Page 89 of Knot for Sale

Emma and Gabriel had sounded like two people discussing a future.Ourfuture. I was on board. Curran was on board. Elijah had been awfully quiet, but his pheromones had a lot to say whenever he was around us. I sensed he wasn’t the kind of omega you could wrap up in cotton wool and hide away in an expensive nest somewhere. Frankly, that was part of his appeal... at least for me.

Elijah had a successful and very public career. He’d also, as far as most of the world was concerned, disappeared mysteriously after a yacht cruise off Greece. But he’d never been blackballed the way Emma had been. If he played his cards right—and if we could keep him safe—something like that could end up catapulting him into even more fame and success.

Emma, I wasn’t so sure about. From the sound of things, her career had been on the rocks in a big way—thanks to her uncle and cousin. She didn’t seem certain whether she wanted to fight to get it back or move on to something new. I got the impression she’d never had a chance to decide for herself what she truly wanted, deep down.

She’d fallen into modeling at a young age, found success there, and that career had worked for her... until one day it hadn’t. Did she want something different? Who would she be if she was Emma Hope-Rosencranz—a filthy rich, bonded omega—rather than Emma Huntwell, hiding away from her twisted family of criminals?

A light knock sounded on my bedroom door. It was late, and not the sort of knock that would have heralded either Curran or the boss. I scented the air, nostrils flaring, the faintest hint of blackcurrant reaching me.

Huh. Think of the devil...

“Come in,” I said, setting aside the book I hadn’t actually been reading.

The door creaked open a hesitant few inches, and Emma poked her head in. “Hi.” She drew her plump lower lip between her teeth, looking like she was torn between staying and bolting like a startled deer. “I, um, didn’t wake you, d-did I?”

I smiled and picked up my book on Australian Aboriginal history, waggling it. “Nope, just reading. Or at least, just staring at the same page for fifteen minutes while thinking deep thoughts. What can I do for you?”

She slipped halfway into the room, still not quite committing fully. “I c-can’t sleep. Too wired. Want to go downstairs and spar?”

She was dressed in a tank top and yoga pants. The faintly outlined points of her nipples proclaimed her lack of a bra underneath. I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Depends,” I said. “On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to punch me in the clit?”

Two spots of red rose on her cheeks. “I d-don’t know. I guess it depends on whether you can teach me something more interesting.”

Wait, were we doing this? Because it kind of sounded like we were doing this.

“I’m sure I can come up with something better, in that case,” I told her, swinging my legs off the rumpled bed. I glanced down at the T-shirt and sleep shorts I was wearing. They’d do. “Shall we?”

I received a quick nod in reply, and she darted out as abruptly as she’d appeared. After a moment’s thought, I rummaged in my bedside drawer before grabbing my workout bag and following her. Then, because an alpha could hope, I ducked into the kitchen as I passed it, tossing a small glass bottle in the bag with my other supplies.

Emma was waiting for me in the makeshift gym, shifting her weight restlessly from foot to foot. She’d turned the lights on, and the harsh fluorescent overheads leached the color from her skin and pale hair.

I closed the door and set my bag on a bench to one side, standing several feet away from her as I began stretching out my shoulders and spine. “So, I’ve been wanting to ask. Who taught you to brawl? Because they clearly knew what they were about.”

She stopped fidgeting and went still. “My dad,” she said softly. “Before he...”

Got killed, I mentally finished for her.

Emma cleared her throat. “It didn’t end up helping him at all. Not against half a dozen gunmen.”

“No,” I said gently. “It wouldn’t. It might’ve saved your life on that dock in Greece, though. He gave you that gift, at least.”

“Yeah,” she whispered, before drawing her shoulders back and her spine straight. “Who taught you?”

I laughed. “A crusty old Taiwanese bloke in Brisbane. I got tired of the other sprogs punching me in the schoolyard because I was different. Wandered into his martial arts school one day. He took one look at me and taught me how to shut down a fight before it properly got started.”

She nodded. “He must’ve been good.”

“Oh, he was.” I balanced on one foot, catching my other ankle in my hand to stretch my quads. “Is this really what you want to talk about, though?” I asked, switching legs.

“Yes,” she said, and charged me while I was still standing there like a moonstruck flamingo.

That startled a bark of laughter from me as we went down together on the mat, rolling and twisting.God, but I loved a dirty fighter. That was one thing I definitelycouldn’tget from Curran. He was brutal in a real fight, but he always played by the rules during sparring sessions.

There was a skill to overcoming an opponent like Emma without hurting them—because, in the end, she was still a slender female omega, and I was a fully trained alpha streetfighter. This didn’t have the feel of a training session; not like our last tussle had. I could feel something simmering under the surface, and I was pretty sure winning the match would be the quickest way to uncover whatever it was.

It was like trying to restrain an eel, but within a few seconds I had her pinned and helpless, squirming on her stomach beneath me.

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