Page 141 of Knot So Fast
CRASH AND BURN.
Luke notices first—he always does, that Beta intuition that picks up on distress before it fully manifests. He plucks the phone from my hand with casual efficiency, his voice light as he says, "No more technology, Ms. Tequila."
But I catch the look in his eyes. The one that says he'll fix it, that he's already probably composing a text to Katie in his head, that this is being handled even if I don't see the mechanics of it.
The others don't notice the shift, still laughing about the roses, arguing about dinner plans, living in the bubble of our perfect day. And I refuse to let whoever this is ruin it. Not now. Not when we're all together and happy and whole.
I breathe, slow in through my nose, out through my mouth, the way my therapist taught me. Then I lay my head on Lachlan's thigh, and his fingers immediately find my hair, carding through the salt-dried strands with lazy affection.
"You okay?" he murmurs, quiet enough that only I can hear.
"Perfect," I tell him, and I mean it.
Because I am. We are. Despite the threats and the stalking and the intrusions, we're here together on a yacht in the Mediterranean, celebrating victories and building something that feels like family.
The drone returns, hovering just at the edge of our space like a persistent mosquito. But this time security is ready, and I watch with satisfaction as one of them produces what looks like a jamming device. The drone wobbles, spins, then makes a hasty retreat before it can be shot down or captured.
"Finally," Dex mutters. "Privacy on our private yacht. What a concept."
We laugh, and the moment passes, but I keep thinking about that photo. Someone was close enough to capture those moments. Someone is watching, documenting, threatening. They want me to be afraid, to pull back, to stop living my life.
I stare at the strip of sky between the foremast and flag, that perfect blue that seems to go on forever. The sun is warm on my skin, my pack is around me, and I'm exactly where I want to be.
I've lived through fire—literal fire that tried to consume me and left me with scars and gaps in my memory. I've survived parents who wanted to reshape me into something safer, competitors who think I don't belong, and a public that questions my right to exist in this space.
I refuse to let a coward with a lens and a burner account define my horizon.
CHICANE
~CASPIAN~
The digital clock on my dash reads 4:47 AM when I pull up outside her building, engine purring low enough not to wake the entire street.
Monaco sleeps differently than other cities—even in the pre-dawn darkness, there's a shimmer to it, like the money never quite stops glowing. But I'm not interested in that world today. Today, I'm stealing her away from it.
I watch her emerge from the building's entrance, and Christ, even at this ungodly hour, she moves like she owns the morning itself. She's dressed in that effortless way that probably took thirty minutes to perfect—high-waisted jeans that make her legs look endless, a cream silk blouse tucked in just so, and leather ankle boots that somehow work for both city streets and wherever I'm taking her. Her hair catches the streetlight, those highlights she got last week making the whole thing look like spun gold even in the darkness.
"You know," I say as she slides into the passenger seat, bringing the scent of that perfume with her—something French and expensive that always makes me think of jasmine and baddecisions, "most people would question being picked up before sunrise by someone who won't tell them where they're going."
She buckles her seatbelt with a smile that suggests she knows exactly how much trouble she's courting. "Most people aren't me."
"No," I agree, pulling away from the curb and heading inland, away from the coast. "They're not."
I'm wearing what passes for casual in my world—jeans that cost more than most people's rent and a dress shirt that looks effortless but was actually chosen with surgical precision. The kind of outfit that photographs well from a distance, just in case some photographer with a telephoto lens decides to make today interesting. But as we leave Monaco behind, trading coastal glamour for winding mountain roads, I feel myself relaxing incrementally. Out here, we might actually be nobody.
"Are you going to give me any hints?" she asks, fiddling with the radio until she finds something that isn't French talk radio at five in the morning.
"No."
"Not even a small one?"
"Especially not a small one."
She settles back in her seat, apparently content with the mystery, and I steal glances at her as I drive. The way the passing streetlights paint her face in intervals of gold and shadow. The way she drums her fingers against her thigh in time with whatever song she's found. The way she trusts me enough to let me drive her into the unknown without questioning it.
The roads get narrower as we climb, leaving behind the manicured perfection of the Riviera for something older, more honest. Olive groves stretch out on either side, their ancient trees twisted into shapes that speak of centuries of wind and weather. The smell of woodsmoke drifts through the car'sventilation system—some farmer already up, starting their day the way their grandfather probably did.
"It's beautiful out here," she murmurs, and I catch the surprise in her voice. She's gotten used to my world of carbon fiber and corporate sponsorships. She doesn't know about this part yet.
