Page 87 of Knot So Lucky
I leave the tech room, weaving through the continued chaos of the garage toward the private driver stations. The hallway leading to Roran's room is quieter, insulated from the main workspace by soundproofing that's supposed to give drivers space to focus before races.
My heart is pounding against my bruised ribs, each beat a reminder of the crash, of the risks I'm about to take again.
But underneath the fear is something else.
Excitement. Anticipation. The electric thrill of knowing I'm about to do something that could change everything.
I'm going to race.
Not as a tech running diagnostics. Not as a fill-in during testing. Not hidden behind a VR simulation where no one knows my real identity.
I'm going to race in an actual qualifier, with real stakes and real consequences and real opportunity to prove myself.
And hopefully, it's time to stop hiding…
Time to step into the light and show everyone what an Omega can do when given the chance.
But first, I need to check on my brother.
I head toward Roran's stationed room, each step feeling like walking toward a crossroads where every path leads to an unknown journey.
CHAPTER 15
Lines In The Sand
~AURORA~
Iknock on Roran's door with more force than strictly necessary, knuckles rapping against the metal in a pattern he'll recognize as urgent.
"Roran. Open the door."
"I'm preparing for a race," comes his muffled response, and even through the door, I can hear how wrong his voice sounds. Rough and strained, lacking the usual confident timbre that carries across press conferences and team meetings.
I huff, patience already wearing thin.
"If you don't open this door right now, I'm going to remind you that I'm still the better door kicker and I know how to fight dirty."
The threat isn't idle. We spent our entire childhood in martial arts classes together, and while Roran has height and weight advantages, I've always been faster.
Meaner when pushed.
There's a grunt from inside, followed by shuffling footsteps that sound unsteady.
The door opens.
Roran looks like complete shit.
His skin is the color of old parchment, clammy with sweat that's plastered his blonde hair to his forehead in unflattering clumps. His storm-green eyes—normally sharp and alert—are glazed and unfocused. He's gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him vertical, and even from three feet away, I can smell the sickness rolling off him in waves.
Not just illness. Something chemical underneath it. Foreign substances metabolizing through his system in ways that make my Omega instincts screamwrong, danger, and poisoned.
"Fuck no," I say immediately, pushing past him into the room. "I'm calling the family doctor."
"No," Roran protests weakly, trying to block my path with one arm. The movement makes him sway dangerously. "I have the race. I need to?—"
"The fuck you're racing." I catch him before he can collapse, slipping under his arm to support his weight. "Are you insane? You can barely stand."
He's heavier than I remember, or maybe I'm just more aware of my own injuries. My ribs protest as I help guide him back toward the small cot that serves as a resting area in these driver stations. Every step is a negotiation between his unsteady balance and my limited strength.
