Page 107 of Knot So Fast
Every word he says gets dissected, turned into headlines, posted with dramatic captions about the "mysterious twin revelation" and what it means for Formula One.
It's only now, in the last five minutes of this thing, that they're suddenly fascinated with asking me questions, as if my existence suddenly means something to them. As if I wasn't worth their time until they'd exhausted every possible angle with the champion.
My stomach has other opinions about this extended press session, and it's not being subtle about it.
Terek, probably noticing that my attention has drifted from the latest question about my training regimen, tries to bring me back into the conversation.
“Well, how are you feeling, Auren?"
"Hungry," I answer honestly, and right on cue, my stomach lets out a growl that could probably be heard in the parking lot.
It's the kind of rumble that suggests I haven't eaten in days rather than just skipping breakfast, a proper roar that my digestive system has apparently been saving for maximum embarrassment.
I pout as silence falls over the room, everyone apparently stunned that my body would dare have biological needs during their important press conference.
For a moment, nobody seems to know how to respond to this very human interruption to their carefully orchestrated media event.
Then Lachlan loses it.
His laughter starts as a snort, evolves into a chuckle, and then becomes full-bodied laughter that transforms his entire face. Gone is the serious champion, the controlled Alpha who'sbeen giving measured responses for the better part of an hour. This is just Lachlan, amused by the absurdity of it all.
He rises from his chair with the fluid grace that comes from years of athletic conditioning, and his hand finds mine before I even realize he's moving.
"Sorry folks," he announces, pulling me to my feet with gentle insistence. "My Omega is hungry and I can't possibly be a good Alpha by starving her. No further questions."
His hand is warm and solid in mine, and he's already guiding me toward the exit before anyone can object.
The reporters explode into a frenzy of follow-up questions and camera flashes, but we're already moving, Lachlan navigating us through the chaos with the same precision he uses on the track.
"I didn't think my stomach would do that," I say, blushing as we push through the doors into the hallway.
He laughs again, the sound echoing off the walls.
"Good, because I've been starving for the last twenty minutes and it's about time we get out of this place."
The driver is already waiting outside, because of course Lachlan had an escape plan.
The crowd in front of the conference hall goes absolutely wild when we emerge. The noise is overwhelming—screaming fans, shouting reporters, the click of hundreds of cameras all trying to capture this moment.
Lachlan slides on his sunglasses with practiced ease, and I follow suit, grateful for the barrier between me and the chaos.
Our hands are still tightly linked as we make our way toward the car, and I'm glad I brought the sunglasses because they let me scan the crowd without being obvious about it.
There are so many more Omegas present today than I've ever seen at a racing event. They're holding signs, wearing homemade t-shirts, screaming their support.
I catch glimpses of the messages as we pass:
#FirstOmegaFormulaOneChampion#ValeForTheWin#SugarAndSpiceAndEverythingFast#OmegaPower
One girl, probably no more than sixteen, is crying actual tears as we pass, clutching a sign that reads "You Made Me Believe I Can Do Anything."
The weight of that statement, the responsibility of being suddenly thrust into the role of representation for an entire designation, hits harder than I’d like.
That I’m inspiring others do believe they can achieve anything…
But there's no time to process it.
Lachlan ushers me into the car first, his hand on my lower back protective and possessive in equal measure. He closes my door before walking around to the other side, and immediately, reporters surge toward him.
