Page 66 of Knot So Lucky
There's a soft touch to my cheek.
Smooth fingers tracing gentle patterns across my skin with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for fragile things. The touch is soothing in ways I don't have words for, calming the residual panic that wants to spike when I remember the crash.
Who's touching me?
The third scent—it must belong to whoever's hand is currently stroking my cheek with such careful gentleness. The one who saved the kitten. The Alpha with soft green eyes who I locked gazes with before everything went dark.
Is he here?
The purring suggests the kitten is too, which seems like a medical violation but I'm not complaining if it's responsible for the contentment currently flooding my system.
I manage to open my eyes slowly, fighting against the exhaustion that wants to pull me back under.
Everything's blurry at first. Shapes and colors bleeding together in ways that suggest either head trauma or really good painkillers. Probably both.
Gradually, my vision focuses.
Soft green eyes stare back at me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but isn't. The most gentle shade of green I've ever seen, like new spring leaves or moss after rain. They're framed by those round black spectacles that make him look like he stepped out of a vintage film, and there are worry lines creasing his forehead that smooth out the moment he realizes I'm awake.
Relief floods his expression so completely that it transforms his entire face.
He was worried. Genuinely, deeply worried about me—a stranger who nearly died trying to save him.
And he's the one currently stroking my cheek with fingers that are somehow both callused and gentle.
The realization that this gesture—this intimate, comforting touch—is coming from him ignites such a level of relief in my chest that I don't know what to do with it.
It's so odd. He's obviously a stranger. I don't know his name or his story or anything about him beyond the fact that he crouched on a race track to save a kitten and has a scent that makes my Omega instincts sing.
Yet the confirmation that he's here, that he stayed, that his fingers are the ones providing comfort—it feelsrightin ways that bypass logic entirely.
I try to speak, but he doesn't even let me get words out before he's whispering.
"I'm sorry." His voice is soft, barely above a murmur, like he's afraid of disturbing me. "I'm so sorry."
I blink, confusion cutting through the drug-induced fog.
"I should have introduced myself earlier," he continues, words tumbling out faster now, nervous in a way that seems at odds with the calm touch. "I'm Elias. Elias Vance. And I also apologize for touching your cheek without permission. I just…you seemed distressed, and it was instinct, and I should have asked first."
My brain stutters trying to process this.
An Alpha. Apologizing. Not for something catastrophic or after being forced to by social pressure, but because he touched mycheekwithout explicit permission.
In my experience, Alphas don't apologize.
Not readily. Not genuinely.
Roran and Cale can manage it when they're absolutely convinced they're in the wrong, or when I deploy the nuclear option of actual tears—using that feminine vulnerability to make them so uncomfortable they'll apologize just to make it stop.
But spontaneous apology? From an Alpha who just introduced himself?
That's... new.
I shake my head as much as I can manage—which isn't much, given the way my neck protests any movement—trying to communicate that he doesn't need to apologize.
"Not... your fault," I croak, voice rough from smoke inhalation and general abuse.
"It is," Elias insists, and there's such sincerity in his tone that I almost believe him. "The kitten got onto the track because it was in my equipment bag. If I'd been more careful, if I'd noticed?—"
