Page 68 of Knot So Fast
The creak of the oven opening follows, along with the domestic sounds of breakfast preparation that seem surreal after the emotional intensity of that phone call. I lie still, processing everything I've heard while trying to make sense of the implications.
Someone—presumably me—was in a serious racing accident that nearly killed me. Lachlan was there, saved my life, and we apparently had a relationship significant enough that he's willing to walk away from his career rather than form evena temporary bond with another Omega. My racing history has been systematically erased from the internet, which suggests a level of power and influence that makes my paranoid thoughts about my parents seem less paranoid and more realistic.
And now Formula One requires Omega participation, but Lachlan would rather give up everything than race with anyone who isn't me.
The weight of that devotion sits heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe normally.
How do you process that kind of loyalty from someone you can't fully remember? How do you reconcile the intensity of his feelings with the blank spaces in your own memory?
I think about Rory, currently hiding her identity in the paddock, and Wren with her protective fury and crude humor. Between the three of us, surely we could figure out something. The thought of Lachlan walking away from racing because of these arbitrary rules makes something fierce and protective rise up in my chest.
Formula One is more than just a sport to these men—I can see it in the way Lucius talks about racing, the reverence in his voice when he describes the perfect lap. It's in the way Lachlan moves, every gesture controlled and precise like he's constantly calculating angles and apex speeds. It's their religion, their passion, their reason for being.
And if Lachlan is anything like his brother—which seems likely despite their apparent personality differences—then walking away from Formula One would be like cutting out a piece of his soul.
I make a mental decision to talk to Rory and Wren about this situation before the deadline.
There has to be a solution that doesn't involve Lachlan giving up everything he's worked for. Even if I can't remember our past,even if I'm not ready to face whatever history we share, I can't let him throw away his future because of me.
The smell of cooking breakfast fills the air—eggs and something else that makes my stomach rumble despite the emotional turmoil. I hear Lachlan moving around the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who's comfortable in the space, the domestic sounds at odds with the image of the four-time world champion I've seen on television.
Through my lashes, I watch him work, noting the tension still evident in his shoulders, the way his movements are just a little too controlled.
He's hurting, and it's because of me. Because of us. Because of whatever we had and lost and can't seem to let go of.
My phone, which I realize is on the coffe table buzzes with an incoming message.
I ignore it, not ready to face the outside world yet.
Not ready to pretend everything is normal when I've just discovered that nothing about my life is what it seems.
Instead, I lie still and think about online racing, about the hours spent competing against WolfPack_Alpha, about the way he always pushed me to be better, faster, more precise.
Was he training me? Hoping I'd remember? Or just unable to fully let go, settling for whatever connection he could maintain through the anonymity of gaming?
The thought makes my chest tight with an emotion I can't name.
How lonely must it have been for him, racing against me virtually while knowing who I really was, what we'd shared, what we'd lost?
And how desperate must he be to maintain that connection that he'd risk it all by revealing himself to me now?
I think about my parents' insistence on Pilates and finding an appropriate Alpha, about the pills they've been making me taketo suppress my Omega characteristics. Are they trying to protect me or control me? Keep me safe or keep me from remembering?
The questions spiral through my mind, each one leading to a dozen more. But one thing becomes crystal clear as I lie in Lachlan's couch, surrounded by his scent and the evidence of a life I can't remember:
I need to race again.
Not just in simulators or online games, but really race. Feel the weight of a real car responding to my commands, the g-forces pushing me back into the seat, the adrenaline of wheel-to-wheel competition.
Because maybe getting back behind the wheel will unlock the memories that everyone seems so determined to keep from me.
And if it doesn't?
If the memories stay locked away behind whatever walls my brain has built for protection?
Then at least I'll know if the passion I feel watching races, the hunger that builds when I'm competing online, the way my heart races at the thought of speed—at least I'll know if that's real or just the echo of someone I used to be.
The irony isn't lost on me.
