Chapter 2 Territorial Instincts
Territorial Instincts
~CALE~
"Go rub a cactus with your cock, Roran."
Roran Lane—the twin brother of Rory Lane, aka my Aurora Lane, who’s probably eating suppressants like candy—flips me off with both hands. "Go fuck yourself with a tire iron, Hart."
"Original."
"Accurate."
"Gentlemen!" Pemberton's voice cracks like a whip across the garage, high-pitched with exasperation. "For the love of god, take your dick-measuring contest somewhere else or go make sure our best tech isn't walking off the job."
I give him my middle finger without breaking eye contact with Roran, but my feet are already moving toward the exit.
Because the idea of Rory walking off—Aurora walking off, leaving, disappearing from my daily torment of being so fucking close but unable to touch her the way I want—makes something primal and violent stir in my chest.
The garage door closes behind me with a metallic clang, and I take my first full breath since that entitled piece of shit got in her face.
Any time any Alpha has the balls to get in her space grinds my gears in ways that make me want to commit violence.
Makes me want to grab them by the throat and slam them against the nearest wall until they understand exactly who they're fucking with.
Makes me want to bare my teeth and growl mine until my voice goes hoarse.
But I can't.
Because that would expose her.
And protecting Aurora's secret—even if it's killing me slowly, watching her pretend to be someone else makes my Alpha instincts scream in frustration—is more important than satisfying my need to assert dominance over every asshole who looks at her wrong.
I know who she really is.
Aurora Rory Lane.
Not Rory Lane, the cocky male Alpha pit tech with a smart mouth and talented hands.
Aurora. The Omega woman who's been my rival since we were three years old, back when our families would meet for those insufferable diplomatic dinners and we'd end up in fistfights over who got the last cookie or who could build the better Lego castle.
The one woman—the one Omega—who drives me absolutely fucking wild in ways I'm not supposed to feel about my family's rival.
The one I desperately want to fuck senseless until she screams my name and forgets every other Alpha's scent but mine.
Instead, I have to pretend she's only important enough to argue with.
Have to act like the hot-and-cold toxic dance we've been doing for years is just rivalry and nothing more.
Forced to ignore the way my Alpha instincts howl every time I catch her scent, demanding I claim, mark, and protect.
Just being around her—her scent drifting to my nostrils and making them flare with yearning—makes it harder to maintain the facade.
That subtle sweetness of smoked vanilla and gasoline that her suppressants try to mask but can never fully hide from me, not after years of memorizing every note of her.
You’d think the combination would be odd or make you wrinkle your nose, and yet it’s so fucking addicting to inhale, like a form of crack you don’t want to stop inhaling.
When that fucker Dante got in her face, spouting his entitled bullshit about championships and family investments, all I could think about was rearranging his facial structure until he learned some fucking respect.
These fuckers have no idea what family Rory comes from.
They know glimpses of the Lane fortune—impossible not to when Roran Lane, Aurora's identical twin brother, is making headlines as one of the rising stars in professional racing. They see the money, the influence, the carefully constructed public image of a racing dynasty.
What they don't see is the full scope of it.
The underground dealings and corporate machinations. The way the Lane family controls half the racing industry through shell companies and strategic investments. The fact that Aurora herself could buy and sell Dante's entire family line three times over without making a dent in her trust fund.
But she's here, covered in grease and bruises, pretending to be someone else because she loves this sport more than she loves safety or comfort or the easy path her family's wealth could provide.
Roran's going to be one of the competing drivers in Formula One: Miami, happening in a few weeks.
The tension around the facility has been building steadily, electric and volatile, because there's a real possibility he'll be partnered with the new champion of last year's competition.
Luca Thorne.
The name alone makes my jaw clench.
The Alpha who overthrew the official champions—both currently on leave this year—and claimed the title in a season that turned the entire racing world on its head.
Auren Vale and Lachlan Wolfe.
The first Omega to ever claim the Formula One title, partnered with the five-time champion whose dominance was so absolute that people genuinely believed he was unbeatable.
Their victory had changed everything. Shifted the entire paradigm of what was possible in this sport. Auren Vale proved that Omegas could drive, could compete, could win at the highest levels despite every biological and social factor stacked against them.
And the racing commission, money and progressive headlines, had immediately changed the rules to force Omega's participation in professional racing.
For exactly one glorious, chaotic season.
Then the rule mysteriously shifted back afterward.
"Temporarily suspended pending safety reviews," they called it, but everyone knows it's bullshit. They got their headlines and their sponsorship money, proved they could be progressive when it was profitable, and then quietly swept it back under the rug the moment it became inconvenient.
But now, with Miami coming up and the media circus building, everyone's nervous they'll pull that shit again.
Force the Omega participation rule back into effect because the viewing numbers and merchandise sales during Auren's championship season were unprecedented.
Which would be great for Aurora's career prospects if she weren't hiding her designation under layers of suppressants and carefully constructed lies.
I spot a vending machine near the side entrance and make a detour, fishing crumpled bills from my pocket. The machine hums as it dispenses an ice-cold bottle of water, condensation already beading on the plastic.
Aurora's scent trail is easy to follow—easier than it should be, which means her suppressants are wearing off faster than they're supposed to. The thought makes my Alpha instincts surge with possessive satisfaction even as the rational part of my brain recognizes the danger.
If I can smell her this clearly, others will start noticing soon.
I follow the scent around the corner of the building, into the narrow space between the garage and the equipment warehouse where the security cameras don't quite reach. She's smart about these things, always knowing the blind spots, always calculating her exposure.
My heart does something complicated when I finally see her.
She's leaning against the brick wall, one hand braced against the rough surface like she needs the support. Her other hand is stuffing something into her pocket—a small orange pill bottle that I've seen her sneak into her coveralls enough times to recognize immediately.
Suppressants.
The confrontation with Dante must have triggered her senses harder than usual.
Made her Omega instincts flare despite the chemical dampeners running through her system.
The realization makes rage simmer low in my gut because she shouldn't have to deal with this shit.
Shouldn't have to pump herself full of drugs just to exist in a space that should welcome her talent regardless of her designation.
She pops a pill into her mouth with practiced efficiency, then raises her water bottle to her lips.
Nothing comes out.
She stares at the empty bottle like it personally betrayed her, and something hot and violent twists in my chest because I know it didn't betray her. That asshole kicked it. Probably made it leak because she hadn't fully tightened the lid after her last drink.
One more thing to add to the list of reasons Dante Moretti needs his face rearranged.
I'm stomping toward her before I consciously decide to move, boots loud against the concrete. I unscrew my water bottle as I walk, bringing it to my lips and taking a long pull without swallowing. The cold liquid fills my mouth, sharp and clean.
The moment I'm within reach, my hand is at the front of her throat.
Not squeezing, not threatening—just there, fingers splayed across the column of her neck where I can feel her pulse jumping under my palm. I pull her back against my chest, fitting her body against mine in a way that makes my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
She doesn't panic.
Doesn't tense or fight or make any of the defensive moves she would against an unwanted touch.
Because she caught my scent before I reached her.
Knew I'd be here in a heartbeat the moment she needed something.
Her head tilts back slightly, those stormy emerald green eyes meeting mine with a knowing look that pisses me off almost as much as it turns me on.
So I smash my mouth against hers.
Force her lips open with the pressure of the kiss, not giving her time to protest or pull away. The water in my mouth flows into hers in a rush that's more aggressive than practical, and she makes a choked sound that's half surprise, half annoyance.
She almost chokes on it, water dribbling from the corner of her mouth, but I don't give a damn.
I'm suddenly, irrationally angry at this whole fucking situation.