Page 61 of Knot So Lucky
Twin, my brain supplies.
Or possibly a sibling close enough in age that they could pass for identical.
"Is Rory breathing?" the new Alpha demands, dropping to his knees beside Cale without preamble.
"Yes," Cale and I answer simultaneously.
The twin's eyes snap to me, and I watch his expression cycle through confusion, suspicion, and barely contained violence in the span of seconds.
"Who the fuck are you?"
I consider my response carefully. Consider staying silent and letting Cale handle explanations. Consider backing off and removing myself from a situation that's clearly more complicated than I initially thought.
But then I remember those storm-green eyes.
The scent that called to every Alpha instinct I possess.
The certainty that settled in my chest the moment our eyes met.
"Elias," I say, keeping my voice steady and calm. "And before either of you says shit, I think he's my scent match."
The effect is immediate and dramatic.
Both Alphas' eyes go wide with shock that quickly morphs into rage. Their scents spike with territorial aggression—Cale's burnt cedar mixing with the twin's ozone and fresh linen in a combination that screamsthreatandcompetitionandback the fuck off.
If I were smarter, I'd probably be intimidated.
Instead, I just meet their glares with calm certainty.
Because I might have just met my scent match by nearly dying under a car driven by an Omega woman disguised as a male pit tech, and I have absolutely no intention of walking away from that now.
Fuck, I'm going to have to tell the others.
Luca's going to have opinions. Adrian will want to run background checks. The whole pack dynamic is about to shift in ways none of us planned for.
But this isn't good timing, is it?
The medical team arrives in a controlled rush—paramedics with equipment, fire suppression crew with extinguishers just in case, track safety personnel coordinating the chaos with practiced efficiency.
They swarm the wreck immediately, assessing damage and structural stability before attempting extraction.
"We need to get him out safely," the lead paramedic announces, a Beta woman with grey hair and the no-nonsense demeanor of someone who's seen everything. "Car structure is compromised but stable. Harness held, which likely prevented spinal damage. We'll use the extraction protocols—careful removal, immediate transport."
I watch as they work with coordinated precision, cutting away pieces of the car to create access, stabilizing the driver's neck with a cervical collar before releasing the harness. The whole operation takes maybe five minutes, but feels like hours.
They finally extract her—him,I have to remember to use the correct pronouns even in my own head—onto a stretcher. The safety harness did its job beautifully, distributing impact forces in ways that prevented the worst of the damage.
The moment the paramedics have him secured on the stretcher, the twin—Roran, based on context—is issuing orders like someone who's used to being obeyed.
"Only he, Cale, and a female paramedic will ride in the back."
One of the male paramedics opens his mouth to protest—probably about protocols or medical necessity or proper staffing—but Roran cuts him off with a look that could strip paint.
"If you want to be sued by the Lane family, be my fucking guest."
Lane family.
The name registers in my brain with the impact of a gunshot.
