Page 16 of Knot So Lucky
"I'll eat your stupid food when you bring it, you controlling asshole."
Close enough.
I turn to leave, already calculating what I can get delivered that will have enough protein and calories to keep her functioning through the rest of her shift. Something she actually likes instead of just tolerating, because if I'm going to enforce eating breaks, I might as well make them something she'll actually consume.
"Cale."
I pause at the door, looking back over my shoulder.
She's still sitting on the table, water bottle in one hand and half-eaten donut in the other, her expression softer than it was a moment ago. Almost vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
"Thanks," she says quietly, so quiet I almost miss it.
My chest does something complicated. Something warm and possessive and achingly tender in a way that has no place in whatever toxic, hot-and-cold thing we've been doing for years.
"Don't mention it," I manage, keeping my voice level even as my Alpha instincts are practically purring with satisfaction at having provided for her. "Seriously. Don't. I have a reputation to maintain."
She snorts, and the sound is so perfectly her—unguarded and genuine—that I have to force myself to leave before I do something stupid like cross the room and kiss her again.
The door closes behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, letting my head fall back against the metal as I try to get my shit together.
This is torture.
Being close to her, knowing her secret, wanting her with an intensity that borders on obsession, while having to pretend our connection is nothing more than rivalry and convenient fucking when no one's watching.
But as I push off the door and head back toward the garage, already pulling out my phone to order food, I know I wouldn't have it any other way.
Because Rory Lane—brilliant, stubborn, infuriating Aurora—is worth every second of this complicated, messy, impossible situation.
Even if it kills me.
CHAPTER 3
Sanctuary And Surveillance
~AURORA~
The clock on my dashboard reads 2:47 AM when I finally pull into the underground parking garage of the Celestine Towers.
My body aches in ways that have nothing to do with the physical labor and everything to do with the constant tension of maintaining a performance for fourteen straight hours. My jaw hurts from keeping my voice pitched lower. My shoulders ache from the way I have to carry myself—broader, more aggressive, taking up space in a way Omegas are trained from birth not to do.
The binding around my chest feels like it's cutting off circulation to my lungs.
I'm so fucking tired.
The car—a sleek black Audi R8 that I bought specifically because it doesn't scream "generational wealth" the way some of my other vehicles do—purrs into my designated spot. Reserved parking on sublevel three, where the security cameras aremonitored 24/7 and the access requires both a key card and a biometric scan.
Safe.
As safe as I can be in a world that would destroy me if it knew the truth.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat—the same grease-stained duffel that's seen better days, because showing up to work with designer luggage would raise questions I can't afford to answer. My work coveralls are balled up in a plastic bag at the bottom, reeking of motor oil and sweat and the particular chemical smell of suppressants metabolizing through my pores.
The elevator ride to the forty-second floor is mercifully empty. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls and barely recognize myself.
Short blonde hair with carefully maintained highlights, styled in that deliberately messy way that reads as masculine casual rather than feminine effort. The star crescent tattoo under my right eye—currently visible now that I've wiped away the concealer I wear over it at work to differentiate myself from Roran. Grease smudges on my jaw and neck that I was too exhausted to fully clean. Storm-green eyes that are more bloodshot than stormy right now, rimmed with dark circles that even the best concealer couldn't hide.
I look like shit.
