Page 33 of Knot So Fast
"Oh. Yeah," I say quietly, feeling stupid for forgetting something so fundamental about my own health.
Kieran looks at Luke, who immediately puts his hands up in surrender.
"I'm going to make breakfast ASAP," Luke announces, moving toward the refrigerator with purpose.
Kieran holds up the bottle of orange juice he apparently retrieved from somewhere. "Should I go the direct route for the rest of this?"
The implication of what he means—more mouth-to-mouth liquid transfer—makes me blush furiously.
"Fuck no," I grumble, snatching the bottle from his hands. "You suck at kissing anyway."
His smirk is immediate and devastating.
"Your pussy would disagree with that assessment."
"Ewww," I groan, making exaggerated gagging sounds even as my traitorous body responds to his words with a flood of slick that I pray my towel is covering. "You're disgusting."
God…I don’t even want to think of that scenario.
"I'm going to go change," I announce, desperate to escape this conversation before my body betrays me further. "I need to put on underwear for the sake of my sanity."
"For his sanity," Luke calls from where he's pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator, "you need to wear underwear, Auren."
I huff and wave dismissively at him.
"You don't count," I shoot back, heading for the stairs before either of them can respond with something that will make me even more flustered.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I manage to locate my special slick-proof underwear, grumbling under my breath as I slip them on. "These things are so damn uncomfortable," I mutter, adjusting the reinforced gusset that's designed to contain any involuntary Omega responses. "But I guess I don't want to be causing a scene when that news announcement is probably going to trigger World War Three or some shit."
As I'm getting dressed, my eyes land on a framed photograph sitting on my nightstand. I pick it up, studying the image of myself suited up in full racing gear, standing proudly in front of what's obviously a professional race car. The woman in the photo has a badass expression—pure confidence, pride, and power combined in one cocky, challenging smirk.
Sometimes looking at these old photos feels like staring at a complete stranger. But this was me once.
This confident, fearless person who apparently knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
The racing suit in the photo is sleek and professional, covered in sponsor logos that I can't quite make out in thepicture. But there's something about the way I'm standing, the proprietary hand on the car's hood, that suggests this wasn't just a hobby or a one-time experience. This looks like someone who belonged in that world, who had earned her place there.
I'm so absorbed in studying the photograph that I don't notice I'm leaning backward until hands grip my shoulders, steadying me.
I look up to find Kieran standing behind me, looking down with an expression of concern mixed with something that might be nostalgia.
"You're like a fucking ghost," I sigh, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. "A tall one at that. Why are you so tall anyway?"
"Delirium is another sign of low blood sugar," he points out, though his tone is gentle rather than condescending.
I side-eye him, annoyed by his medical knowledge, and I'm about to toss the photograph aside when he catches it, reminding me that it's glass and could shatter if I'm not careful.
I blink, realizing my reaction time is definitely slower than usual.
"Fuck, you're right," I curse, frustrated by my own sluggish responses.
Kieran sighs and guides me to sit on the edge of my bed, and I don't have the energy to resist.
My body feels tingly and unstable anyway, like I'm not quite connected to my own nervous system.
He carefully places the photograph back on my nightstand before disappearing into my bathroom. When he emerges, he's carrying another bottle of orange juice.
"What kind of sorcery is this?" I ask, genuinely confused about where he keeps finding these drinks.
