Page 54 of Knot So Lucky
"Rory," Roran's voice cuts in, sharp with panic and protective fury. "Rory, don't you?—"
But I'm already somewhere else.
My fingers move across the controls like I'm back in the VR simulation, everything crystallizing into perfect clarity as theworld around me goes silent. Not the quiet of peace—the silence of absolute focus where nothing exists except the track, car, and the mathematical certainty of what needs to happen next.
I take one solid breath.
Calculate the distance between my car and Dante's.
Realize I only need half a lap to catch up.
No—topasshim.
My foot slams the accelerator to the floor.
The prototype jolts forward with acceleration that presses me back into the seat hard enough to make my ribs protest against the binding. The engine note climbs to a banshee wail, the sound so loud it drowns out whatever's being said through the comm channel.
Everything is background noise.
The pit crew's alarmed voices. Richard is yelling something about safety protocols. Roran is cursing in Italian. Cale is demanding that someone repeat what the fuck Dante said.
None of it matters.
All that matters is the track ahead and the smug asshole I'm about to humble in front of everyone watching.
I reach Dante in half the time anyone expected.
The telemetry display on my dashboard is screaming warnings about engine temperature and tire degradation, but I ignore them all. This isn't about preserving the equipment anymore.
This is about proving a point.
I bypass Dante's car with speed that shouldn't be possible given our relative positions moments ago, the aerodynamic draft between our vehicles creating turbulence that makes both cars slightly unstable.
Then I'm ahead, pulling away, the gap between us widening with every meter as I carry impossible speed into the next corner.
The turn approaches fast—too fast for safe braking given the documented issues with the brake system—but I don't care about safe right now.
I change gears with violent precision, the transmission protesting the aggressive downshift, and somehow maintain the speed through the apex by using a racing line that's right on the knife-edge of physics.
The car rotates beautifully, rear tires sliding just enough to help turn the nose while I modulate the throttle to maintain traction.
"THEY FOUND THE PROBLEM!" someone shouts through the comm, excitement overriding protocol. "The mounting bolts on the brake calipers are backed off by three millimeters! All three units!"
I huff, allowing myself a moment of vindication—I was right about it being something simple—before focusing on the next corner.
I prepare to brake, foot moving toward the pedal, when I see it.
A black kitten.
An actual fucking black kitten sitting in the middle of the racing line, tiny and oblivious to the multi-ton death machine screaming toward it at speeds that would atomize its small body on contact.
"FUCK!"
I jam the brakes far too hard, feeling the compromised system fail to provide adequate stopping force. The car doesn't slow fast enough, and I watch in horror as an Alpha suddenly races onto the track.
He's trying to scoop up the kitten, but he crouches instead of grabbing and running. Just crouches there like he has all the time in the world, cradling the small animal against his chestwhile my car barrels toward him with momentum that can't be stopped in time.
I'm going to hit him.
