Page 83 of Knot So Fast
My hair—jet black at the roots transitioning to vibrant magenta at the ends, with new purple strands woven throughout—cascades down in a waterfall of curls that reaches nearly to my lower back. The release from the helmet's confines makes it fan out dramatically, catching the late afternoon sun and creating a halo effect that the photographers are going to absolutely love.
The sound of camera shutters firing is like machine-gun fire, hundreds of shots per second as they capture every angle of the reveal. I've been hiding how long my hair has grown for months, always keeping it in tight buns or using extensions to createthe illusion of shorter styles. But this—this called for the full dramatic effect.
I shake my head slightly, letting the curls settle naturally around my shoulders and down my back. With my hair like this, I know I look like my mother's doppelganger from her younger years—the same bone structure, the same distinctive coloring, the same ability to command attention just by existing in a space.
But where my mother was all elegant control and refined beauty, I'm wilder. More dangerous. The dark maroon lipstick I carefully applied before the race has somehow survived intact, making my lips look like I've been drinking wine—or blood. The dark red blush brings out the warm undertones in my lightly tanned complexion, a perfect contrast to the pale, porcelain-doll Omega stereotype.
I turn my head just as I sense someone approaching from my peripheral vision, my smirking expression already in place before I fully register who it is.
Dmitri Volkov is inches from my face, his features contorted with fury, spittle flying as he launches into a tirade of Russian curses that would probably make his babushka faint. His face is red beneath his helmet—he hasn't even bothered to remove it, too focused on confronting me to worry about proper post-race protocol.
"????!" he spits, switching to heavily accented English. "You fucking cunt! How dare you cut me off like that? I could have finished you in heartbeat if I wanted!"
I let my smirk deepen, tilting my head slightly as I study him with the kind of detached amusement usually reserved for watching toddlers throw tantrums in grocery stores. He's practically vibrating with rage, his Alpha pheromones pumping out in waves meant to intimidate and dominate.
Too bad for him I've never been good at following biological imperatives.
"Well, why didn't you?" I ask, my voice carrying just enough condescension to really twist the knife. "By my calculations, you were four seconds and three centimeters short. That gave me at least three other opportunities to pass you properly if you hadn't gotten soft after that final turn."
His face somehow manages to get even redder, which is genuinely impressive from a physiological standpoint.
"You got cocky," I continue, warming to my theme. "Thought you could throttle down and cruise to second place once you saw me coming. But here's a free lesson for next time: you don't hold back when defending your position. When you see a viper showing its fangs, you either strike first or get out of the way. You did neither."
The growl that rumbles from his chest is purely animal, designed to remind me of our obvious Alpha and Omega dynamic. In his world, that growl should have me cowering, baring my neck in submission, apologizing for daring to challenge his authority.
Instead, I meet his gaze steadily, my smirk never wavering. If anything, it gets wider.
"You think this is funny?" he snarls, stepping even closer until I can smell the rage-sweat and frustration rolling off him. "You little Omega think you can be cocky? Think you can threaten me? ME? I'm going to be champion this year!"
My smirk transforms into a full smile, the kind that shows too many teeth to be friendly. I lean in slightly, close enough that my next words are just between us despite the dozens of cameras capturing every second of this confrontation.
"?????? ???????????," I begin in perfect Russian, watching his eyes widen at my fluency. "If you don't get out of my face in five seconds, you're going to find out why theyused to call me the Viper on track. And trust me, whatever championship dreams you're nurturing? They'll seem really insignificant when you're trying to remember how to walk straight."
But I'm not done. Switching back to English for the benefit of our audience, I add just loud enough for the nearest cameras to pick up: "Besides, my Alpha is going to be the fifth consecutive Formula One champion. So it's best you back off before you find out why he keeps me hidden."
The threat is barely out of my mouth when Dmitri doesn't just get moved—he gets launched. A hand appears from behind me, connecting with Volkov's chest with enough force to send the Russian driver stumbling backward. He tries to catch himself, arms windmilling comically, but physics and surprise work against him. His ass hits the asphalt with a satisfying thud that's definitely going to bruise both his tailbone and his ego.
I whistle low, a sound of appreciation for the sheer efficiency of the violence, as I feel the warm, solid presence of Lachlan's suited frame behind me. He's radiating protective fury, his scent sharp with aggression and something else—pride, maybe? Possessiveness definitely.
I cross my arms and tilt my head condescendingly at Volkov, who's staring up at us from his undignified position on the ground. "See? I warned you. Five seconds. You made it to about three and a half. Really should work on your listening skills."
"You fucking—" Dmitri switches back to Russian for more creative cursing before addressing Lachlan directly. "Who is this fucking cunt trying to act like YOUR Omega when everyone knows you don't even fuck anyone! You're like monk, too pure for pussy!"
I bite my bottom lip, trying to contain my reaction to the sheer idiocy of that statement. The tension radiating from Lachlan is delicious—controlled violence wrapped in aprofessional racing suit. When he looks at me, his expression is so deadly cold it sends heat straight to my core.
God, why is barely controlled homicidal rage so fucking hot on him?
I meet his gaze with my most flirtatious smile, batting my eyelashes in an exaggerated display of Omega sweetness that we both know is complete bullshit.
"Alpha," I purr, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You're supposed to reward me for being a good little Omega and reaching the finish line."
I see the exact moment his control snaps. His pupils dilate, his jaw clenches, and the growl that rumbles from his chest is purely primal—the sound of an Alpha pushed past his breaking point by his Omega's public challenge.
Three... two... one...
His hand wraps around the front of my throat in a possessive grip that's firm enough to make a statement but gentle enough not to restrict my breathing. Before I can make another teasing comment, his mouth crashes down on mine in a kiss that's absolutely inappropriate for public consumption.
This isn't a sweet victory kiss. This isn't a choreographed PR moment. This is Lachlan claiming me in front of the entire world, his tongue demanding entrance that I gladly give, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise through the racing suit.
