Page 200 of Knot So Lucky
What could I do or offer that would make them feel better about this increasingly dangerous situation?
The stakes are getting higher with each race. More attention, more pressure, more opportunities for things to go catastrophically wrong. And my pack—my Alphas who are supposed to be strong and confident—are fracturing under the weight of trying to protect me while also competing at the highest levels of racing.
I need to do something.
Not just for them, but for the pack's cohesion and my own sanity.
But what's the best thing to get them less tense when everything feels like it's spiraling toward some inevitable confrontation?
The question sits heavy in my chest as I stand in the empty equipment room, surrounded by the scent of rubber and metal and the ghost of aggressive Alpha pheromones that still lingers in the air.
What's the best way to help them?
To show them I'm worth the risk they're taking by keeping me in their pack despite the danger?
To prove that I'm not Sera—that history doesn't have to repeat itself, that we can face these threats together and come out stronger rather than broken?
I don't have the answer yet.
But I'm going to figure it out.
And I'll be damned if I let fear—theirs or mine—stop us from becoming what we're meant to be.
CHAPTER 39
Neon And Need
~AURORA~
"Going to a fucking rave is a stupid idea."
Luca's declaration makes me roll my eyes so hard I practically see my own brain. We're standing in the private garage of the Thorne compound, and his scowl could strip paint off walls.
"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming," I say dryly, smirking at his begrudging commentary.
Cale has his arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his burnt-cedar-and-coffee scent mixing with my smoke-and-vanilla in ways that make my skin tingle. "We're going out before we all combust. End of discussion, Thorne."
What makes this entire situation even more hilarious is watching two grown Alpha men trying to cover me up like I'm walking around naked.
I'm not naked.
I'm wearing a perfectly reasonable rave outfit.
Okay, that's a lie.
It's absolutely not reasonable by any conventional standard, but that's kind of the point.
The dress—if you can even call it that—is electric blue with strategic cutouts that show significantly more skin than fabric. The neckline plunges to just above my navel, held together by thin silver chains that catch the light with every movement. The back is completely open, showing the full expanse of my spine down to where the fabric finally appears again at my lower back. The hem barely reaches mid-thigh, and the whole thing is made of some kind of holographic material that shifts colors under different lighting.
My legs are bare except for thigh-high boots in matching electric blue, the heels high enough to add four inches to my height but still manageable for dancing. And my skin—god, my skin is covered in glitter.Body glitter in silver and blue that makes me shimmer like some kind of disco ball fairy.
I spent an hour on makeup too.
Dramatic smoky eyes with silver glitter in the inner corners, sharp winged liner, lips painted a dark plum that makes my mouth look obscene. My short blonde hair is styled with texture spray and more glitter, giving it that deliberately messy look that somehow reads as intentional rather than just rolled-out-of-bed.
I look hot.
Undeniably, unapologetically hot in ways that Rory Lane never gets to be in public.
