Page 41 of Knot So Fast
I keep my composure like a blank slate, the way I've trained myself to do over months of pretending she's just another person instead of the woman who used to make my world stop spinning with nothing more than a sideways glance. But I can't stop myself from checking her out slowly, methodically, taking in every detail from the way her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders to the barely visible scars that remain as souvenirs from the car accident.
Most people wouldn't notice those small imperfections—thin lines along her left temple where glass cut deep, the slightly different texture of skin on her forearms where burns healed. But I've memorized every inch of her body in intimate detail, so the changes are glaringly obvious to me even if they're invisible to the rest of the world.
The big, obvious, noticeable difference since that day isn't physical at all. It's the complete absence of recognition in those gorgeous eyes when she looks at me. No warmth, no familiarity, no hint of the connection we used to share. She's looking at me like I'm a stranger, because to her conscious mind, that's exactly what I am.
And how we all vowed to pull away after that realization hit us like a freight train.
Except for Lucius, the selfish bastard.
It's fucking insane that their pack leader's twin brother gets to be the one who ignores our collective decision and gets the girl while the rest of us are suffering in our own levels of silence. Some of us are handling it better than others, but none of us are handling it well. As pit crew chief, I've become someone who observes more than speaks his mind, but it's clearly making me miserable because I have to act like this woman didn't rock my world in the best and worst ways possible.
Every day I watch cars race around tracks, and every single time I'm reminded of what we lost when we lost her. Not just her presence in our lives, but her talent, her fire, her absolute refusal to let anyone tell her she couldn't do something. She was going to change everything about our sport, and then everything changed for her instead.
I tune back into reality just as she asks, "Do... do we know each other?"
The question hits me like a physical blow, even though I was expecting it. Hearing her ask if we know each other when sheused to whisper my name like a prayer, when she used to fall apart in my arms and put herself back together with my help—it's devastating in ways I don't have words for.
"We do," I confirm, keeping my voice carefully neutral despite the emotional chaos happening in my chest. "We've known each other for quite some time."
She opens her mouth to ask what I assume will be follow-up questions about the nature of our relationship, but I cut her off before she can go down that dangerous path. I'm not ready for that conversation, and more importantly, she's not ready for those answers.
"I actually just came to speak briefly with your parents about some diplomatic issues," I explain, slipping into the professional tone I use when I need to maintain distance. "I didn't realize it was during dinner time, since this isn't the usual timeframe they prefer for business discussions."
Auren's frown is immediate and telling. I can read her like a book even when she can't remember writing the story herself. She doesn't like two specific things about my response:the fact that she's supposed to know me but can't recall any details, and the obvious way I'm excusing her from the upcoming conversation.
I can see the defiance building in those beautiful eyes, along with the way she wrinkles her nose like she's caught a whiff of something rotten. That particular expression used to appear whenever someone tried to manage her or make decisions on her behalf, and it's both comforting and heartbreaking to see that some aspects of her personality remain unchanged.
"I apologize for the intrusion," I continue, maintaining my diplomatic facade. "I'd be happy to wait until you've finished your meal."
But her parents immediately object, moving closer to the doorway with expressions of polite urgency.
"Oh no, please don't worry about that," her mother says with the kind of gracious authority that comes from a lifetime of managing social situations. "It's genuinely difficult to coordinate with your schedule, and we truly appreciate you taking the time to make a personal visit."
"Absolutely," her father agrees, nodding with what appears to be genuine relief. "Your expertise and input are invaluable, especially given the current... circumstances."
Auren gives me a side-eye that could cut glass. "You must be pretty popular then," she comments, her tone suggesting she's not particularly impressed by whatever importance her parents are attributing to me.
"I'll be retiring to my room for the night," she announces, clearly having decided she's done with this entire situation. "My headache is getting worse."
Her parents both sigh with obvious relief that she's willing to stay overnight rather than driving home in her current state. They surround her with hugs and kisses, her mother smoothing down her hair with maternal affection while her father presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.
"We should plan more family dinners when we can coordinate our schedules," her mother suggests hopefully. "It's so wonderful having you here with us."
"We'll see," Auren responds noncommittally, accepting their affection but clearly eager to escape the formal dining atmosphere.
She walks toward the staircase that leads to the second floor, and she has to pass directly by me to reach it. As she approaches, we share a look that lasts exactly long enough for me to catalog the defiant spark in her eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw.
I have to actively tame my body's response to that look, fighting against the way my cock wants to respond to the challenge she's unconsciously issuing. That particularexpression used to be my undoing—the way she'd look at me when she was about to do something reckless or rebellious, when she was gearing up to prove everyone wrong about what she was capable of.
And I know without a doubt that she isn't planning to stay in her room like a good little daughter. That's not Auren, memory loss or not. The woman I fell in love with never backed down from a challenge, never let herself be managed or controlled, never accepted being excluded from important conversations.
I make a mental note to keep this business discussion as brief as possible so I can check on her situation before she gets herself into trouble. Because if there's one thing I'm absolutely certain of, it's that Auren is going to find a way to learn what we're discussing, whether we include her or not.
I wait until her bedroom door closes with a soft click before turning my attention to her parents, who are watching me with expressions of cautious hope mixed with barely concealed anxiety.
"Shall we move this conversation to your study?" I suggest, knowing they'll want privacy for what we need to discuss.
Her father nods and leads the way down a hallway lined with expensive artwork and family photographs. The study is exactly what I expected—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books, and the kind of masculine authority that comes from old money and older power.
