Page 31 of Knot a Bad Idea

He was hit with felony drug charges associated with the trafficking of Omegas, and his life was ruined.

Especially now that he sits in jail with no bail, awaiting a prison sentence.

Fuck Clay to hell and back. I’ll never forget the look in April’s eyes or the way her scent soured when that drug was mentioned.

I wanted to kill him right there, consequences be damned.

But ruining his life will have to suffice.

You’re going to ruin April’s life, too, if you end this, a part of me argues.

April will move on, forget us, but I’ll still keep an eye on her. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of, even if I have to stay hidden and keep an eye on her through my private investigator.

Hunter and Liam will deal with it, and they’ll understand one day.

I already failed her once, allowing Clay near her vicinity. I won’t do it again.

That’s all you do. Fail the women in your life.

I sit on the bench and run a hand through my hair.

Priscilla Axton’s grave could be nicer. Even though it’s embellished with cherubs and delicate engravings of roses, I’m sure I could have done more.

Maybe I could have found better doctors. Maybe I didn’t exhaust all my resources.

Hunter and Liam would say otherwise—they already have, numerous times.

She died alone because you were on a business call.

Guilt weighs heavily in my chest, a constant reminder that I can’t help anyone I care for.

I’m a shit friend to Liam, and an even shittier person to Hunter.

A son that couldn’t even be there for his own mother.

I’m an asshole, through and through, and I won’t drag April down with me.

April, the kind, beautiful Omega that smells like salvation and everything I don’t deserve.

April, who alleviates Liam’s anxiety and makes Hunter laugh more than I’ve ever seen.

April, the one woman that makes mewantagain.

She deserves better.

I won’t fail her, too.

I don’t arrive backat the packhouse until the sun is setting, and I expect April to be with the others.

But I find her in the backyard, nursing a glass of wine, her gaze distant and her eyes glassy.

It looks like I won’t be having a conservation about the contract anytime soon.

She looks up at me, a small frown on her face. “Look who it is,” she mutters. “Mister Broody.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How much wine have you had to drink?” I demand.

“Why? Are you going to tell me what to do again?” she huffs.