Page 161 of Knot So Fast
"You literally counted her breaths while she was sleeping yesterday," Wren points out. "That's serial killer behavior, not boyfriend behavior."
"I was checking her breathing pattern for irregularities!" Luke defends, but he's fighting a losing battle and knows it.
They gather their things slowly, reluctant to leave but knowing I need the rest. Each of them hugs me carefully, mindful of my ribs, and even those gentle embraces make me wince slightly.
"We'll visit tomorrow," Rory promises. "I'll bring those pastries from that place you like."
"The ones with the chocolate?" I ask hopefully.
"And the raspberry filling," she confirms. "Breakfast of champions and recovering crash victims."
Wren wheels toward the door but pauses to look back. "Try not to die before tomorrow. It would really mess up our plans."
"I'll do my best," I promise solemnly.
Katie is the last to leave, and she stops beside Luke. "The information you asked for is in the encrypted folder. Password is the usual."
He nods, something passing between them that I can't quite read. Then she's gone too, and it's just Luke and me and the aftermath of soup.
"I'll go wash these," he says, gathering the bowl and spoon with more care than dirty dishes require. "If you need anything?—"
"Call you, I know," I finish. "Luke, I'm okay. Really."
He pauses at the door, not quite looking at me. "You almost weren't. Twice now. So forgive me if I'm a little... hovery."
Before I can respond, he's gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts for the first time all day.
I close my eyes, sinking back into the pillows that smell like lavender because someone—probably Luke—read that it helps with healing. The apartment is quiet now, just the distant sound of water running in the kitchen and the muted noise of Monaco through my windows.
The confrontation plays in my mind again, the recovered memory that's been haunting me for three weeks. It's clearer now, sharpened by repetition and focus.
Lucius's penthouse, all marble and glass and cold beauty. Me standing by those floor-to-ceiling windows, fury making my hands shake. Him defensive, stubborn, refusing to see what was right in front of him.
"The pack doesn't give a shit about you, Lucius!"
The words echo in my memory, raw with emotion I can feel even now. But it's what came before that argument that I can't quite grasp—the catalyst, the thing that made me confront him so aggressively. There's a blank space there, like someone's cut out a crucial scene from a movie.
Three weeks of recovery, and they've all been suspiciously quiet about the racing world. I know the basics—races have happened, points have been scored, the championshipcontinues. But the details? The standings? What's happening with our team? Nothing.
Every time I ask, someone changes the subject or suddenly remembers something urgent they need to do. Even Luke, who's terrible at lying, has managed to deflect with impressive consistency. Which means whatever's happening is bad enough that they've all agreed to keep it from me.
The tension has been palpable through the pack bond—that low-level anxiety that makes my skin itch and my Omega instincts scream that something's wrong with my Alphas. They think they're protecting me, but the not knowing is worse than any truth could be.
I drift off without meaning to, the medication and exhaustion pulling me under into that hazy space between sleep and waking. Time becomes elastic, meaningless, until I feel someone moving my hair from my face with gentle fingers.
My eyes flutter open to find Lachlan sitting on the bed beside me, still in his racing suit, the smell of fuel and sweat and competition clinging to him. He must have come straight from the airport, not even stopping to change, which tells me everything about his state of mind.
"Sorry," he murmurs when he sees I'm awake. "Didn't mean to wake you."
Instead of answering, I shift carefully until my head is resting on his shoulder, breathing him in. Beneath the race day scents is something else—exhaustion, worry, and a particular kind of defeat I've never associated with him before.
"How was the race?" I ask against his shoulder.
There's a pause, then: "I got third."
Third. For anyone else, that would be a podium finish worth celebrating. For Lachlan, four-time world champion, it's a disappointment. But it's more than that—it's the way he says it, flat and resigned, like it doesn't matter.
I lean my head up to look at him properly. "Who got first?"
