Page 12 of Knot So Lucky
Just being around her—her scent drifting to my nostrils and making them flare with yearning—makes it harder to maintain the facade. That subtle sweetness of smoked vanilla and gasoline that her suppressants try to mask but can never fully hide from me, not after years of memorizing every note of her. You’d think the combination would be odd or make you wrinkle your nose, and yet it’s so fucking addicting to inhale, like a form of crack you don’t want to stop inhaling.
When that fucker Dante got in her face, spouting his entitled bullshit about championships and family investments, all I could think about was rearranging his facial structure until he learned some fucking respect.
These fuckers have no idea what family Rory comes from.
They know glimpses of the Lane fortune—impossible not to when Roran Lane, Aurora's identical twin brother, is making headlines as one of the rising stars in professional racing. They see the money, the influence, the carefully constructed public image of a racing dynasty.
What they don't see is the full scope of it.
The underground dealings and corporate machinations. The way the Lane family controls half the racing industry through shell companies and strategic investments. The fact that Aurora herself could buy and sell Dante's entire family line three times over without making a dent in her trust fund.
But she's here, covered in grease and bruises, pretending to be someone else because she loves this sport more than she loves safety or comfort or the easy path her family's wealth could provide.
Roran's going to be one of the competing drivers in Formula One: Miami, happening in a few weeks.
The tension around the facility has been building steadily, electric and volatile, because there's a real possibility he'll be partnered with the new champion of last year's competition.
Luca Thorne.
The name alone makes my jaw clench.
The Alpha who overthrew the official champions—both currently on leave this year—and claimed the title in a season that turned the entire racing world on its head.
Auren Vale and Lachlan Wolfe.
The first Omega to ever claim the Formula One title, partnered with the five-time champion whose dominance was so absolute that people genuinely believed he was unbeatable.
Their victory had changed everything. Shifted the entire paradigm of what was possible in this sport. Auren Vale proved that Omegas could drive, could compete, couldwinat the highest levels despite every biological and social factor stacked against them.
And the racing commission, money and progressive headlines, had immediately changed the rules to force Omega's participation in professional racing.
For exactly one glorious, chaotic season.
Then the rule mysteriously shifted back afterward.
"Temporarily suspended pending safety reviews," they called it, but everyone knows it's bullshit. They got their headlines and their sponsorship money, proved they could be progressive when it was profitable, and then quietly swept it back under the rug the moment it became inconvenient.
But now, with Miami coming up and the media circus building, everyone's nervous they'll pull that shit again.
Force the Omega participation rule back into effect because the viewing numbers and merchandise sales during Auren's championship season were unprecedented.
Which would be great for Aurora's career prospects if she weren't hiding her designation under layers of suppressants and carefully constructed lies.
I spot a vending machine near the side entrance and make a detour, fishing crumpled bills from my pocket. The machine hums as it dispenses an ice-cold bottle of water, condensation already beading on the plastic.
Aurora's scent trail is easy to follow—easier than it should be, which means her suppressants are wearing off faster than they're supposed to. The thought makes my Alpha instincts surge with possessive satisfaction even as the rational part of my brain recognizes the danger.
If I can smell her this clearly, others will start noticing soon.
I follow the scent around the corner of the building, into the narrow space between the garage and the equipment warehouse where the security cameras don't quite reach. She's smart about these things, always knowing the blind spots, always calculating her exposure.
My heart does something complicated when I finally see her.
She's leaning against the brick wall, one hand braced against the rough surface like she needs the support. Her other hand is stuffing something into her pocket—a small orange pill bottle that I've seen her sneak into her coveralls enough times to recognize immediately.
Suppressants.
The confrontation with Dante must have triggered her senses harder than usual. Made her Omega instincts flare despite the chemical dampeners running through her system. The realization makes rage simmer low in my gut because she shouldn't have to deal with this shit. Shouldn't have to pumpherself full of drugs just to exist in a space that should welcome her talent regardless of her designation.
