Page 125 of Knot So Fast
She shrugs, taking another sip of champagne. "I deleted it. It's probably nothing. You get stalkers all the time when you suddenly become famous. Part of the territory, right?"
I arch an eyebrow her way, not buying the casual dismissal for a second. There's a difference between fan photos and targeted surveillance, and something about her tone suggests this was the latter.
"Don't worry about it," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Katie's handling security. That's literally what she's paid for."
I want to press, to demand more details, to possibly call Katie right now and have her run a full security sweep. But I also recognize that look in Auren's eyes—the one that says she's choosing not to let fear control her actions. It's the same look she had before climbing into that car for the first race, the same determination that's always made her extraordinary.
So instead, I turn my hand palm up, interlacing our fingers, and watch the city lights reflect in her eyes. The view is spectacular—Barcelona stretching out in all directions, the sound of distant music drifting up from the streets below—but I'm more interested in the way wonder plays across her face.
I'll do anything to protect her. Because watching the world twinkle in her eyes is far better than watching flames before they roll back and close?—
The memory hits without warning.
Her car engulfed in fire. The sound of metal screaming. Her eyes rolling back as smoke filled the cockpit. The endless seconds before I could reach her, before I could pull her free, before I could breathe life back into her lungs?—
Wind snaps across the rooftop, sending her hair across her mouth and pulling me back to the present. I reach out, tucking the errant strands behind her ear with fingers that only shake slightly. Then I lean in and kiss her slow—not the hungry kind we usually fall into but the kind that stakes a claim without teeth. Soft but certain, a promise more than a demand.
Her fingers curl in my shirt, pulling me closer despite the table between us, and I think:this is how I die, happily.
It's so easy to enjoy intimacy with her like this, like she's truly our Omega again. Like before, when everything was simpler andthe future stretched out ahead of us full of possibilities instead of complications.
We never got the chance to go the full way before the accident. Never got to complete the bond, to mark each other properly, to make it official in the way that matters to our biology as much as our hearts. But I have every intention of doing it this time. To mark her. Claim her. To ensure she's ours now and always, no matter what challenges come.
I'm taking things slow because I want her to adjust to the others as well—Kieran with his quiet intensity, Caspian with his analytical affection, Dex with his strategic mind and surprising gentleness. That will take time with our crazy schedule, with races every other week and training in between, with media obligations and sponsor events and all the circus that comes with Formula One.
My phone vibrates on the table:Lucius calling.
I don't answer.
I'm giving him the silent treatment, which might be a little immature for someone my age, but if he's not going to commit—if he's going to continue coming in and out of our lives as he pleases like we're some kind of rest stop on his journey to wherever—then I'm not going to encourage it.
"Trouble in paradise?" Auren teases, having noticed me declining the call.
"Just someone who needs to learn that actions have consequences," I reply, signaling for the check.
The waiter appears with the leather folder, and I slip my card inside without looking at the total. When someone provides this level of privacy and perfection, cost becomes irrelevant.
"We make a good team, you know," she says as I sign the tip section—generous enough to ensure we'll always get a table here. "On and off the track."
"The best," I agree, standing and offering her my hand.
She takes it, rising with that grace that seems effortless but probably comes from years of having to be constantly aware of how she moves through space. The dress shifts as she stands, revealing a flash of leg that makes my mouth go dry.
We make our way to the elevator, her hand still in mine, conversation light and easy. She's slightly tipsy—not drunk, just relaxed in a way she rarely allows herself to be. The champagne has put color in her cheeks and a looseness in her shoulders that I want to bottle and save for the harder days ahead.
"Ground floor?" she asks as we step inside.
"Mmm," I agree, pressing the button. But the moment the doors close, I press her against the mirrored surface, kissing her with all the passion I've been holding back during dinner. My palm slides up her thigh, finding the slit in her dress and taking full advantage.
She moans into my mouth, the sound echoing in the small space, but then her hand catches mine just as I'm about to reach more interesting territory. She grins against my lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, "Earn it in Sector 2 tomorrow."
The challenge in her voice makes me grin wider. "Oh, I'll earn it. The question is whether you can keep up."
"Please," she scoffs. "I started twenty-third and finished second. Keeping up is what other people worry about."
The elevator dings, doors opening to the lobby, and we manage to compose ourselves just enough to look respectable. My hand stays on her lower back as we navigate through the restaurant, both of us fighting grins like teenagers who just got away with something.
Outside, the Barcelona night is warm and alive, but my good mood evaporates when I spot them—a pair of paparazzi, cameras already raised. They must have been tipped off, probably by someone at the restaurant looking to make a quick euro.
