Page 88 of Knot So Lucky
"I'm fine," he insists, the lie so transparent it would be funny if circumstances were different. "Just need a minute to?—"
"To what? Vomit on the track? Pass out behind the wheel at two hundred kilometers per hour?" I maneuver him onto the cot with more force than finesse. "Lay down before you fall down."
He collapses onto the mattress with a groan that sounds like defeat and relief combined.
I immediately grab a towel from the small bathroom attached to his station, running it under cold water until it'sthoroughly drenched. The water is ice-cold against my fingers, shocking enough that it helps ground me against the rising panic.
My twin is drugged.Poisoned.Incapacitated before the most important qualifier of his career by someone who couldn't handle being beaten by a "tech."
The rage simmering in my gut wants to explode outward. Wants to find Dante and make him understand exactly what it feels like to be violated, to have your autonomy stripped away by someone who thinks they're entitled to your submission.
But rage won't help Roran right now. Action will.
I return to the cot and lay the cold towel across his forehead, watching his face relax slightly at the temperature shock. His breathing is too shallow, too fast, and his scent is all wrong—ozone and fresh linen corrupted by whatever chemical cocktail is wreaking havoc on his system.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find the one labeled simply "Doc."
Dr. Reeves. Our family's private physician. The one who's been managing my suppressant prescriptions and knows more about Lane family secrets than most of our actual relatives.
The line connects after two rings.
"Aurora?" Her voice is professional but warm, carrying that particular tone doctors use when they're prepared for emergencies. "Is everything alright?"
"No." I keep my voice low, conscious that walls in racing facilities aren't as soundproof as they should be. "Roran's been drugged. I'm sending you the location. You need to come discreetly—we can't let anyone know he's unwell yet."
There's a pause while she processes this information. I can practically hear her shifting into crisis mode, mentally cataloging symptoms and treatments.
"Drugged with what?"
"Unknown. But he had drinks with Dante Moretti at a press event, and he's been sick ever since. Disorientation, nausea, loss of balance, dilated pupils, chemical smell underlying his scent."
"Understood. I'll be there in fifteen minutes with a medical kit. Keep him hydrated if he can manage it, and don't let him attempt any physical activity."
"Already handled."
I end the call and look down at Roran, who's watching me through half-closed eyes.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, the admission feeling heavier than it should. "I don't want to drive in your place. Don't want to steal your spotlight when you've been working your ass off for this."
Roran's laugh is weak and bitter.
"Spotlight won't matter if we're disqualified."
"What do you mean?"
"The Omega rule," he says, words slurring slightly. "If they're bringing it back like you said, and they announce it before the race..." He trails off, but the implication is clear.
Our team doesn't have an Omega driver. Which means even if Roran could race—even if he magically recovered in the next thirty minutes—we'd be disqualified the moment the rule is announced.
Unless…
The thought forms with crystalline clarity, terrifying and inevitable.
"They're going to pull what they did in Auren's year," I say slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Announce the Omega requirement last minute, right before the race starts. Create chaos and force teams to scramble."
"Probably." Roran's eyes are closed now, the cold compress helping but not enough to overcome whatever's in his system. "Which means we're fucked either way."
We fall into silence.
