Page 151 of Knot So Fast
A frisky night indeed.
The jealousy that twists in my gut is unexpected but not unwelcome. It's not really jealousy—more like regret that I wasn't part of it, that I'm still catching up while the others have already claimed pieces of her attention. But I push the feeling aside. I know I'll get my time with Auren, and I'm not in a rush. Well, not anymore.
The first time around, I was too cautious. Too careful. Too afraid of disrupting the delicate balance of pack dynamics, of pushing too hard and scaring her away. I spent so much time playing chess, thinking three moves ahead, calculating every possible outcome, that I forgot sometimes the best move is the simplest one—just reach out and take what you want.
She's our Omega. There's no question about it, never has been since the day she walked into our lives like a force of nature. But now I want to make it official, similar to what the others have been doing slowly but surely. Today is my move, my claim, my chance to show her that behind all the commentary and calculation, there's an Alpha who wants her just as desperately as the others do.
We take the coastal road out of Monaco, the morning sun turning the Mediterranean into hammered gold. She handles the Ferrari like she was born in it, finding the perfect balance between respecting the vintage mechanics and pushing the engine to sing. I follow in the Jag, watching her navigate the increasing curves with an instinctive understanding that can't be taught.
The plan is to trade cars halfway up the mountain road that coils through pine and rock above the coastline. It's one of my favorite drives—challenging enough to be interesting, open enough to really open up the throttle, and scenic enough that even passengers who don't care about cars are impressed.
We stop at a pullout near Èze, the medieval village perched impossibly on the clifftop above us. She's out of the Ferrari before I've even set the Jag's parking brake, her eyes bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed from the drive.
"That was incredible!" she says, practically bouncing on her heels. "The way it responds, the sound—God, they don't make them like this anymore."
"Ready to try the Jag?" I ask, tossing her the keys.
She catches them one-handed, already moving toward the British racing green beauty. "Born ready."
The next section of road is where things get properly interesting. The curves tighten, the elevation changes become more dramatic, and the margin for error shrinks to nothing. But she handles the E-Type like it's an extension of her body, her heel-toe downshifts so smooth they make me want to drag her into the next roadside pull-off and ruin that perfectly applied lip gloss.
I follow in the Ferrari, trying to focus on the road instead of the way her hair whips in the wind through the open window, or how her dress has ridden up just enough to be distracting. The morning light filters through the pines, creating a strobe effect that turns everything dreamlike.
We climb higher, the air cooling as we gain altitude, until finally I flash my lights—the signal to pull over at the next opportunity. She follows my lead into a small parking area that opens onto a high overlook, the Mediterranean glittering far below like scattered diamonds.
She's out of the car immediately, spinning in place with her arms spread wide. "That was amazing! The way the Jag handles those hairpins—it's like dancing with a very elegant, very powerful partner."
"Glad you enjoyed it," I say, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart is racing—and not from the drive.
She turns to face me fully, and something in my expression must give me away because her eyes narrow slightly. "What are you planning, Dex?"
Instead of answering, I walk to the Ferrari's trunk and pull out a basket, enjoying the way her jaw literally drops.
"Is that... did you pack a picnic?"
"Technically, it was already here," I admit, gesturing toward the small setup that's been waiting for us—blanket spread on a flat section of grass, cushions arranged for comfort, and a view that belongs on postcards.
"How the hell did you set this up?" She's gawking, looking between me and the picnic like she can't quite process what she's seeing.
I chuckle, unable to hide my pleasure at her reaction. "I may have had some help. Luke was very accommodating this morning, despite being... otherwise occupied last night."
She blushes at that, but there's no shame in it, just a satisfied smile that makes me want to know exactly what happened in her apartment after they left the club.
"Do you like it?" I ask, suddenly needing her approval more than I want to admit.
"Hell yeah! This is amazing!" She's already pulling out her phone, then seems to remember something and dashes back to the car. She returns with a proper camera—a vintage film model that looks like it belongs with our cars. "Oh my god, I brought my camera!"
I smirk, remembering all the photos she used to take before the accident. She documented everything—races, quiet moments, the way light hit someone's face when they laughed. Her apartment had been full of printed photos, moments captured and preserved like she was afraid of forgetting.
"You like pictures, huh?"
"I do," she confirms, already framing a shot of the cars with the sea in the background. "Was I like that before? You know, before the memory loss?"
I grin, watching her work. "You were. Always had a camera somewhere, always catching people when they weren't prepared. Lachlan has a whole album of terrible candids you took of him."
She laughs, the sound bright in the morning air. "Well, we'll make more memories now then. Loads of pictures to document whatever this new version of us becomes."
The spread I've arranged—with Luke's help and some very expensive catering—is deliberately finger-food focused. Fresh fruits, artisanal cheeses, prosciutto so thin you can see through it, bruschetta that somehow stays crispy despite the transport, and chocolate-covered strawberries that cost more than they have any right to.
