Page 153 of Knot So Fast
"I think you're selling yourself short," she says, reaching up to trace my jaw with her fingers. "Physical talent can be developed. The ability to see patterns, to understand strategy at the level you do? That's rare."
Her touch is light but it burns through me like racing fuel. I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm that makes her breath hitch.
"Do you want to go?" I ask, though part of me wants to stay here forever, suspended in this perfect morning.
But when I look down, I realize she's already asleep, her breathing deep and even, her face completely peaceful. The stress of the last weeks—the racing, the media attention, the threats—has melted away, leaving her looking younger, softer, vulnerable in a way she never allows herself to be in public.
I let her sleep, content to sit here with her head in my lap, my hand in her hair, watching the sea change colors as clouds drift across the sun. This is what I was too afraid to claim before—these quiet moments that mean more than any podium finish.
A mechanical buzz interrupts my reverie, faint but distinctive. I scan the sky, years of tracking camera drones during races making me sensitive to the sound. There—hovering just beyond the cliff edge, a drone that's trying to be subtle but failing.
It dips, banks, and disappears toward the trees, but not before I note its size and configuration. Commercial grade, but modified—longer range battery, better camera than standard. This isn't some random hobbyist who stumbled upon us.
I frown, pieces clicking together in my mind. The threats Auren's been getting. The photos at her apartment. Now, aerial surveillance of what should have been a completely private moment.
Someone is watching our every move, documenting, planning. The question is why. Jealous fans are one thing, but this level of dedication suggests something more organized, more deliberate.
I know I'll have to tell Luke and Lachlan about this. They need to know the surveillance is escalating, becoming more sophisticated. My mind is already running through possibilities—rival teams trying to create discord, someone with a personalgrudge, or maybe just a very dedicated and very disturbed individual.
But more than the who, I'm concerned about the what. What's the endgame here? What does someone gain from stalking an Omega who's already in the public eye?
I know how this industry works—the politics, the money, the lengths people will go to for an advantage. But this feels personal in a way that makes my protective instincts roar to life.
Looking down at Auren sleeping peacefully, trusting me to keep watch while she's vulnerable, I make a silent promise. Whoever is doing this, whatever they want, they're about to learn a hard lesson.
You don't play around with Wolfe's pack.
BRAKE LINES AND BURNING MEMORIES
~AUREN~
It's race day,and my head feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to it from the inside.
Kieran's hands are steady as he helps secure my helmet, but his eyes are tracking over my face with the kind of concern that makes me want to lie and say everything's fine. The problem is, he knows me too well for that bullshit to fly.
"You good?" he asks, his voice low enough that the rest of the garage chaos doesn't pick it up. "You don't look too hot."
I try for a reassuring smile, but it probably comes out more like a grimace. "Just a migraine. You know, the usual pre-race excitement manifesting as skull-crushing pain."
His frown deepens, those dark eyes going from concerned to genuinely worried. "You want me to sub? I can be ready in five?—"
"Can't do that, remember?" I cut him off, trying to inject some levity into my voice. "They need an Omega. That's the whole point of these new regulations."
"We've had the Alphas sub for some of the qualifiers," he points out, already reaching for his phone like he's going to call Terek and demand a driver change.
I catch his wrist, squeezing gently. "And that's why Renault and Alpine aren't in the competition anymore. They got disqualified at the finish line for not having an Omega in the car during official sessions. We can't risk that, not when we're this close."
The Canadian Grand Prix is crucial—we're sitting pretty at the top of the constructor's championship, but Mercedes is breathing down our necks. One mistake, one DNF, and they could close the gap enough to make the rest of the season a nail-biter instead of the victory lap we're hoping for.
"I don't want you being sick and driving," Kieran says, and the worry in his voice makes something in my chest go tight. "This isn't just about points, Auren. If you're not a hundred percent?—"
"I'll survive a few hours of racing and showing these Alphas who's boss," I assure him, reaching up to cup his jaw. "Then we're off for two weeks. Blessed break time where I can sleep for fourteen hours straight and you can stop mother-henning me."
He leans into my touch for a moment, and I can feel the conflict in him—the Alpha need to protect warring with the racer's understanding that sometimes you drive through pain because that's what it takes.
"We're already closer to the final Sphynx," I remind him, referring to the trophy that goes to the constructor's champion. "Titan is in the lead by a shit ton of points. If we keep our streak, we should be good to destroy the championship."
The Sphynx is what everyone really wants—sure, the driver's championship is prestigious, but the constructor's trophy is what pays the bills, what keeps the sponsors happy, whatensures everyone from the CEO to the junior mechanics gets their bonus. And we're so close I can taste it.
