Page 10 of Knot So Lucky
"Yeah, yeah, whose dick is bigger? Very fascinating. I'm taking a ten-minute break."
Both of them frown in perfect synchronization, which would be funny if it weren't for the concerned way they're looking at me.
"You okay?" my brother asks, dropping the aggressive posturing in favor of genuine worry.
"Fine. Just need some air."
Pemberton, who's been watching this entire exchange from the safety of the far wall, clears his throat.
"You're not planning to walk off the job, are you?"
I level him with a look that could strip paint.
"I'll be back in ten minutes. Car won't be ready until I say it's ready, and I say it's not ready until I've had a break." I walk toward the corner where my water bottle rolled, bending to scoop it up even though it's now empty and slightly dented. "I just need some fresh air."
"Make sure you eat something too," my brother calls after me. "You look pale."
"Don't tell me how to live my life,” I huff in annoyance, though deep down, his concern makes my heart swell.
Brotherly love.
"Drink water!" Cale adds.
"That would be easier if someone hadn't kicked my bottle, but sure."
Their laughter follows me out of the garage, and I hate how the sound makes my chest ache with something dangerously close to longing.
The late afternoon air hits me as soon as I step outside, warm and carrying the scent of racing fuel and hot asphalt. The private facility is massive, sprawling across acres of prime real estate, with multiple garages and a full-size track that winds through carefully landscaped grounds.
I walk until I'm out of sight of the garage, until I'm sure no one's watching, and then I lean against the side of the building and let my carefully constructed mask slip.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear—never from fear. From the effort of holding myself together, of maintaining the performance, of being Rory Lane the talented but cocky tech instead of Aurora, who just wants to fuckingbreathefor five seconds without calculating every movement, every word, every facial expression.
The suppressants are definitely wearing off.
I can feel it in the way my senses are sharpening, the way Cale's scent is still clinging to my memory even though he's not here. The way my body wanted to lean into him instead of maintaining the careful distance I've spent months cultivating.
I dig into my pocket, fingers closing around the small pill bottle I always keep with me.
For emergencies, I tell myself, even though I know that's bullshit.
This is the third time this week I've needed an extra dose. The suppressants are supposed to last twelve hours. I took my morning dose at six, which means I should be good until at least six tonight.
It's barely four.
I stare at the bottle, watching the pills rattle against the plastic, and wonder how much longer I can keep this up.
How much longer before my body starts rejecting the suppressants entirely?
Before someone notices that the intervals between doses are getting shorter and shorter?
Is it only a matter of time before everything I've built comes crashing down around me?
The pill is bitter on my tongue, even with the water I manage to coax from a nearby fountain.
I close my eyes and count backward from one hundred, waiting for the chemical calm to settle over my system like a weighted blanket. Waiting for my Omega instincts to be smothered back into submission where they belong.
