Page 150 of Knot So Fast
I take the water, grateful, then hand it to Auren. She drinks greedily, then looks at us with that wicked, knowing grin. “If anyone ever asks how Beta stamina compares to Alpha, I’m just going to send them a video.”
“Please do not send anyone a video,” I say, only half-joking.
Kieran’s eyes twinkle.
“You’d be a sensation.”
We all start laughing, the kind that makes your stomach hurt, and it feels so good to be here, to be us, to be a pack in the truest sense of the word.
Eventually, Auren wriggles out from between us, padding naked to the kitchen in search of more strawberries and maybe actual food. She returns with a triumphant “Found cheese!” and collapses on the bed, shoving a wedge into my mouth before taking a big bite herself.
We eat, we hydrate, we recover. When the energy comes back, so does the desire, but it’s softer this time—touches and kisses and whispered promises for tomorrow.
For tonight, we are enough.
I look at Kieran, at the way his eyes soften when he looks at me, and I think maybe I’ve been waiting for this longer than I realized.
“Thank you,” I say, because sometimes the simplest words are the most important.
He reaches over and laces his fingers with mine. “Anytime, love.”
Auren sighs, content, then mumbles, “This is going to ruin me for all other relationships, you know.”
“Same,” I say.
“Good,” Kieran adds, and that’s that.
We sleep in a tangle, warm and safe and happy.
I used to think happiness was something other people got, that my job was just to make sure everyone else had enough of it. Turns out, sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get your own slice of it, too.
Even if you never see the train coming.
SUNDAY DRIVES AND SECOND CHANCES
~DEX~
She thinksI'm joking when I tell her to meet me downstairs at her place, and "Wear something cute" is all I say on this fine Sunday morning. The text was deliberately vague—I know Auren well enough to understand that too much information ruins the surprise, and not enough drives her crazy with curiosity.
I'm leaning against the Ferrari when she emerges from her building, and the sight of her literally makes me forget how to breathe for a second. She's wearing this floral dress that hits mid-thigh—all soft yellows and pinks that make her look like summer personified—with her hair in bountiful curls that catch the morning light. The dress is shorter than what she usually wears for casual outings, showing off legs that have gotten more toned from all our training sessions.
She's halfway to me, probably assuming we're going for a quick Sunday drive in my usual Aston Martin, when she actually processes what she's seeing. Her steps falter, eyes widening as she takes in the two perfectly restored classics parked at thecurb: a 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO in racing red and a 1961 Jaguar E-Type in British racing green, both older than either of us and worth more than most people's houses.
"Shut the fuck up!" Her voice carries across the quiet street, making an elderly couple walking their poodle turn to stare. "Where the hell did you get these?! Wait, how did you even get them here?"
I smirk, unable to hide my satisfaction at her reaction. The planning for this had been meticulous—finding the cars through a collector who owed me a favor, arranging transport to Monaco, ensuring they were perfectly tuned for mountain driving. But the real MVP was Luke, who'd answered my call at six this morning despite what was clearly a very late night.
"I have my ways," I tell her, opening the Ferrari's door with a flourish. "After that grand party last night, I figured you might want something more... refined for today."
She's already circling the cars like a kid at Christmas, running her fingers along the Jaguar's curves with an appreciation that makes my chest tight. "These are museum pieces. We can't actually drive them, can we?"
"What's the point of having beautiful machines if you don't let them run?" I counter. "Besides, I seem to recall someone saying she could handle any car, any conditions."
The challenge lands exactly as intended. Her eyes narrow, that competitive spark igniting as she looks between the two cars. "Which one's mine?"
"Lady's choice. At least for the first leg."
She doesn't hesitate, sliding into the Ferrari's driver's seat with a reverence that's almost religious. I take the Jag, and as we pull away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of movement in her apartment window—Luke watching us leave, and even from this distance, I can see the marks on his neck and arms. Love bites and obvious scratches that tell the story of last night's activities.
