Page 143 of Knot So Fast
"It runs," I confirm, finding the jerry can of petrol I stashed behind a pillar. "Not well, not for long, but it runs. Want to take a lap?"
The look she gives me is pure hunger. "You're serious."
"Ten minutes of fuel," I tell her. "The track's rough, second gear corners are third gear now because of the surface, and watch the chicane at the back—there's a pothole that'll swallow your soul if you hit it wrong."
She's already climbing into the driver's seat, hands running over the worn steering wheel with something approaching reverence. "Any other advice?"
"Yeah," I say, leaning down to her window. "Drive it like you stole it."
The engine coughs to life with a sound that's half protest, half promise. She gives it a moment to warm up, listening to the engine note with the kind of attention that makes me realize she understands more about cars than she's let on. Then she drops the clutch and disappears in a cloud of tire smoke and attitude.
I watch her take the first corner, all precision and controlled aggression, and feel something shift in my chest. She drives like she does everything else—with a confidence that borders on arrogance but is backed up by genuine skill. By the third lap,she's found the racing line, avoiding the worst of the cracks, dancing the car through corners with a fluidity that makes me wonder what else she's been hiding.
When she finally pulls up at the far straight, killing the engine as instructed, I'm already walking over. The silence after the engine dies is massive, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and our breathing.
"That was—" she starts, but I'm already there, hands braced on either side of her through the open window.
"You've driven before," I say. It's not a question.
"Maybe," she admits, and her smile is wicked. "Maybe I have a few secrets of my own."
"Is that right?"
"Mm-hmm."
The space between us crackles with possibility. Then she's reaching for me, fingers curling into my shirt, and I lean down to meet her halfway. The kiss is immediate and desperate, all teeth and heat and the kind of hunger that comes from wanting something you're not supposed to have. Her nails catch at my jaw, just sharp enough to sting, and I growl into her mouth in response.
"Get in here," she demands against my lips, and who am I to argue?
I'm through the window and pulling her across the gear stick before either of us can think better of it. She ends up straddling my lap, one hand braced on the roll hoop for balance, the other tangled in my hair. The car is too small for this, the steering wheel digging into my back, the gear stick threatening to impale us both, but neither of us cares.
Her mouth tastes like coffee and possibility. My hands find the hem of her shirt, sliding underneath just to feel the heat of her spine, the way her muscles move under skin. She makesa sound that's half gasp, half laugh when my fingers trace the waistband of her jeans.
"Someone could see," she breathes, but she's rolling her hips against mine in a way that suggests she doesn't actually care.
"No one comes here," I assure her, catching her throat with one hand while the other pins her hip in place. "It's just us and the ghosts."
She kisses me again, harder this time, like she's trying to prove a point. Her teeth catch my bottom lip, and I respond by tightening my grip on her throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind us both that this thing between us has edges.
"Caspian," she gasps, and the way she says my name makes me want to do extremely inadvisable things in this barely-functional Lotus.
But then a sound cuts through the morning air—the low rumble of an engine that doesn't belong here.
I go still, every instinct screaming alert. Through the dusty windscreen, I see it: a blacked-out SUV creeping along the access road. It slows as it passes the far gate, windows too dark to see inside, then continues on. Too slow. Too deliberate.
"What?" Auren asks, sensing the shift in my attention.
"Nothing," I lie smoothly, helping her climb back into the driver's seat. "Just thought I heard something. Come on, let's head back. I'm fucking starving."
She laughs, the tension breaking. "Language, Mr. Thorne. What would your sponsors think?"
"That I'm human after all," I reply, but I'm memorizing the SUV's plates as it disappears around the bend. Monaco registration. Late model. The kind of anonymous vehicle that could belong to anyone—or everyone.
"Are you seriously telling me you eat burgers?" she asks as we walk back to the pit area. "Actual, grease-dripping, terrible-for-you burgers?"
"What, you thought I survived on protein shakes and the tears of my enemies?"
She's pulled out her camera—the Canon G7X Mark III we bought her last week after she mentioned wanting to document things properly. The morning light is perfect now, golden and soft, making everything look like a movie about better times.
