Page 35 of Knot So Lucky
The question is whether I want to.
And standing here, naked and marked with Cale's claiming bites, I realize the answer is yes.
Fuck it. Why not?
I walk back into the bedroom, moving quietly despite my sudden rush of adrenaline. Cale's still sprawled across the bed like a satisfied cat, one arm stretched out to where I'd been lying. His dark hair is mussed, his tattoos stark against his pale skin in the early morning light.
He's beautiful when he sleeps.
Younger, somehow. Less guarded.
I grab the spare blanket from the chair in the corner and drape it over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. His face relaxes further at the warmth, and he makes a soft sound that does dangerous things to my heart.
"Sleep well," I whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his temple before I can overthink it.
Then I'm moving, walking through the penthouse toward my gaming setup with purpose in my stride.
It's nothing like Auren's elaborate multi-monitor command center with its custom-built racing cockpit and force feedback steering wheel that probably cost more than a small car. My setup is tucked into a corner of what was probably meant to be a formal dining room—a modest desk with a single ultrawide monitor, a decent gaming chair that's seen better days, and a VR headset that's a generation behind current technology.
It's a corner I visit once in a blue moon, usually when I need to decompress by tinkering with the latest mechanical design software or checking out new tech launches. A space that'sjust for me, for Aurora, without the weight of being Rory or maintaining the Lane family image.
The desk is cluttered with scattered papers—technical specs for engine modifications I've been conceptualizing, a half-finished coffee mug from three days ago, a stress ball shaped like a tire that Wren gave me as a joke.
I clear a space and wake the computer, listening to the tower hum to life while I stretch. My body's still loose from last night and this morning's activities, but I need to get my head in the game. Need to shift from post-sex contentment to competitive focus.
The coffee machine in the kitchen calls to me like a siren song.
I pad across the cold floor—still naked, because why bother with clothes in my own home—and start the elaborate process of making a proper cappuccino. My machine is one of the few things I splurged on that I don't regret: a sleek Italian model that produces liquid gold with the press of a button.
The smell of brewing espresso fills the kitchen, rich and bitter and grounding. I watch the dark liquid stream into my cup while my mind starts calculating race strategies, track layouts, and competition variables.
Three minutes until I need to be logged in.
I grab my coffee—scalding hot, no sugar, the way I've learned to drink it during endless overnight shifts in the garage—and head back to my setup. The leather chair is cold against my bare ass, and I briefly consider getting dressed before deciding that racing naked is a power move.
My computer monitor glows to life, displaying my desktop—a rotating background of classic Formula One cars that's purely self-indulgent.
I download the encrypted credentials from Pemberton's email and launch the racing simulator software. It loads withfamiliar efficiency, the interface sleek and professional. This isn't some amateur gaming setup—this is industry-standard simulation software used by actual racing teams for training and development.
The login screen appears, asking for credentials.
I paste in the encryption key and watch as it processes, granting me access to the team's registered account.
Which means I need a username.
Something quick, something that doesn't identify me as Aurora Lane or connect me to Rory Lane, the pit tech. I can't use my usual handle—StormChaser_AL—because that's too recognizable to anyone who's raced against me before.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing quickly.
GhostShift88
Generic enough. Forgettable. The kind of username that suggests someone filling in at the last minute, rather than a serious competitor.
Perfect.
I hit enter, and the system accepts it, pulling me into the competition lobby.
One minute to spare.
