Page 175 of Knot So Lucky
I'm out of the car before conscious thought, circling around to meet her halfway.
"Aurora." Her name comes out reverent, barely above a whisper.
She smiles—shy and genuine—and that expression combined with the feminine presentation does something complicated to my chest.
I open the passenger door for her, old-fashioned courtesy that my grandmother drilled into me from childhood. Aurora slides into the leather seat with surprising ease, the gown pooling elegantly around her legs.
I close her door carefully before returning to the driver's side, giving myself a moment to collect thoughts that have scattered at the sight of her.
Once I'm settled in my seat, I turn to face her properly.
The enclosed space of the car makes her scent more intense—smoke and vanilla mixing with something floral that mustbe perfume she applied. It's intoxicating, making my Alpha instincts purr with satisfaction.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to refuse, and press my lips to hers.
The kiss is tender but thorough, claiming her mouth with the kind of confidence I rarely show outside specific contexts. She tastes like mint with envisioned grace of possibility, her lips soft and responsive against mine.
When I pull back, her eyes are slightly dazed, pupils dilated with arousal.
"You look very stunning right now," I tell her honestly, letting my gaze travel deliberately over her features. "And extremely fuckable, if I'm being completely honest. But I'll be a gentleman tonight."
I pause, letting my smile turn slightly wicked.
"At least until after hours."
The blush that spreads across her cheeks is absolutely devastating, pink heat that makes me want to trace its progress with my tongue.
"Elias!" Her voice is higher than usual, flustered in ways I rarely get to hear.
I just chuckle, turning my attention to starting the car. The engine purrs to life—expensive machinery that responds beautifully to the slightest input.
"Ready?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
Aurora nods, settling into the seat with visible excitement.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The entrance to The Crimson Room is the sort of place you’d only find if you already knew it existed.
Sandwiched between the crumbling brick of a century-old tenement and the neon glow of a Korean bakery, there's a single steel door, painted the color of dried blood and barely distinguishable from a maintenance hatch.
The only hint that this isn’t just a service entrance for trash runs is a polished brass plaque that reads "Members Only" in delicate, almost apologetic script—a sly wink to those in the know, a polite middle finger to everyone else.
The alley leading up to it smells of yeast and rain-slicked pavement, faintly floral from the bakery’s morning output but undercut by the metallic tang of the city at night.
Most pedestrians would miss the door entirely, even in daylight, and that's the point. I slow down as we approach the threshold, hyper-aware of every step behind me.
Aurora’s gait is careful but assured, her presence compressed so tightly she could set off a Geiger counter. I catch her glancing at the plaque, then back at the bakery’s glowing sign, piecing together how this chessboard of power and secrecy fits into my history.
She’s tense—but not from fear. More like she expects the ground itself to shift, as if there are traps and double meanings rigged into the concrete. She’s not wrong.
The weight of my hand on her back is as much a reassurance as a territorial claim, and I feel the tension in her spine ease, just barely, as I guide her forward.
The sound of our footsteps is swallowed by the alley’s acoustics, making the approach feel more conspiratorial than it probably needs to be. When we reach the steel door, I knock twice in the rhythm I was taught years ago, then once more for tradition’s sake.
The peephole slides open, and a sliver of watchful Beta eye peers out—immediately recognizing me even before I give my name.
