Page 7 of Knot So Lucky
"The fuck did you just say to me?"
I sit up, crossing my legs and reaching for my water bottle, where I left it on the toolbox. "I said?—"
His boot connects with the bottle before my fingers can close around it, sending it skittering across the garage floor in an arc of spilled water.
The garage goes silent.
I watch the bottle roll, leaving a wet trail across the concrete, and something hot and violent surges in my chest. It's not fear—I learned a long time ago that fear is useless. It's anger, pure and incandescent, the kind that makes my vision sharpen and my pulse steady.
I look at my empty hand.
Then, at the water bottle, now lying in a sad puddle near the tire rack.
Then slowly, deliberately, I raise my eyes to Dante's face.
Well…that’s not very nice…
"Interesting choice," I say mildly.
He looms over me, probably thinking his size and Alpha presence are intimidating.
"Do you have any fucking idea who I am?"
I sigh—long,exaggerated, the kind of sigh that says I'm dealing with a particularly stupid child—and start the process of standing up. My knees protest after spending the last hour flat on my back under a car, but I force my movements to stay smooth and unbothered.
Once I'm upright, I brush my hands down my coveralls again, taking my time, making him wait.
Then I tilt my head and look at him like I'm examining a particularly unremarkable piece of machinery.
"All I know," I say, voice thoughtful, "is that you're a cocky motherfucker who just kicked my water bottle."
His eyes narrow.
I continue like he hasn't made a sound.
"Which means you clearly want the tech crew to be dehydrated so we can make stupid errors. Like, say, putting two cables into the wrong sockets. Or maybe encouraging an early deployment mechanism by the slightest bit of pressure." I pause, letting that sink in. "But hey, you didn't hear that from me."
The implication is clear:you want us to fuck up your car? Keep treating us like shit and see what happens.
His face goes through several interesting color changes before settling on a mottled red.
"You little?—"
He's in my space before I can blink, closing the distance with that Alpha speed that always seems to catch Omegas off guard.Except I'm not like other Omegas—I've trained myself not to flinch, not to back down, or show any of the submission instincts that suppressants can only do so much to hide.
His breath is hot on my face as he leans in, all aggressive posturing and barely-controlled rage.
"You think you're funny? You think you can talk to me like that?"
His scent hits me with such closeness—sharp citrus and motor oil mixed with something acrid, bitter. It's all wrong, aggressive, and unpleasant in a way that makes my Omega instincts recoil even as my suppressants work overtime to keep my body from betraying me.
This scent, combined with his Alpha impulsive energy, is nagging at my senses, setting my teeth on edge.
I wrinkle my nose, unable to hide my distaste.
"I think you should invest in better deodorant."
He growls—actually fucking growls like some kind of animal—and I tune him out.
