Page 98 of Knot So Lucky
The move is so swift, so perfectly executed, that one second I'm standing beside him and the next I'm in his arms. He's lifting me—actuallyliftingme off my feet despite my protests and the cameras and the entire fucking world watching.
Then he's kissing me.
His mouth crashes against mine with bruising intensity, claiming and possessive and absolutely devastating in its thoroughness. His tongue demands entry that I grant on instinct, too shocked to do anything except kiss back with equal fervor.
The kiss tastes like burnt cedar and coffee and victory, aggressive and desperate and carrying months of complicated feelings condensed into this single public declaration.
When he finally breaks away—only when we're both gasping for air—he keeps me elevated, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.
He walks backward toward the exit, addressing the stunned crowd with a voice that carries confidence bordering on arrogance.
"Nah," he says, grin sharp enough to cut. "Aurora Lane is my Omega and we're totally taking pack applications. So have fun applying."
Before anyone can formulate a response—before the reporters can recover from their shock enough to shout follow-up questions—he's carrying me off, striding away from the chaos with me still held against his chest.
I gawk up at him, mind reeling from too many revelations in too short a time.
"Cale Hart," I whisper fiercely, acutely aware that cameras are probably still trained on us, "what the fuck did you just do?"
He chuckles—low and satisfied and completely unrepentant.
His grey eyes meet mine with warmth that makes my chest tight.
"Playing my luck."
CHAPTER 17
Consequences And Choices
~CALE~
I'm spinning lazily in one of Richard's office chairs, watching the ceiling tiles rotate past with the kind of detached focus that comes from trying to process too much information at once.
Richard is losing his absolute shit.
He's been pacing back and forth across his office for the past ten minutes, hands gesturing wildly as he processes revelations that are apparently too massive for his brain to handle while stationary.
"Rory is actually a female," he mutters, voice climbing with each repetition. "Afemale. AnOmegaat that?—"
He pauses mid-pace, spinning on his heel to stare at Aurora like she's a particularly complex engineering problem he can't quite solve.
"How the hell did you finesse the physical examinations?" The question comes out strangled, somewhere between impressed and horrified. "The medical screenings, the background checks, the?—"
Aurora shrugs from her position in the other wheely chair, legs crossed with casual elegance that's somehow more feminine now that the secret's out. She's still in Roran's racing suit, hair mussed from the helmet, fingers flying across her phone screen as she finishes typing something.
The relief that crosses her face when she hits send is palpable.
"Roran's stable," she announces, looking up from her phone to address Richard's question like an afterthought. "He was admitted to the private hospital two hours away. Dr. Reeves says he's responding well to treatment."
My stomach flips with uncertainty at that information.
Two hours away means serious. Which means they needed facilities and specialists that our local medical setup couldn't provide. Whatever Dante gave him was bad enough that even our family's considerable resources couldn't handle it locally.
"How bad?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the rage simmering beneath the surface.
Aurora's frown deepens, storm-green eyes darkening with an emotion I can't quite name.
"Bad. Doc said if he hadn't been admitted when he was, he could have lost his gallbladder. Maybe his stomach entirely, depending on how the poison progressed."
