Page 174 of Knot So Lucky
~ELIAS~
The underground parking garage of the Celestine Towers is exactly as private as advertised.
Security cameras strategically positioned but blind spots carefully maintained—the kind of setup that costs serious money and speaks to residents who value discretion above all else. My sports car sits in guest parking, a sleek silver Aston Martin that I rarely drive because it draws too much attention.
But tonight calls for something special.
Tonight, I'm taking Aurora Lane on a proper date, and I refuse to show up in the practical sedan I use for garage work or the SUV the pack shares for team transport.
I check my watch—seven thirty exactly.
She said she needed an hour to get ready, which gave me time to make reservations and coordinate security protocols with the restaurant staff.
The Crimson Room is the destination. An underground speakeasy-style establishment owned by the Bravati family, tucked beneath an unassuming bakery in the old district.Neutral ground in mafia politics, where deals are made under the cover of live jazz and exceptional food.
I chose it partly for security—the place is a fortress despite its vintage aesthetic, with exit routes and protection protocols that would make any security consultant proud. But also because I want Aurora to understand that my world is darker than my soft voice and round spectacles might suggest.
That the Bravati family's "information network" is a polite euphemism for organized crime with roots stretching back five generations. That I'm comfortable in spaces where violence is an understood language and power is measured in connections rather than money.
The elevator chimes, drawing my attention.
And Aurora steps out.
I'm left completely speechless.
She’s not just wearing a dress—she’s eclipsed every expectation, weaponized grace into something jaw-dropping. The emerald green clings to her frame in a way that obliterates whatever memory I had of her in grease-stained coveralls, recasting Aurora Lane in a mythic light.
The fabric drapes with ferocious elegance: demure at the neck, hinting at collarbones like cut glass, then cascading along her shoulders and arms in a way that’s more art than architecture.
There’s a split up the thigh, just enough to flash the suggestion of muscle and skin when she moves, so the dress isn’t merely a shield or a disguise, but a challenge. A provocation meant for me.
Instinct is a wild thing; I feel it crash through me as soon as she rounds the pillar. Not sexual, not immediately, but something deeper—a tectonic realignment. Here stands the same Aurora who races cars with surgical focus and tells off world champions without blinking, but the energy radiatingoff her tonight is pure Omega, so concentrated it’s like she’s authored a new spectrum of desire just to fuck with me.
My brain is catching up to what my body already knows:this is the real Aurora.
Not the boundary-testing creature in pit lane, not the wolf in sheep’s clothing who passes for male in the press tent, but Aurora stripped of pretext and camouflage, reveling in the power only she possesses. My mouth goes dry. My hands, usually so steady, tremble on the steering wheel.
She walks with a measured step, chin high, eyes not meeting mine at first. I see the effort in her posture: the deliberate way she’s contained her nervous energy, distilling it into a kind of detached royalty.
Her collarbones catch the low lighting, shadow and highlight dancing along the line to her throat. The dress accentuates the narrowness of her waist, the hidden strength in her arms, the impossible geometry of her hips. Each motion is precise and fluid, as if she’s rehearsed this entrance a hundred times, determined from the start to make me lose my composure
For a moment, I’m struck by a wave of vertigo, as if the entire city has shifted around this singular vision.
My Alpha instincts spark in ways I’d assumed were theoretical:this is what it means to be undone by someone, to want and fear and worship all at once.
It’s not just the gown, not even the body inside it.
It’s the declaration, the absolute refusal to apologize for being extraordinary.
She pauses two paces from me, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes are a storm—gray, flecked with green, the color somehow made sharper by the emerald of the fabric. She lingers there, letting the tension stretch, then quirks her mouth in the barest ghost of a grin.
She's done her makeup—subtle but expertly applied, emphasizing her eyes and the curve of her lips in ways that transform her face without hiding her features. And her hair, usually kept short and styled deliberately masculine, has been coaxed into loose curls that frame her face with soft femininity.
She's almost unrecognizable.
If not for those storm-green eyes that I'd know anywhere, and the small tattoo visible on her shoulder—a mechanical gear intertwined with a compass rose that she got years ago and rarely shows publicly—I might not have realized this stunning woman is my Omega.
Aurora walks toward me with carefully practiced grace, and I can see the slight uncertainty in her expression. Like she's not quite sure how this presentation will be received, if it's too much or not enough or somehow wrong.
