Knot So Lucky (Speedverse #2)

Prologue Collision Course

~AURORA~

The rain is fucking relentless.

It hammers down in sheets so thick I can barely see three feet ahead, turning the alleyway into a river of oil-slicked asphalt that reflects the neon glow of the circuit lights bleeding through the storm.

Water streams down my face, plastering my hair to my skull, soaking through my pit crew jacket until the fabric clings to every curve I've spent years hiding under baggy clothes and binding tape.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, the pulse points at my wrists that are suddenly hypersensitive to the cold bite of rain.

I'm running—from what, I'm not entirely sure anymore.

From the truth that's been chasing me for years?

From the realization that I'm about to lose everything I've fought for?

From the fact that the virtual racer who's been beating me online for months might have just figured out my secret?

My boots splash through puddles as I barrel deeper into the narrow space between the paddock building and the equipment trailers, desperate for somewhere to think, to breathe, to fucking process what just happened in that garage.

The way Luca Thorne looked at me.

Not through me, the way everyone else does when they see just another Alpha pit tech in grease-stained coveralls.

Not past me, like I'm invisible in a sea of testosterone and motor oil.

At me.

Like he could see straight through the suppressants I'd reapplied just two hours ago, through the binding compressing my chest, through the carefully cultivated scent of motor oil and Alpha musk I've been masking myself with since I was seventeen years old.

I press my back against the cold brick wall, chest heaving, and that's when I smell it.

Spiced leather. Black pepper. Storm rain.

The scent cuts through the downpour like a blade through silk, sharp and unmistakable and so overwhelmingly Alpha that my Omega instincts—the ones I've been strangling into submission for nearly a decade—suddenly surge to life with a vengeance.

My suppressants should be working.

They're supposed to mask my scent for another six hours at least, keep my body from reacting, keep me safe in a world that would chew me up and spit me out the second they realized what I really am.

But apparently, my body didn't get the fucking memo.

Because the moment that scent hits my nostrils, something deep in my core clenches with a recognition I have no business feeling.

I don't have time to run.

One second, I'm standing there, trying to convince myself I imagined the whole thing, that I'm being paranoid, that there's no way he knows.

The next second, I'm slammed against the brick wall so hard the air punches out of my lungs in a shocked gasp.

A body—solid muscle and controlled fury—pins me in place.

Rain streams between us, over us, creating a curtain that makes the rest of the world disappear until there's nothing but the two of us and the electricity crackling in the space where our bodies meet.

Luca Thorne.

Up close, he's even more devastating than he has any right to be.

The rain has turned his dark brown hair almost black, the sides cropped close while the top falls forward over his forehead in a way that would be boyish if it weren't for the purely predatory look in his eyes.

Those eyes—molten amber shot through with gold when the circuit lights catch them just right—are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my knees want to buckle.

The tattoos I've seen peeking out from his collar during interviews snake up his neck in intricate patterns, visible even in the dim light.

I know from photos—not that I've been looking…

.even though I've saved every goddamn image of him I could find online—that they continue down over his ribs, over his chest, a map of ink that I suddenly, desperately want to trace with my tongue.

Focus, Aurora. For fuck's sake, focus.

His forearm is braced against the wall next to my head, caging me in, while his other hand grips my hip hard enough that I'll have bruises tomorrow.

The touch sears through the wet fabric of my coveralls like a brand, and I hate how my body responds—arching into him before my brain can catch up and tell it to stop.

"If you think I'm gay," he growls, and the sound rumbles through his chest into mine, vibrating in the space between heartbeats, "fine."

F-Fine?

His face is so close now I can see individual water droplets caught in his eyelashes, can smell the rain on his skin mixing with that addictive Alpha scent that's making my head spin.

"I'll be fucking gay if it means I get to keep ‘him’."

The way he says 'him' makes it clear he's not buying my disguise for a goddamn second.

I know “him” is the best way to identify me…

His thumb digs into my hip, possessive and claiming, and I should push him away, should knee him in the balls and run, should do anything other than what I actually do—which is stand there like an idiot, drowning in his scent and the way his body heat cuts through the cold rain.

"I don't give a fuck what the rumors say," he continues, his voice dropping lower, rougher, edged with something that sounds like desperation wrapped in dominance. "If you're a boy or a fucking girl—"

There it is.

"I. Don't. Fucking. Care."

Each word is punctuated by his hips pressing harder against mine, pinning me so completely to the wall that I can feel every inch of him.

And there are a lot of inches. Christ, I'm trying not to think about that, trying to keep my breathing even, trying not to let him see how much this is affecting me.

Trying and failing spectacularly.

"Because you're driving me fucking mad," he continues, and now his free hand comes up to grip my jaw, tilting my face so I have no choice but to meet those burning amber eyes. "And how the hell am I supposed to go on that track knowing you're the one thing I can't fucking have?"

The raw honesty in his voice cracks something open in my chest.

This man—Formula One new world champion, pack leader, Alpha who could have anyone he wants—is falling apart in front of me over someone he thinks might be male.

Over me.

Before I can process that, before I can think or reason or remember all the ways this is a catastrophically bad idea, his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is nothing like I expected.

It's not gentle or exploratory or tentative.

It's fucking devastating.

He kisses me like he's claiming territory, like he's trying to devour me whole, like if he could crawl inside my skin and live there, he would. His tongue demands entry, and I give it without thought, opening for him with a whimper I can't quite suppress.

The taste of him explodes across my tongue—rain and something darker, richer, and purely him—and it's so good it's almost painful. His hand on my jaw slides into my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss even further.

I should be fighting this.

Should be running…

Instead, I grab fistfuls of his soaked shirt and pull him closer, kissing him back with all the pent-up frustration and desire I've been bottling up since the first time we raced virtually and I realized he was the only driver who could match me turn for turn, the only one who pushed me to be better, faster, more reckless.

His scent is everywhere now, overwhelming my suppressants, drowning out the motor oil and rain until all I can smell is spiced leather and black pepper and storm rain mixed with my own scent—smoked vanilla and gasoline—creating something entirely new.

That scent of belonging.

Like I dare to be a part of his pack.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I tear my mouth away from his, gasping for air that tastes like him, like us, like a future I can't afford to want.

We're both breathing hard, chests heaving, faces inches apart as rain continues to hammer down around us. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from our kiss, and there's a dazed sort of wonder in his expression that mirrors the chaos in my own chest.

"Luca—" I start, but I don't even know what I'm going to say.

The spell breaks.

Reality crashes back in with the force of a ten-car pile-up, and suddenly I remember why this is impossible, why I've been running, why I can never let anyone—especially not him—figure out what I really am.

I shove against his chest, hard, putting space between us even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to press closer.

"It doesn't matter what you want," I spit out, and I barely recognize my own voice—it's too high, too breathless, too Omega. I force it lower, harder, back into the register I've trained myself to use. "Because to the outside world, I'm just a fucking noob pit tech who can be replaced."

The words taste like ash on my tongue, but they're true.

Without my disguise, without the carefully constructed identity that's kept me safe all these years, I'm nobody. I'm just another Omega in a world that's made it crystal clear we're decorative at best, disposable at worst.

"Replaced?"

The word comes out as a roar, and suddenly he's in my space again, but this time there's nothing sexual about it—it's pure Alpha fury, the kind that makes lesser people cower. That’s the thing, though.

I'm not lesser people.

I glare right back at him, chin up, refusing to show the fear that's dancing along my spine.

"Then be my pit tech," he snarls, and the possessiveness in those three words makes my Omega purr with satisfaction even as my rational brain is screaming warnings. "The one who's about to ensure I fucking win this shit."

His hands are on my shoulders now, gripping tight, and the look in his eyes has shifted from lust to something fiercer, more desperate.