Page 201 of Knot So Lucky
And my Alphas are losing their minds.
Cale keeps trying to drape his leather jacket over my shoulders, only for me to shrug it off and hand it back.
"It's going to be hot in there. I'm not wearing a jacket."
"You're barely wearing anything as it is," he mutters, but his eyes keep tracking down my body with hungry appreciation that contradicts his words.
Luca is somehow worse. He's been glaring at my outfit for the past ten minutes like it personally offended him, his dark-chocolate-and-gunpowder scent spiking with possessive aggression every time I move and the dress shifts to reveal more skin.
"People are going to see you like this," he says flatly.
"That's kind of the point of going out," I reply sweetly. "Being seen. Having fun. Living life instead of hiding in compounds and worrying about threats we can't control."
Their own outfits are significantly more covered but no less attractive.
Cale is wearing black jeans that hang low on his hips, deliberately torn in strategic places that show glimpses of tanned skin. His shirt is a deep burgundy mesh that's technically opaque but shows enough of his chest and abs to be devastating. Over that, he's got a black leather jacket with silver hardware, and his dark hair is styled back from his face with some kind of product that makes it look perpetually wind-tousled. He's wearing holographic glasses perched on top of his head—the kind that will catch neon lights and create rainbow effects.
Luca went for all black—because of course he did. Black jeans that fit perfectly, a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in ways that should be illegal, and a black jacket with geometric patterns in reflective material that will show up under UV lights. His dark hair is loose, falling around his face in ways that make him look slightly dangerous. He's got teal and black glasses tucked into his jacket pocket, and I can already tell he's going to "forget" to wear them.
Both of them look like they walked off a fashion runway. All sharp angles and controlled aggression and barely restrained sexuality that makes my mouth water.
"We look hot," I announce, grabbing my own black shades—oversized and deliberately dramatic—and sliding them on. "Like a pack that fucks. Now can we please go before I lose my buzz?"
The weed gummies I took forty-five minutes ago are starting to hit, creating a pleasant warm sensation that spreads through my body like honey. It's my first time trying edibles—Cale's idea, suggested with a "it'll calm you down" that seems to have had the exact opposite effect.
Instead of calm, I feel excited. Energized. Ready to move and dance and get lost in music without overthinking every consequence.
The shots we did while getting ready probably aren't helping the situation. Tequila on top of weed, creating a combination that has me feeling pleasantly tipsy and significantly more daring than usual.
And the sexual tension between the three of us? Off the fucking charts.
Every brush of Cale's hand against my waist sends electricity through my nervous system. Every time Luca's eyes track down my body, I feel it like a physical touch. The air between us is thick with unspoken want, aggression bleeding into desire in ways that make my Omega instincts purr.
But that's an afterthought right now.
Because right now, I'm buzzed with excitement to be here, to dance, to beseenin ways that Rory Lane never gets to be.
I know someone will recognize us eventually. Three professional racers in the middle of Formula One championship season, at an underground rave when we should probably be resting for next week's competition.
But I want to be daring.On purpose.Want the world to see that Aurora Lane exists outside the garage and the track, that I'm young and alive and unafraid of being visible.
"Let's go," Cale says finally, apparently accepting that I'm not covering up. "Before Grumpy here changes his mind."
"I never agreed to this in the first place," Luca grumbles, but he's moving toward the car.
The warehouse is in the old industrial district, the kind of area that's been abandoned by legitimate business and reclaimed by underground culture.
From the outside, it looks like nothing—just another decrepit building with boarded windows and graffiti-covered walls. But the bass is audible from two blocks away, vibrations traveling through the ground like a heartbeat.
We park in a secured lot that costs more than most people's monthly rent, because apparently underground raves have bougie VIP options now. The security at the entrance recognizes us immediately—or at least recognizes that we're people who can afford the ridiculous cover charge—and waves us through without question.
The moment we step inside, the world transforms.
Throbbing bass that I feel in my chest more than hear. Neon lights in every color imaginable, strobing and pulsing in time with the music. The space is massive—probably used to be some kind of factory floor, now converted into a multi-level playground of sound and light.
The main floor is packed with bodies moving in synchronized chaos. The DJ booth sits elevated at the far end, surrounded by screens displaying psychedelic visuals. Bars are scattered throughout, glowing with LED underlighting. And above it all, VIP balconies look down on the crowd with private sections cordoned off by velvet ropes.
The air is thick with scents—sweat and alcohol and something sweet that might be synthetic pheromones, all mixing with the overwhelming bass that makes thinking difficult and feeling easy.
