Page 145 of Knot So Lucky
I push back from the table, standing to my full height.
"I didn't agree to any of this."
There's a moment of silence.
Then Cale speaks, voice dry with amusement.
"You're technically outnumbered, Thorne."
I look around the kitchen, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"Are you all actually fine with this?" The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended. "With permanently bonding to an Omega we barely know? With integrating someone into our pack dynamics that we've spent three years building?"
Cale nods immediately. "Yes. She's mine. I'm not letting her go."
The possessive certainty in his voice makes my chest tight.
Elias's response is calmer but no less definite. "She's my scent match. Walking away isn't an option, and honestly? I don't want it to be. The bond feels right."
Adrian's smile is soft. "I've been waiting for an Omega to complete our pack. Aurora seems perfect, even if the circumstances weren't ideal. So yes, I'm in."
Three to one.
I'm the only one opposing this idea, and the realization makes me feel isolated in ways I haven't experienced since before I formed this pack.
"Fuck." I huff out a breath, running my hand through my hair. "I'm not going to accept this easily."
I rise fully from the table, pacing toward Aurora with aggressive energy I'm not trying to hide.
"We were fine without an Omega," I say, letting my frustration show. "We've been functioning perfectly well for three years. We don'tneedthis complication in our lives or our racing careers."
"You're going to need an Omega to continue racing," Aurora points out, voice maddeningly calm.
She's right, and I hate it.
The new Formula One regulations specifically require professional racing packs to include at least one Omega. Some bullshit about "diversity and inclusion" that's really just the racing commission trying to capitalize on the publicity Auren Vale generated.
Without an Omega, we can't compete.
Can't defend my championship title.
Can't maintain our position as one of the top racing teams in the world.
The reality makes my jaw clench.
"I'm only tolerating the bare minimum," I tell her, getting close enough that I can see the individual flecks of color in her storm-green eyes. "Until we figure this shit out and decide how to actually move forward."
I reach out without thinking, poking her in the chest with my index finger.
Not hard. Not aggressive enough to actually hurt.
Just... claiming space, asserting some kind of dominance in a situation where I feel completely out of control.
We both stare at my finger pressed against her sternum.
The moment stretches, awkward and charged.
Then I move my hand up, pointing at her face instead—still not touching, but close enough that it's clearly a challenge.
