Page 62 of Knot So Lucky
Lane Industries. Multi-billion dollar conglomerate with interests in racing, technology, manufacturing, and about seventeen other sectors. One of the wealthiest families in Europe with connections that make my own family's underground dealings look like amateur hour.
The paramedic literally steps out of the ambulance without another word.
Smart man.
But as the doors start to close, I move on instinct, putting my hand out to stop them.
"I'm coming with you."
Roran's glare could melt steel.
"The fuck you are."
"This is my fault," I say simply, because it's true. "If the kitten hadn't been on the track, none of this would have happened."
"There's nothing a commoner can do," Cale drawls, but his eyes are sharp with calculation. "This is out of your league."
"I'll cover any expenses." I keep my voice calm, reasonable, like I'm discussing dinner plans rather than medical care that probably costs more than most people's annual salary.
"You can't afford that shit," Roran snaps.
I meet his eyes with the kind of calm certainty that comes from growing up in a family where money isn't a concern—it's a weapon.
"Try me."
We share a look—assessment, challenge, and the beginning of grudging respect.
The female paramedic's voice cuts through the tension with exasperated authority.
"Can you three Alpha shits move it and deal with your possessive bullshit in the back while we'removingso I can do my job?"
The censure in her tone has all three of us frowning in unison—a moment of synchronized reaction that would be funny if circumstances were different.
I hop into the ambulance before either of them can protest further, settling onto the small bench seat opposite the stretcher. The doors slam shut with finality, and the vehicle lurches into motion with sirens wailing.
The female paramedic—her name tag reads "Santos"—works with efficient precision, hooking up oxygen monitors and checking vital signs while steadfastly ignoring the three Alphas crowding her workspace.
Cale and Roran both turn to glare at me with identical expressions of barely contained violence.
"This is your fault," they say in unison.
The synchronized accusation would be impressive if it weren't directed at me with such venom.
I sigh, leaning back against the ambulance wall and acknowledging the truth of their statement.
"Technically, it is and isn't my fault."
Meowwwww.
All three of us freeze.
The tiny sound cuts through the tension like a knife, impossibly loud in the enclosed space.
We all look down as a small black head emerges from between my shirt and jacket, the kitten apparently deciding that now is the perfect time to make its presence known.
Before any of us can react, the kitten launches itself from my chest with surprising agility, landing perfectly on Rory's chest where it immediately curls up and starts purring.
"Get that thing off—" Roran starts.
