Page 122 of Knot So Fast
I make the adjustments, trying to focus on the technical aspects rather than the way his proximity makes my skin feel too tight. The next lap, my delta drops three tenths—a significant improvement that would mean the difference between pole position and third row in qualifying.
"Better," he hums, and the approval in his voice sends warmth spiraling through my chest. "Again."
Every time his chest brushes against me, every time his hands guide mine on the wheel, my Omega senses scream at me to lean back into him, to tilt my head and bare my neck, to let him know how much I want?—
But my logic kicks in, reminding me that we're in a professional environment. That the entire garage can see us. That despite the very public claiming at the race, we need to maintain some boundaries during training.
I force myself to stay focused, to channel all that tension into perfecting my racing line through Casino Square, into nailing the brake point for Sainte Devote, into finding those extra hundredths of a second that separate good from great.
When the session finally ends, Lachlan steps back and hands me the data printout. He's in full professional mode now, allserious concentration as he points out areas for improvement. The transformation from the man who was breathing instruction into my ear to this clinical analyst is jarring but necessary.
"Your entry speed into Portier is still two kilometers per hour too conservative," he says, highlighting the telemetry data. "You're losing a tenth there. And here—" he points to the Anthony Noghes corner, "—you're getting on the power too late. The car can take it, trust the downforce."
It's clear he's compartmentalizing, separating Lachlan-the-instructor from Lachlan-who-fucks-me-senseless-every-night. Especially now that contracts are signed, officialized, and I'm officially part of Titan Racing International, he can't afford to let personal feelings affect my development as a driver.
The multi-million dollar contract was completely unexpected, especially when the official amount—which some helpful soul leaked to the press—is close to Lachlan's. For an entry-level racer, even one with my apparent history, it's unprecedented. The industry is stunned. Veteran drivers who've been grinding for years without factory support are crying foul. Social media has been in an absolute frenzy, making headlines and throwing sponsors off by a long shot.
But my new hired personal assistant-slash-bodyguard Katie has been handling all of that, ensuring none of the noise gets close enough to distract me. Katie, who surprised the hell out of me by being one of the rare one-percent female Alphas, with a build like she could bench press a car and a smile that suggests she'd enjoy it. She filters my social media, screens my messages, and has somehow made it so I only see the constructive feedback while the death threats and hate campaigns disappear into the void.
It's been a relief, actually, being able to focus on the training needed to improve and prepare for the races coming up withoutdrowning in the opinions of people who think my gender or designation should disqualify me from competition.
"Let's swap to the real car," Lachlan suggests, already moving toward the garage. "Systems shakedown—low fuel, engine mode six, DRS practice in the tunnel."
The transition from simulator to reality is always jarring. The real car is angrier, more visceral. The engine note isn't filtered through speakers but hammers directly into your bones. The g-forces aren't suggested by hydraulics but grab you by the throat and try to rip your head off through Maggotts and Becketts.
Lachlan jogs beside my out-lap like he can shepherd physics itself, calling out markers and brake points through the radio. His voice in my ear is a constant presence—calm, measured, occasionally approving when I nail a particularly difficult section. It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust. He's literally guiding me through danger at three hundred kilometers per hour.
When I finally box after ten laps, he's there immediately, reaching for my helmet. His hands are gentle but efficient as he helps me remove it, and then his thumb is dragging along the line of my jaw, ostensibly checking for marks from the HANS device but the look in his eyes says something else entirely.
Mine.
The word isn't spoken but it hangs between us, clear as any verbal claim. The rulebook says we're not official, not bonded, not formally packed despite the public display. But his eyes say that's just paperwork, technicalities that don't change the fundamental truth of what we are to each other.
The garage smells like hot carbon and citrus degreaser, that particular cocktail of scents that I'm beginning to associate with home. Dex is up on the pit wall with Caspian, their voices carrying as they argue strategy.
"Practice undercut won't work if Mercedes is watching," Dex insists, pointing at something on his laptop screen. "They'll just mirror our stop."
"Not if we sell the overcut first," Caspian counters, his engineering mind already working through the permutations. "Make them think we're extending, then dive in unexpectedly."
"That only works if our degradation curves match theirs," Dex argues back.
Meanwhile, Kieran is underneath my car, making minute adjustments to the clutch bite point. He slides out on the mechanic's creeper, grease smudged across his cheek in a way that should look ridiculous but somehow just makes him look competent.
"How's it feeling?" he asks, wiping his hands on a rag that's already more oil than fabric.
"Bit aggressive on the initial bite," I tell him. "Nearly stalled it on the practice start."
"I can soften it by about three percent," he offers, already reaching for his tools. "But that might cost you reaction time at lights out."
"Split the difference?" I suggest. "One and a half percent?"
He grins. "Now you're thinking like a racer."
They joke and bicker amongst themselves, the easy camaraderie of men who've worked together for years. I like how things have gone slowly with everyone, how they're letting me find my place in the team dynamics rather than forcing immediate intimacy. Each of them has their role—Dex the strategist, Caspian the engineer, Kieran the hands-on perfectionist—and they're gradually making space for me in that structure.
With Lachlan, it's been a rollercoaster in the bedroom, obviously. Because which Omega wouldn't be head over heels having sex—with birth control, thank god—with someone whoactually wants to fuck you all the time? Not just when it's convenient or when he's bored or when he needs to prove something. Lachlan wants me with a consistency that's both thrilling and slightly overwhelming.
It's not that Lucius didn't have the same vibe, but he was hot and cold. One day treating me like I was his entire world, the next acting like I was an inconvenience he couldn't quite shake. Lachlan is hot all the time—a constant burn that never seems to diminish no matter how many times we come together.
