Page 93 of Knot So Fast
One look at the screen makes me groan loud enough to echo off the walls.
287 missed calls from 'Parents'
Two hundred and eighty-seven. In the span of—I check the time—three hours. That's more than one call per minute, which would be impressive if it wasn't so suffocating. Am I surprised?No. Disappointed in their lack of faith in my ability to handle myself?Absolutely.
But the current caller isn't them.
Luke's contact photo—him making a ridiculous face while holding one of his precious Labubu collectibles—fills the screen, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.
I swipe to answer, my voice coming out rough and cracked when I manage, "Yeah?"
There's a pause on the other end, then Luke's voice, tinged with concern.
"Were you sleeping?"
"Mhmm," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to shake off the lingering fog of nightmare and exhaustion. My body feels heavy, like someone filled my bones with concrete while I slept. I slump back against the pillows, sinking into the expensive mattress that probably cost more than most people's cars.
"Did you have a nightmare?"
The question catches me off guard, too perceptive for casual conversation.
"How would you know?"
I can practically hear him shifting into protective mode through the phone.
"Your breathing is elevated and you're less enthusiastic than usual when someone calls. Usually you answer with some smart-ass comment or at least pretend to be happy to hear from me."
"Hmm," I hum noncommittally, feeling my eyelids already trying to close again. The bed is so comfortable, and now that the adrenaline from the nightmare is fading, exhaustion is creeping back in like tide returning to shore.
"Where are you?" Luke asks, and there's something in his tone that suggests he already knows but needs confirmation.
"Private suite," I mumble, not bothering to elaborate. He'll understand what that means—that I'm in Lachlan's space, his territory, the place that's apparently off-limits to everyone except me.
He sighs, long and knowing.
"No wonder the press haven't found you yet." There's a pause, then, with barely contained amusement: "Also, since when are you and Lachlan a thing?"
That makes me smirk despite everything, a small smile tugging at my lips as I remember the very public claiming that happened just hours ago.
"How do you even know about that?"
Luke's laugh is bright and incredulous.
"Maybe you haven't tuned into the news, but you're the new viral second-place Formula One entry racer who just annihilated Dmitri on and off track, then kissed Lachlan Wolfe on live television like y'all have been fucking for eons, and then revealedyou're AUREN VALE, the heir of the Vale family who, I guess, no one knew your mother used to race."
I whistle low, impressed despite myself at how quickly the media machine has started churning.
"Damn, all that came out so fast. Y'all working overtime there."
He sighs again, but it's fond this time.
"Want me to come to you?"
I consider it, weighing my need for familiar comfort against the potential complications.
Luke has been my anchor for the past year, the one constant in a life that's felt like shifting sand. But this is Lachlan's space, his sanctuary, and I don't know the protocol for having visitors in what's clearly a very private refuge.
"If Lachlan's cool with it," I say finally. "Since I think that's the only way you can get in here."
