Page 1 of Knot So Lucky
Prologue: Collision Course
~AURORA~
The rain is fucking relentless.
It hammers down in sheets so thick I can barely see three feet ahead, turning the alleyway into a river of oil-slicked asphalt that reflects the neon glow of the circuit lights bleeding through the storm. Water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my skull, soaking through my pit crew jacket until the fabric clings to every curve I've spent years hiding under baggy clothes and binding tape.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, the pulse points at my wrists that are suddenly hypersensitive to the cold bite of rain. I'm running—from what, I'm not entirely sure anymore.From the truth that's been chasing me for years? From the realization that I'm about to lose everything I've fought for?
From the fact that the virtual racer who's been beating me online for months might have just figured out my secret?
My boots splash through puddles as I barrel deeper into the narrow space between the paddock building and the equipmenttrailers, desperate for somewhere to think, to breathe, to fuckingprocesswhat just happened in that garage.
The way Luca Thorne looked at me.
Not through me, the way everyone else does when they see just another Alpha pit tech in grease-stained coveralls.
Not past me, like I'm invisible in a sea of testosterone and motor oil.
Atme.
Like he could see straight through the suppressants I'd reapplied just two hours ago, through the binding compressing my chest, through the carefully cultivated scent of motor oil and Alpha musk I've been masking myself with since I was seventeen years old.
I press my back against the cold brick wall, chest heaving, and that's when I smell it.
Spiced leather. Black pepper. Storm rain.
The scent cuts through the downpour like a blade through silk, sharp and unmistakable and so overwhelminglyAlphathat my Omega instincts—the ones I've been strangling into submission for nearly a decade—suddenly surge to life with a vengeance.
My suppressants should be working.
They're supposed to mask my scent for another six hours at least, keep my body from reacting, keep me safe in a world that would chew me up and spit me out the second they realized what I really am.
But apparently, my body didn't get the fucking memo.
Because the moment that scent hits my nostrils, something deep in my coreclencheswith a recognition I have no business feeling.
I don't have time to run.
One second, I'm standing there, trying to convince myself I imagined the whole thing, that I'm being paranoid, that there's no way heknows.
The next second, I'm slammed against the brick wall so hard the air punches out of my lungs in a shocked gasp.
A body—solid muscle and controlled fury—pins me in place.
Rain streams between us, over us, creating a curtain that makes the rest of the world disappear until there's nothing but the two of us and the electricity crackling in the space where our bodies meet.
Luca Thorne.
Up close, he's even more devastating than he has any right to be.
The rain has turned his dark brown hair almost black, the sides cropped close while the top falls forward over his forehead in a way that would be boyish if it weren't for the purely predatory look in his eyes. Those eyes—molten amber shot through with gold when the circuit lights catch them just right—are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees want to buckle.
The tattoos I've seen peeking out from his collar during interviews snake up his neck in intricate patterns, visible even in the dim light. I know from photos—not that I've been looking….even though I've saved every goddamn image of him I could find online—that they continue down over his ribs, over his chest, a map of ink that I suddenly, desperately want to trace with my tongue.
Focus, Aurora. For fuck's sake, focus.
His forearm is braced against the wall next to my head, caging me in, while his other hand grips my hip hard enough that I'll have bruises tomorrow. The touch sears through the wet fabric of my coveralls like a brand, and I hate how my bodyresponds—arching into him before my brain can catch up and tell it to stop.
