Page 160 of Knot So Fast
BITTER TRUTHS AND BROKEN BONDS
~AUREN~
"Open up," Luke says, holding a spoonful of soup that's probably more sodium than actual nutrition but somehow exactly what my body craves after three weeks of hospital food and careful recovery meals.
I roll my eyes but comply, letting him feed me like I'm some Victorian invalid who's taken to her bed with the vapors. The soup is good—chicken noodle with actual chunks of chicken and vegetables that haven't been boiled into submission. Homemade, because Luke doesn't believe in canned soup when someone's recovering from nearly dying.
"I can feed myself, you know," I point out between spoonfuls, though we both know I'm not going to stop him. My ribs are still tender enough that reaching for things hurts, and he's been militant about my recovery protocol.
"Shut up and eat," he says, but there's no heat in it. Just that particular brand of concerned affection that's been his default setting since they brought me home from the medical center.
My apartment has been transformed into what can only be described as a recovery commune. Every member of the pack has essentially moved in, creating a rotation of care that wouldbe suffocating if it wasn't so clearly born from love and fear. The guest room has become Kieran's unofficial residence, Dex has claimed the couch, and Lachlan keeps "dropping by" at all hours with supplies I don't need and worry he tries to hide.
Currently, my bedroom is playing host to what feels like half of Monaco.
Katie sits cross-legged at the foot of my bed, scrolling through her tablet with the intensity of someone planning a military campaign—which, knowing her, she probably is. Security protocols have been tripled since the incident, and she's taken the threats against me as a personal insult to her professional capabilities.
Rory is draped across my reading chair like a cat, her blonde hair with blue highlights catching the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. She's wearing her usual disguise of baggy clothes and a cap, but here, in the safety of my room, she's let her guard down enough to actually look like the Omega she is rather than the Beta she pretends to be.
Wren has positioned her wheelchair next to my nightstand, close enough that she can steal sips of the tea Luke made for me while providing running commentary on everyone else's behavior.
"You're all so damn loud," Luke complains as Rory and Wren get into a heated debate about whether the latest Marvel movie was garbage or just mediocre. "You're gonna give Auren a migraine."
"I'm fine," I assure him, though the lingering headache that's been my constant companion since the crash pulses in disagreement. "Really, you don't all need to be here. Especially when the guys are coming back from their race in Italy."
The Italian Grand Prix at Monza—the Temple of Speed, they call it. One of the most prestigious races on the calendar, and I'm stuck in bed missing it. Three weeks of recovery for what theykeep calling "minor" injuries—a concussion that was apparently not so minor, bruised ribs that make laughing feel like being stabbed, and various cuts and contusions that have painted my body in shades of purple and green.
"Minor injuries my ass," Wren mutters, clearly reading my thoughts on my face. "You literally had to be pulled from a burning car. Again. That's not minor, that's a fucking miracle you're alive."
"Twice," Rory adds helpfully. "Twice you've nearly been barbecued. Maybe consider a less flammable hobby? Like, I don't know, knitting?"
"Knitting needles are technically weapons," Katie points out without looking up from her tablet. "Probably safer to stick with racing."
They dissolve into bickering about the relative dangers of various hobbies, voices overlapping in the familiar chaos that's somehow become comforting. This is what I've missed—not the careful, quiet concern of the past weeks, but this. The normalcy of friends being ridiculous in my space.
"Besides," Rory says, turning her attention to Luke with a grin that spells trouble, "someone has to make sure lover boy here actually makes a move instead of just pining from afar."
Luke's face goes red so fast I'm concerned about his blood pressure. "I'm not—we're not—fuck off."
"Oh, he's finally being serious about his crush!" Wren crows, clapping her hands in delight. "Only took him what, two years?"
"Three," Rory corrects. "Remember that time at the Monaco yacht party where he literally walked into a pole watching Auren in that silver dress?"
"That was a door," Luke protests, his face now approaching tomato territory. "And I was drunk."
"You had one beer," I point out, unable to resist joining the teasing.
He glares at me with betrayal. "Et tu, Auren?"
The girls laugh, that bright, unrestrained sound that fills the room with warmth. These are my people—my chosen family who've stood by me through memory loss and media storms, through triumphs and nearly dying. Twice, apparently.
Katie finally looks up from her tablet, a small smile playing at her lips. "Alright, we should probably let Auren rest for a bit. Real rest, not Luke's version where he hovers and asks if she needs anything every thirty seconds."
"I don't hover," Luke protests.
Everyone stares at him.
"I hover a normal amount," he amends.
