25. Collision Course
25
COLLISION COURSE
~JESSICA~
T he world blurs around me, trees and sky melding into a kaleidoscope of color as I lean into another curve.
The motorcycle responds to my slightest touch, an extension of my body rather than a separate entity. Wind whips against my helmet, the rushing sound mixing with the powerful growl of the engine beneath me to create a symphony of speed and freedom.
Ahead of me, Marcus takes a sharp turn with practiced precision, his larger frame moving in perfect harmony with his machine. He's good— better than good —his years of experience evident in every controlled movement. But I'm gaining on him, the gap between us narrowing with each passing mile.
The road unfurls before us like a ribbon of possibility, each curve a new challenge, each straightaway an opportunity. I've never felt this alive, this present in my own skin. The constant vigilance that's been my companion for seven years recedes, replaced by the pure, uncomplicated joy of the moment—of pursuit, of competition, of connection through shared exhilaration.
We race through the final stretch of forest road, emerging onto the highway that leads toward Knot Academy. Traffic is minimal at this hour, allowing us to weave between the occasional vehicle with calculated recklessness. Marcus glances back, the mirrored visor of his helmet reflecting sunlight as he checks my position. I'm almost level with him now, the nose of my bike just behind his rear wheel.
His response is immediate—a twist of the throttle that sends his motorcycle surging forward with renewed power. The challenge is clear, and I meet it without hesitation, urging my own bike to match his acceleration. The speedometer climbs rapidly, numbers blurring as we push well beyond legal limits.
Side by side now, neither gaining a decisive advantage, we thunder toward the ornate gates that mark the entrance to Knot Academy's sprawling campus. I can see a crowd gathered at the entrance—unusual for this time of day, when most students are either already in class or still sleeping off the previous night's excesses. Something about the gathering sends a prickle of awareness down my spine, a whisper of warning that pierces through the adrenaline haze.
I'm so focused on the race, on the sweet anticipation of potential victory, that I almost miss the flash of familiar electric blue hair in the crowd. My attention snaps to the figure at the center of what I now recognize as a confrontation rather than casual gathering.
Emilia.
My best friend—my only friend—stands surrounded by a group of Alphas whose aggressive postures and looming presence telegraph their intentions clearly, even from this distance. She maintains her characteristic defiant stance, chin lifted, shoulders squared, but I can see the tension in her frame, the calculation in her eyes as she assesses escape routes and defensive options.
In an instant, my priorities shift. The race, the bet, Marcus—all recede in importance as protective instinct floods my system with cold clarity. I break away from our parallel course, angling my bike toward the confrontation without hesitation. I'm definitely going to lose now, surrendering any chance at victory, but the thought is distant, irrelevant compared to the potential threat facing Emilia.
My mind races through scenarios, assessing threats and responses with the automatic efficiency born from years of survival in hostile territory. Five Alphas, all displaying territorial aggression. Emilia, alone and exposed despite her characteristic bravado. The academy's security nowhere in sight—unsurprising given their general uselessness, but frustrating nonetheless.
I accelerate toward the group, the engine's roar growing louder as I push the bike to its limits. The sound draws attention—heads turning, expressions shifting from intimidation to confusion as they register the motorcycle bearing down on their position at alarming speed.
I aim directly for the gap between two particularly aggressive-looking Alphas, close enough to force them to scatter but with enough control to avoid actual collision. It's a dangerous gamble, relying on their self-preservation instincts to overcome their Alpha stubbornness.
At the last possible moment, they leap aside, cursing as my bike skids to a dramatic stop mere inches from where Emilia stands. The maneuver sends gravel spraying, dust billowing around us in a tactical cloud that momentarily obscures vision and creates confusion—a small advantage if this confrontation escalates to physical violence.
"What the actual fuck?!" one of the Alphas shouts, regaining his footing with a snarl.
"Crazy bitch almost killed us!" another adds, hand moving toward what I suspect is a concealed weapon.
Emilia blinks rapidly, momentarily stunned by my dramatic entrance. Then her face splits into a wide grin, eyes lighting up with a combination of relief and mischief that's so characteristically her it makes my chest ache with unexpected fondness.
"Damn!" she exclaims, bouncing slightly on her toes, completely ignoring the angry Alphas surrounding us. "Bitch goes away for 72 hours and pulls up with a new bike?" She runs an appreciative hand along the flame-painted body, whistling low. "Please tell me you're gonna give me a ride to class at this point because we're going to be late."
Her nonchalance in the face of potential danger is so perfectly Emilia—acting as if we're meeting for coffee rather than in the middle of what could easily become a violent confrontation. Her bright blue hair catches the morning sunlight, the vibrant color a perfect match for her irrepressible personality.
"And for a missing person, you look good, bestie," she adds, eyeing me with exaggerated suspicion. "Better than good, actually. Almost... glowing? Spill the tea immediately."
I groan and remove my helmet, shaking out my hair with practiced casualness that belies the tension still humming through my system. My eyes scan the perimeter, cataloging potential threats while maintaining the appearance of normal conversation.
"I'll gladly drive you to class," I reply, matching her light tone while remaining acutely aware of the Alphas regrouping around us, "if you answer why these Alphas have the audacity to bother you."
Emilia rolls her eyes dramatically, gesturing toward the group with exaggerated disdain.
"Well, they were looking for you," she explains, loud enough to ensure they hear every word, "but I have no clue why, seeing as they have no association with you whatsoever, so I was running them around the bush." A smirk tugs at her lips. "They didn't like that I claimed not to know where you were, so here we are, playing bully in front of Dead Knot territory—but not directly in it, notice, because this group of douche bags are probably too scared to try and see what I can do on kill territory."
Her bold provocations make me want to both laugh and strangle her. Typical Emilia—brilliant enough to hack government databases but lacking the basic self-preservation instinct to avoid antagonizing aggressive Alphas. I'm suddenly intensely grateful I arrived when I did, before her mouth wrote checks her combat skills couldn't cash.
The Alpha at the center of the group—clearly attempting to position himself as the leader—steps forward, his expensive shoes crunching on gravel as he invades our space with deliberate menace. He's tall, conventionally handsome in that generic way that comes from money rather than character, designer clothes fitting his athletic frame with the precision only tailoring can achieve.
"The cunt should shut the fuck up if she knows what's better for her," he spits, gaze fixed on Emilia with barely contained rage. "We're not afraid of blowing her brains?—"
The rest of his threat dissolves into a howl of pain as my bullet finds its target, tearing through the fabric of his designer pants and into the meaty part of his thigh. He drops to one knee, hand clutching the wound as blood seeps between his fingers, face contorted with shock and agony.
Every eye snaps to me—to the miniature pistol now visible in my hand, smoke still curling from the barrel. I hadn't even registered drawing it, the movement so ingrained after years of vigilance that it happened without conscious thought.
"Oops," I say, voice dripping with mock innocence. "Forgot the safety was off."
The wounded Alpha glares at me with murderous intensity, face pale with pain and humiliation. "You lying bitch," he snarls through clenched teeth. "You're fucking dead, you know that? You're all fucking dead."
I shrug, holstering my gun with deliberate casualness that I know will further enrage him. "Threatening an Omega in broad daylight? In front of witnesses?" I tsk softly, shaking my head. "Bad form. Almost as bad as your aim, I'd guess."
Turning to Emilia, I gesture toward the back of my bike. "Get on. We've got places to be."
She glances between me and the wounded Alpha, clearly torn between curiosity about the unfolding drama and self-preservation. For once, the latter wins out. She takes a step toward the motorcycle, then pauses.
"What bet did you lose?" she asks, eyes gleaming with intrigue. "You mentioned something about losing a bet."
Heat floods my cheeks as Marcus' explicit proposition echoes in my mind. The memory of his voice—cultured accent wrapping around crude words with shocking effect—sends a fresh wave of warmth through places that have no business reacting in the current situation.
"I don't even want to say it out loud," I mutter, avoiding her knowing gaze. "It's surely sinful."
Her eyebrows shoot up with renewed interest. "Ooh, now you have to tell me. Is it with one of those mysterious Alphas who've been lurking around campus looking for you? The big scarred one? The silver fox? The tech genius with the mismatched eyes?"
"Later," I promise, dismounting to retrieve the spare helmet stowed in the bike's small storage compartment. "When we're not surrounded by assholes with limited impulse control."
The fact that Knox had thoughtfully included a second helmet—one that perfectly matches Emilia's signature blue hair—is another testament to the attention to detail these men have shown. It's disconcerting how thoroughly they've prepared, how completely they've anticipated my needs and preferences.
I'm so distracted by this realization, by the complex emotions it evokes, that I miss the shift in energy behind me—the subtle change in scent, in atmospheric pressure that signals a new presence entering the scene. It's a rookie mistake, a momentary lapse in the constant vigilance that's kept me alive for seven years.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise in belated warning, instinct screaming danger before my conscious mind can process the threat. I spin around, hand automatically reaching for my weapon, body coiling with readiness to strike.
My gaze travels upward, past an immaculately tailored suit that probably costs more than most people make in a month, to a face I've seen countless times in my nightmares. Features I've memorized from blood-soaked memories and more recent surveillance photos are now mere inches from mine, close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne that doesn't quite mask the sour note of cruelty beneath.
Piercing eyes meet mine, recognition flaring in their depths along with that same hint of mockery I've never forgotten—that look that says I'm less than human, less than worthy, existing solely for his amusement and use. The same expression he wore while holding my hair in his fist, forcing me to look at him as he?—
My entire body locks up, muscles seizing as past and present collide with devastating force. Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously, seven years collapsing into nothing as I stand face to face with the architect of my destruction. The man who orchestrated my rape, my torture, my supposed death. The man whose name tops my kill list, whose blood I've dreamed of spilling with meticulous detail.
Elliott Prescott Junior.
Here. Now. Close enough to touch—to kill—after years of careful planning and patient hunting.
And I'm frozen, trapped between rage and terror, between the girl I was and the weapon I've become.