Page 96 of Knot So Lucky
His features are sharp with barely contained rage, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping. His eyes—an intense shade of blue that probably looks stunning in promotional photos—are currently burning with the kind of anger that precedes either spectacular tantrums or calculated revenge.
Another male is running after him, smaller and clearly trying to play damage control.
"Luca, please—" The second Alpha grabs Thorne's arm, voice pitched in that particular tone of desperate pleading. "Press is watching and I really don't want to have to fight to protect your reputation this season,please?—"
They both stop in their tracks at the exact same moment I pause mid-breath.
Because their scents hit me all at once.
Luca's first—expensive cologne layered over something primal and distinctly Alpha. Cedar and leather with underlying notes of gunpowder and rain, sharp enough to cut through the ambient smell of rubber and gasoline.
Then the second Alpha's scent crashes into me like a wave—rosemary and mint mixing with something warmer, almost like honey and old books, carrying an intellectual edge that speaks to controlled intensity.
And underneath both of them, woven through their individual scents like threads in a tapestry:
Sandalwood.
Steel.
Gasoline and vanilla in trace amounts that my Omega instincts recognize with devastating certainty.
Pack scent.
The realization hits me with the force of a train wreck, goosebumps erupting across my arms and down my spine despite the racing suit and the binding and every physical barrier I've erected.
These two Alphas share pack bonds. Their scents are too complementary, too deliberately layered to be a coincidence.
And underneath it all is that same base note I smelled on Elias—the pack signature that marks them as belonging to the same social unit.
"Fuck," I whisper, the curse barely audible over the ambient noise of the pit area. "Don't tell me these two are also in Elias's pack."
The thought spirals into panic territory before I can stop it.
One scent match is unprecedented enough—finding an Alpha whose biology calls to mine on the most fundamental level. Butthree? Three Alphas all from the same pack, all triggering the same visceral response?
That's not just rare.
That's impossible…right?
Except apparently it's not, because my Omega instincts are currently screaming recognition at full volume, suppressants be damned.
Before I can process this new complication—before I can even begin to think through the implications of potentially being scent-matched to an entire pack—reporters and officials descend on our position like locusts.
Camera crews jostle for angles. Microphones get shoved in faces.
An official in a high-visibility vest pushes through the crowd with the kind of determined authority that suggests he's about to make this situation exponentially worse.
"Excuse me," the official says, voice carrying across the crowd with practiced projection. "We need clarification on the driver's identity."
All eyes turn to me.
Every camera, every microphone, every curious onlooker suddenly focused on the person standing at the center of what's about to become a scandal of epic proportions.
The official looks at me, then at his tablet, then back at me with confusion written across his features.
"Though your team did win the race," he says slowly, choosing words with visible care, "you're clearly not an Omega. The new regulations require?—"
Ugh. Not fucking now.
