Page 173 of Knot So Fast
"They had to cut her out of the car," I continue, each word feeling like glass in my throat. "Took them forty minutes to get her free. Forty minutes of her trapped in twisted metal, unconscious, bleeding, while we all stood there helpless."
The memories assault me—the call from Luke, voice broken. Racing to the scene to find emergency vehicles everywhere, lights painting the night in reds and blues. The moment they pulled her free, limp and lifeless, and started CPR right there on the road.
"The first time she died was in the ambulance. Two minutes without a heartbeat before they got her back. The second was on the operating table—internal bleeding they couldn't stop fast enough. Four minutes that time."
I take a drink, needing the burn to ground me.
"The third time was after surgery. They thought they'd stabilized her, thought the worst was over. Then alarms started going off, and suddenly there were fifteen people in her room, working desperately to keep her here. Six minutes, Lucius. Six minutes of death before they managed to restart her heart."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of those numbers. Two minutes, four minutes, six minutes. Twelve minutes total of Auren being gone, of her existing in whateverspace waits beyond life, before being dragged back to a body that might never work properly again.
"She's twenty-five years old," I say, and now I do turn to face him. "Twenty-five, and she's survived three assassination attempts—because that's what they were, whether you want to admit it or not. How many more times can we ask her to come back? How many more times can she cheat death before it claims her permanently?"
Lucius doesn't answer because there is no answer. He stands there, blood still dripping from his nose, looking like the broken man he is.
"I know you love her," I say, and it costs me something to admit it. "In your own fucked up, selfish way, you love her. But your love is killing her. Literally."
He flinches at that, but doesn't deny it.
I down the rest of the whiskey in one burning swallow, then set the glass on the balcony railing with excessive care. The urge to throw it, to watch it shatter on the track below, is almost overwhelming. But I've seen enough broken things lately.
"I'll meet you on the track tomorrow," I tell him, moving toward the door. "You want to make this right? Race me like you fucking mean it. Put all that anger and frustration of being my shadow into trying to outbeat me at what I do best."
I pause at the threshold, looking back at him one more time. He looks smaller somehow, diminished, like the weight of his choices has physically compressed him.
"You're not as fast as you think, Lucius. Never have been. But hey—prove me wrong."
The challenge hangs between us, not just about racing but about everything. Prove you're more than your worst choices. Prove you can be the brother I used to have. Prove that Auren didn't almost die for nothing.
I slam the glass down on the counter hard enough to crack the marble, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet suite. Then I'm walking out, leaving him alone with his guilt and the ghost of every better choice he could have made.
The hallway is empty except for security, who fall into step behind me without questions. They've learned to read my moods, to know when to be silent shadows rather than active protection.
My phone buzzes—a message from the hospital. No change. The same update I've gotten every hour for the past eighteen hours. No improvement, no decline, just Auren suspended between life and death while machines breathe for her.
Tomorrow is the Grand Sphynx. The race that will decide the championship, that millions will watch, that should be the culmination of everything we've worked for all season. Caspian has been running calculations all day, trying to figure out how to win with a substitute Omega none of us have ever raced with. Kieran's been in the garage for sixteen hours straight, making sure both cars are perfect. Dex has been handling media, spinning stories, trying to control a narrative that spiraled out of control the moment Auren's car went over that cliff.
And Luke... Luke hasn't left her bedside. Won't leave, no matter who tries to convince him. He sits there holding her hand, talking to her, playing her favorite music, refusing to accept that she might not wake up.
The substitute Omega—Rebecca something, pulled from our junior program—is competent. Fast enough not to embarrass herself, skilled enough to keep the car on track. But she's not Auren. Doesn't have that fierce competitiveness, that refusal to accept second place, that ability to find speed where physics says it shouldn't exist.
We'll make it work because we have to. The team needs this championship, needs the prize money and prestige to continueoperating at this level. But it feels hollow, like celebrating at a funeral.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a photo from Katie—security footage she's managed to acquire. It shows a black sedan following Auren's car from the hospital. Professional tail job, keeping perfect distance, waiting for the ideal spot to make their move.
She was hunted. Deliberately, methodically hunted by people who knew exactly what they were doing.
And my brother, whether he meant to or not, led them right to her.
The elevator takes me down to the garage level, where our cars sit under covers, waiting for tomorrow's battle. I pull back the cover on car one, running my hand along the nose cone. The number is painted in gold—champion's privilege—but it feels like mockery now.
What's the point of winning if the person you're winning for isn't there to see it?
But I'll race tomorrow because that's what we do. We strap ourselves into carbon fiber missiles and dance with death at 200 miles per hour, pretending it means something more than rich people's entertainment. And maybe, if I'm fast enough, if I push hard enough, if I beat my brother decisively enough, it will somehow make up for failing to protect the one person who mattered most.
The garage is quiet except for the distant sound of other teams making their final preparations. Tomorrow, this place will be chaos—engines screaming, crews scrambling, the whole elaborate performance of Formula One at its most intense.
But tonight, it's just me and the machines that will carry us into battle. Two brothers on opposite sides of a war neither of us wanted but both of us chose through action and inaction.
