Page 48 of Knot So Lucky
"Brake bias is fucked, keeps pulling left under heavy braking?—"
"Aerodynamics are causing understeer in high-speed corners?—"
I cross my arms, letting them finish their diagnostic litany while my mind processes the symptoms. The pattern is obvious if you know what to look for, and I've spent enough time under these cars to recognize the root cause.
I yawn deliberately—partly because I actuallyamtired after this morning's activities, partly to maintain the casual bored persona—and pitch my voice into that carefully practiced lower register.
"Root of the problem's an easy fix."
The garage goes quiet.
Everyone turns to stare at me, and I can feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing. Richard's eyes narrow with suspicion. Dante's expression morphs into something ugly and defensive.
"If it's so fucking easy to point out," Dante sneers, pushing off from the car to approach me with aggressive posturing, "why don'tyoujump into one of those fuckers and try it?"
The challenge hangs in the air, sharp with implied inadequacy.
My Omega instincts—even dampened by suppressants—recognize the Alpha aggression for what it is. A dominance play. A test to see if I'll back down, submit, accept my "place" in the hierarchy.
I smirk instead.
"If I did, you'd have these two beating your ass after I clocked yours." I gesture lazily at Cale and Roran, who both look ready to commit violence on my behalf. "But I'd gladly jump in and prove I have better balls than your weak ass."
Dante's face flushes red, and I see the exact moment he registers the implied insult.
"Although," I continue, voice dropping into something sharper, "I guess having a coward streak makes sense since you dropped out of the race this morning."
The garage erupts in barely suppressed reactions. Someone whistles. Marco makes a choked sound that might be a laugh. Even some of Dante's usual supporters look away, unable to defend the fact that their star driver rage-quit a virtual qualifier.
Dante's in my face before I can blink.
One second he's across the garage, the next he's invading my personal space with that overwhelming Alpha presence that makes the air feel thick and dangerous. His scent—sharp citrus mixed with something bitter and chemical—hits me like a physical blow.
It's aggressive. Dominant. The kind of scent designed to make Omegas back down and submit.
I catch myself before I take that instinctive step backward.
Hold my ground even though every biological imperative I have is screaming at me to lower my eyes, to show throat, to make myself smaller and less threatening to the angry Alpha currently close enough that I can see the individual pores on his face.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The binding around my chest suddenly feels too tight, restricting my breathing. Sweat beads at my hairline as my suppressants work overtime to keep my scent from betraying my designation under stress.
Hold. The. Fucking. Line.
Dante's eyes bore into mine, searching for weakness, for submission, for any sign that I'll back down from the challenge I just issued.
But before I can formulate a response, a hand appears between us.
Cale's hand, specifically, pushing Richard's face away from mine with casual strength that carries its own implicit threat.
"Man," Cale drawls, voice deceptively lazy, "learn some personal space. If you want to be openly gay to the world, wait your fucking turn."
The garage erupts.
Whistles. Laughter. Someone coughs "oh shit" loud enough to be heard over the general chaos. The tension that wascoiled tight and dangerous suddenly transforms into something lighter, more manageable.
Dante stumbles back a step, hand flying to his face where Cale pushed him, looking between us with an expression caught somewhere between outrage and confusion.
"Are you openly saying you're gay?" Dante's voice has gone higher, almost squeaky with disbelief.
