Page 109 of Knot So Fast
I wonder what he wants to talk about.
The pack dynamics? Lucius and his complicated relationship with everyone? The fact that I'm about to signcontracts this evening that will officially make me part of their Formula One team?
There are so many conversations we need to have, so many things that have been left unsaid in the whirlwind of the last forty-eight hours.
But that's for lunch.
For now, I let myself enjoy this moment—sitting in the back of a car with a man who looks at me like I'm both his greatest victory and his most dangerous challenge, heading toward a future that's completely uncertain but absolutely thrilling.
This evening, contracts are going to be officially signed.
My signature on documents that will change everything, that will make this arrangement official in the eyes of the racing world and the legal system. Once that ink dries, there's no going back.
I'll be committed to this team, this pack, this complicated dance between past and present that I'm only beginning to understand.
It's now or never to figure out how we're going to approach this season. How we're going to navigate the media attention, the pack dynamics, the complicated relationship with Lucius, the expectations of an entire designation looking to me for representation.
But despite all of that—despite the pressure and the uncertainty and the weight of expectation—I find myself smiling.
For the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Even if the path forward is complicated as hell without knowing what I’m truly getting myself into.
We're going to figure it out…we're going to race and we're going to win.
Wolfe’s Pack is going to slay this season.
FAMILY TIES
~LACHLAN~
The private VIP lounge sits atop one of Monaco's most exclusive buildings, the kind of place where reservations are made months in advance and money alone isn't enough to guarantee entry.
But being a four-time Formula One champion opens doors that stay closed to mere mortals, and the rooftop terrace we've secured offers an unobstructed view of the grand city sprawling below.
The Mediterranean sparkles in the afternoon sun, yachts dotting the harbor like expensive toys in a billionaire's bathtub. From up here, the chaos of the streets feels distant, manageable, as if the swirling media storm we've created is happening to other people in another world.
The main hostess arrives with our cocktails—something complicated and colorful for Auren that involves at least three types of fruit and enough sugar to fuel a small country, and a simple whiskey neat for me. She sets them down with practiced elegance, her smile professional but tinged with the kind of curiosity that suggests she knows exactly who we are and is dying to take a selfie for her Instagram.
"I'll be right back," I tell Auren, who's already eyeing her drink with the kind of intensity usually reserved for complex mathematical equations. "Need to wash my hands."
She waves me off, already reaching for her cocktail, and I head toward the washrooms that are somehow even more luxurious than the main dining area. Marble everything, gold fixtures, towels that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. It's excessive in that particular Monaco way that stops being impressive and starts being exhausting after a while.
I'm just finishing up, shaking water from my hands because even the expensive hand dryers in places like this are still terrible, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting Terek with some new crisis or maybe Kieran asking about training schedules.
But the name on the screen makes me pause.
Dad.
I haven't heard from my father in weeks—not unusual given his business schedule and general philosophy that his adult sons should figure their shit out without parental intervention. The fact that he's calling now, after everything that's exploded in the media...
"Now what madness are you two pulling?" His voice comes through before I even get a chance to say hello, that particular blend of exasperation and amusement that only parents can achieve.
I smirk, leaning against the marble counter. "I thought you said I was the good twin."
"You are the good twin," he agrees, but I can hear the 'but' coming from a mile away. "But when it comes to racing, all that adrenaline and Alpha testosterone in you gets all frizzled up and you start acting like your little brother. Blind and stupid."
I sigh, though I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. My father has never been one to mince words, even when hissons are international celebrities with egos that need careful handling. To him, we're still the boys who used to race go-karts in the backyard and get into fistfights over who got the last piece of cake.
