Page 19 of Knot So Lucky
I don't want to think about what would have happened if Cale hadn't been there.
Cale, who's right about everything even when I wish he wasn't.
I haven't been taking care of myself. Haven't been eating properly or sleeping enough or doing any of the basic maintenance that keeps a body functional. Because the Formula One entry races are coming up—the preliminaries that will determine which teams and drivers make it to the main championship season.
Roran's competing.
My work will be on display for the entire racing world to see.
And I need it to be perfect.
Need to prove that I made the right choice by sticking with this team instead of accepting one of the fifteen other offers that have been sitting in my inbox for months. Ferrari wanted me. McLaren wanted me. Even Mercedes fucking Benz reached out through back channels, offering salaries that would make most people's heads spin.
But I chose this team.
Chose the underdog, the challenge, the opportunity to build something from the ground up instead of just maintaining someone else's legacy.
And now I need to prove it wasn't a mistake.
Even if it's killing me slowly.
I should probably go see Dr. Reeves. Our family's private Omega specialist, the one who's been managing my suppressant prescriptions since I was sixteen and decided I was going to pursue racing no matter what my biology said. She's discreet—bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and about six different NDAs my family's lawyers drew up.
Maybe she can get me better meds.
Something that doesn't make me zone out or feel like my head's stuffed with cotton. Or that lasts longer, so I'm not constantly calculating when I need the next dose.
A concoction that doesn't feel like I'm slowly poisoning myself in the name of a dream.
My eyes are drifting closed, the hot water and lavender scent combining into something dangerously soporific. I should get out. Should dry off and moisturize, and do all the evening routine things that keep my skin from revolting against the abuse I put it through.
Should, should, should.
But the water's so warm and my muscles are finally unclenching and I'm so fucking tired?—
A specific ringtone cuts through the bathroom's quiet.
Not my default tone. Not the generic chime I use for most calls. This one's distinctive—a guitar riff from a song Cale once told me reminded him of us. All aggressive drums and angry lyrics that somehow translated to sexual tension in ways I've never quite figured out.
Which means it's him.
Obviously…
I force my heavy eyelids open and reach for my phone, bringing it to my ear without bothering to look at the screen.
"If you set cameras in the bathroom," I say, my voice rougher than usual from not having to maintain the lower register, "I will spike your next bottle of water with laxatives."
"Noted." His voice is warm with amusement, that deep rasp that does things to my insides I'm not supposed to feel through suppressants. "Now get out of that bath and actually sleep in a proper bed where you can't drown."
I grin despite my exhaustion, sinking a little deeper into the water just to be contrary.
"You wouldn't let me drown even if I tried, considering you're probably in the building hiding somewhere like the stalker you are."
He grumbles something under his breath—too quiet for me to catch the actual words, but the tone is pure Cale.
Possessive, protective, and trying to hide both behind annoyance.
The sound makes me giggle, and I can't quite remember the last time I made that sound. Something light and genuine and completely unguarded in a way Aurora Lane isn't supposed to be.
