demanding to speak to the doctor in charge.

I take a step back, then another.

No one notices as I slip out of the room.

In the hallway, I lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath. The events of the night crash over me like a wave.The proposal. The gunshot. The chaos. Braxley's cowardice and subsequent meltdown.

And underneath it all, a growing realization. Something I've always known, but have always been afraid to acknowledge.

I don't want this life.

And I have absolutely no choice.

CHAPTER 2

TROY

Iadjust my bowtie for the hundredth time, fighting the urge to loosen the damn thing. The Italian summer heat is brutal, and this monkey suit isn't helping. But when in Rome—or rather, Sicily—do as the Romans do. Or in our case, as the rich alpha mafia types do.

"Stop fidgeting," Roman mutters from beside me, his golden-hazel eyes scanning the opulent ballroom. His name is hilariously on the nose tonight. "You're drawing attention."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "Yes, sir," I drawl, earning a sharp look from our fearless leader. But I can't help it. This whole situation has me on edge.

We're way out of our depth here, playing bodyguard to some big shot Sicilian alpha who thinks he's the second coming of Al Capone. The crystal chandeliers, the champagne fountains, the women dripping in diamonds—it's a far cry from the dusty battlefields we're used to.

I catch a glimpse of Cole across the room, lurking in a shadowy corner like some brooding superhero. He's in a bad mood as usual, his scarred face scowling, choppy white hair shadowing the burns on the right side. Poor bastard. He hatesthese kinds of gigs even more than I do. He'd rather be up on the rooftop like a feral cat.

"Hey," I say, nudging Roman. "Maybe we should get Cole some sunglasses. You know, complete the whole 'mysterious bodyguard' look."

Roman doesn't laugh. He never does. Sometimes I wonder if the stick up his ass is load-bearing. "Focus, Troy. We're here to work, not play games."

I sigh, scanning the room again. Our client, Don Caruso, is holding court near the bar, surrounded by a group of fawning omegas and betas. The guy's a real piece of work—all slicked-back hair and gold rings, oozing the kind of confidence that only comes from being obscenely rich and moderately psychotic.

A flash of auburn catches my eye, and I spot Savva gliding through the crowd like he was born for this shit. And maybe he was. The guy's a chameleon, equally at home in a warzone or a ballroom. Right now, he's chatting up some silver-haired matron, probably fishing for intel he doesn't need while simultaneously critiquing her choice of wine.

"Savva's enjoying himself," I mutter to Roman.

He grunts in response. "At least one of us is."

I get it. We're all still adjusting to civilian life, if you can call this "civilian." The war might be over, but the nightmares aren't. We're a pack of broken alphas, trying to piece ourselves back together while pretending we're not falling apart.

My eyes drift to Liam, stationed near the main entrance. His massive frame and dark scowl are enough to make most of the guests give him a wide berth. The heavy black-and-gray tattoos peeking out from under his tux probably don't help. But I know beneath that tough exterior is a guy who can recite Yeats from memory and cries at dog food commercials.

And then there's me. Troy Shepherd, the All-American boy next door—if the boy next door was six-foot-five and couldkill a bear with his bare hands. I'm the glue that holds this dysfunctional pack together, the one who keeps the peace when we're all itching for a fight.

We're a fucked-up family, but we're all we've got.

The sound of an omega's annoyed voice near the bar snaps me back to attention. Don Caruso is harassing one of the omegas, who would clearly rather be anywhere else.

"Roman," I say, my blood already starting to boil. But he's already moving, smooth as silk, inserting himself between Caruso and the girl.

"Don Caruso," Roman says, his voice low and respectful despite the steel in his eyes. "Perhaps you'd like to greet the mayor? He just arrived."

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