Page 6 of Knot Going Down (OlympicVerse #3)

KNOX

T he cafe where I’m meeting Meggie is perfect. Crowded, but not too crowded. A great place to hide in plain sight. I’m not sure if it’s dumb luck or pure stupidity that put me in Paris when she called panicked about needing more heat suppressants.

I’ve been Meggie’s dealer for years now—one of the few people who know she’s an omega.

If anyone else found out, she’d be fucked.

The Olympics aren’t a place for omegas. For her own safety, honestly.

If an unbonded omega went into heat around this many top-level athletic alphas full of raging testosterone, it would be a shit show.

It’s a shame, really. It’d be so easy to regulate these drugs so doctors could legally prescribe heat suppressants and scent blockers.

It’d be so easy to give omegas more options and control over their own lives, but that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.

Right now, the stuff you can get from doctors just isn’t as good as the stuff I got.

But I guess I’d be out of a job if that changed, so I’m glad I’m here to help.

No kid wants to grow up to be a drug dealer, but I like to think of myself as a pharmaceutical vigilante rather than a pill mule.

I tap my thumb on my coffee cup in a repetitive rhythm, searching the street for anything out of the ordinary. I’ve been selling for years. I know how to be discrete, but the nerves never fully go away. No matter how much I try to act like I’m completely relaxed.

I’m a little taller than the average guy, with a decent build, but I can still blend into a crowd. Early twenties, short hair, few tattoos. Give me a hat and sunglasses, and I could completely vanish in the sea of tourists meandering around in the French sunshine.

There’s a hunched figure in a baseball cap weaving through the crowd like she thinks she’s in stealth mode.

She’s not. It’s the least subtle approach I’ve ever seen.

I’m halfway to laughing when I clock the giant shadow trailing beside her—Ozren Hart, in all his Olympic glory.

The man is a walking headline. And judging by the way he’s staring at her like she hung the damn moon, I’d say his playboy era is officially over.

Good for Meggie.

“Hey, beauty,” I say. “And beast.” I give Oz a smirk. “Nice to see you again.”

The last time Meggie bought from me, Oz came with her and gave me crap. He didn’t know she was an omega back then. He thought she and I were on a date and went all possessive alpha on my ass.

Again, good for Meggie. She deserves someone looking out for her. Someone who’s not Emily. Omegas need alphas. And Emily… Emily needs someone taking care of her, too. Someone who’s not me. She deserves a lot better than me.

Oz doesn’t reply. He just crosses his arms and glares at me. “Let’s get this over with.”

I pass Meggie a to-go coffee cup full of pills, and we pretend to make small talk for a few minutes until omega perfume floods my nose. Sweet apple pie. Delicious, fresh-from-the-oven, green apple pie with a golden brown crust.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck! She’s in heat!

I’m not interested in Meggie, but I’m an alpha. I’m not immune to the scent of an omega in heat, an omega needing to be fucked and knotted over and over. She needs to leave. Now . I’m not a slave to my hormones, but I can’t speak for the rest of the population of Paris.

Leaning across the table, I whisper through gritted teeth, “That coffee won’t help if you’re already…”

Everything goes to shit all at once. Oz shoots to his feet, grabbing Meggie and running as three French police officers and a man in a DEA jacket charge across the street right toward us. Right toward me . Shit! Fuck! I gotta get out of here.

Popping up, I run two steps and trip, looking to the side just in time to see Harrison Hart. Oz’s pack mate. His foot is extended, shoe right by mine. What the fuck? Did he trip me?

Did Meggie and her guys set me up?

She fucking set me up!

By the time I scramble to my feet, Harrison is gone, and the DEA agent is tackling me back to the ground.

I throw a punch at his face, but he moves, and it barely grazes his nose.

His knee hits my stomach as he tries to fight me into submission.

I choke back a groan and swing again. This time, I connect nicely with his cheek, but he swings too, and it lands beautifully across my jaw. I’m seeing stars.

“Stop fucking fighting!” the guy says.

Like hell.

“Eat shit!” I elbow him in the gut and shove his bulk with everything I have. Scrambling to my feet, I make it two steps before I’m slammed against the side of the building, face first, narrowly avoiding a crêpe cart.

“You’re not who I want!” The guy’s voice is harsh in my ear, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. “I want to make a deal with you, but you have to cooperate.”

The two other police officers have flanked us now. There’s even a fucking dog. A damn German Shepherd with teeth bared like it’s ready to chew my damn leg off. My chances of getting away aren’t looking good. “What kind of deal?”

“I want Glenn Plansky.”

Ahh, I see what this is. Glenn’s been my boss since I started in this business, and the law’s been after him even longer than that. I don’t know why they want him so bad, but I figure he’s involved in more than just the illegal blockers and suppressants I deal for him. He’s not a man to mess with.

My mind races through scenarios. If Glenn catches word that I’m working with the law, I’m done for. But I’m not exactly gonna get out of this just by flashing my pretty face. And fighting is getting me nowhere. I could deny I know Glenn, but something tells me that ship has sailed.

“Glenn’s gone.” Not a lie.

The man cuffs me, then spins me to face him, slamming my back into the wall.

Damn, he’s hot. In that dominant, older man kind of way that makes me want to get on my knees and call him ‘sir.’ If he wasn’t arresting me, that is.

I’ll blame Meggie’s scent still being in my nostrils as the reason why I’m picturing getting on my knees while I’m being fucking arrested.

Damn omega pheromones messing with my head.

“Where’d he go?” the DEA agent asks.

“What’s your name?” I counter.

“Tell me where Glenn went!” He doesn’t use his alpha bark, but it’s clear he wants to. Badly. I almost want to commend the guy for adhering to constitutional rights when every muscle in his body is vibrating like he wants to rip me to pieces.

I grit my teeth and don’t answer.

He slams me against the wall a second time, hard enough to make me see stars.

“This’ll go easier for you if you cooperate," he growls.

“Look, I don’t keep tabs on the guy. For all I know he’s somewhere over the Atlantic.” Glenn should actually be landing in North Carolina right about now, but Mr. DEA doesn’t need to know that.

“Why wouldn’t he stay for the closing ceremonies?” A deep crease forms between the man’s eyebrows.

“He doesn’t exactly explain himself to me.” I smirk and add, “ Sir. ”

He narrows his eyes. For a solid two minutes, we engage in a staring contest of epic proportions. Alpha to alpha.

“So, what’s the offer?” I ask, caving first.

“You help me catch Glenn, and I might get a few years off your sentence.”

A police car has pulled up to the curb now, and Mr. DEA—it’d really be nice to know his name—manhandles me into the back.

I wait for him as he circles to the other side of the car, holds the door open for the dog, then slides in himself and buckles his belt.

He doesn’t bother helping me with mine even though I’m still handcuffed and it wouldn’t be that hard to reach around the dog and seatbelt me.

Mr. DEA clearly doesn't care about my personal safety. What if we got into a car accident? I’m valuable goods!

“No.” I turn to the window and watch as we pull out into the busy street.

“No?” He sounds utterly and completely shocked, and I fight to hide my smile. “What the hell do you mean, no?”

“Full immunity. That’s what I want if I help you catch Glenn.”

He laughs. “Right. And what exactly does help mean? You’re not getting full immunity for a bit of information.”

“Fair enough.” I lean toward him but can’t stop my flinch when the stupid dog snaps at me. “If I’m gonna help take down Glenn, I need to be sure it works, which means I’m fully involved. Part of the team. Not just passing information.”

“You want to be a mole?”

Hell, no. But I’m not seeing a way out of this yet, and until I do, I’m gonna try to bargain for the best chance I can get.

The dog—Gunner, I’m guessing by the giant letters on the side of his vest—softens its mouth, and I’m glad he seems less likely to eat my face off.

“I’ll be your mole, and help you get the evidence you need, because I’m guessing you don’t want to take him down on a drug count. Am I right?”

Mr. DEA doesn’t answer, but his silence says enough.

“There’re requirements, though,” I continue. “Stipulations. I need to be sure Glenn doesn’t suspect anything, so I need to be back in the States—where I’m supposed to be—by his daughter’s wedding. And I need to not have a DEA agent riding my ass when I show back up.”

He considers this for a minute. “When’s the wedding?”

“About two weeks from now.” I hold my breath, wondering if he’s gonna agree to this. Still not sure I am. I mean, I’ll tell him I’ll do it, but two weeks buys me some time, and if there’s another way out of this that doesn’t end with me in jail or dead, I’m taking it.

“Here’s how this is gonna go down,” Mr. DEA agent says.

“You’re staying in my custody until we get back to the States.

Until then, you’ll only have contact with Glenn that I’ve approved and am present for.

You don’t leave my side. Once we get back to the States, you’ll have until the wedding to gather evidence for his arrest. If we take him down, then you’ll get your immunity.

If the plan fails…” He lets his dark tone finish the sentence for him. “Deal?”

The car is full of his damn scent. The cool of the forest I used to sneak away to when I wanted to be alone. My happy place. Fuck him for stealing it.

“Tell me your name, and you have a deal.”

His jaw ticks as he stares me down. “Declan.”