Chapter 10 #2
The twin's eyes snap to me, and I watch his expression cycle through confusion, suspicion, and barely contained violence in the span of seconds.
"Who the fuck are you?"
I consider my response carefully. Consider staying silent and letting Cale handle explanations. Consider backing off and removing myself from a situation that's clearly more complicated than I initially thought.
But then I remember those storm-green eyes.
The scent that called to every Alpha instinct I possess.
The certainty that settled in my chest the moment our eyes met.
"Elias," I say, keeping my voice steady and calm. "And before either of you says shit, I think he's my scent match."
The effect is immediate and dramatic.
Both Alphas' eyes go wide with shock that quickly morphs into rage. Their scents spike with territorial aggression—Cale's burnt cedar mixing with the twin's ozone and fresh linen in a combination that screams threat and competition and back the fuck off.
If I were smarter, I'd probably be intimidated.
Instead, I just meet their glares with calm certainty.
Because I might have just met my scent match by nearly dying under a car driven by an Omega woman disguised as a male pit tech, and I have absolutely no intention of walking away from that now.
Fuck, I'm going to have to tell the others.
Luca's going to have opinions. Adrian will want to run background checks. The whole pack dynamic is about to shift in ways none of us planned for.
But this isn't good timing, is it?
The medical team arrives in a controlled rush—paramedics with equipment, fire suppression crew with extinguishers just in case, track safety personnel coordinating the chaos with practiced efficiency.
They swarm the wreck immediately, assessing damage and structural stability before attempting extraction.
"We need to get him out safely," the lead paramedic announces, a Beta woman with grey hair and the no-nonsense demeanor of someone who's seen everything.
"Car structure is compromised but stable.
Harness held, which likely prevented spinal damage.
We'll use the extraction protocols—careful removal, immediate transport. "
I watch as they work with coordinated precision, cutting away pieces of the car to create access, stabilizing the driver's neck with a cervical collar before releasing the harness. The whole operation takes maybe five minutes, but feels like hours.
They finally extract her—him, I have to remember to use the correct pronouns even in my own head—onto a stretcher. The safety harness did its job beautifully, distributing impact forces in ways that prevented the worst of the damage.
The moment the paramedics have him secured on the stretcher, the twin—Roran, based on context—is issuing orders like someone who's used to being obeyed.
"Only he, Cale, and a female paramedic will ride in the back."
One of the male paramedics opens his mouth to protest—probably about protocols or medical necessity or proper staffing—but Roran cuts him off with a look that could strip paint.
"If you want to be sued by the Lane family, be my fucking guest."
Lane family.
The name registers in my brain with the impact of a gunshot.
Lane Industries. Multi-billion dollar conglomerate with interests in racing, technology, manufacturing, and about seventeen other sectors. One of the wealthiest families in Europe with connections that make my own family's underground dealings look like amateur hour.
The paramedic literally steps out of the ambulance without another word.
Smart man.
But as the doors start to close, I move on instinct, putting my hand out to stop them.
"I'm coming with you."
Roran's glare could melt steel.
"The fuck you are."
"This is my fault," I say simply, because it's true. "If the kitten hadn't been on the track, none of this would have happened."
"There's nothing a commoner can do," Cale drawls, but his eyes are sharp with calculation. "This is out of your league."
"I'll cover any expenses." I keep my voice calm, reasonable, like I'm discussing dinner plans rather than medical care that probably costs more than most people's annual salary.
"You can't afford that shit," Roran snaps.
I meet his eyes with the kind of calm certainty that comes from growing up in a family where money isn't a concern—it's a weapon.
"Try me."
We share a look—assessment, challenge, and the beginning of grudging respect.
The female paramedic's voice cuts through the tension with exasperated authority.
"Can you three Alpha shits move it and deal with your possessive bullshit in the back while we're moving so I can do my job?"
The censure in her tone has all three of us frowning in unison—a moment of synchronized reaction that would be funny if circumstances were different.
I hop into the ambulance before either of them can protest further, settling onto the small bench seat opposite the stretcher. The doors slam shut with finality, and the vehicle lurches into motion with sirens wailing.
The female paramedic—her name tag reads "Santos"—works with efficient precision, hooking up oxygen monitors and checking vital signs while steadfastly ignoring the three Alphas crowding her workspace.
Cale and Roran both turn to glare at me with identical expressions of barely contained violence.
"This is your fault," they say in unison.
The synchronized accusation would be impressive if it weren't directed at me with such venom.
I sigh, leaning back against the ambulance wall and acknowledging the truth of their statement.
"Technically, it is and isn't my fault."
Meowwwww.
All three of us freeze.
The tiny sound cuts through the tension like a knife, impossibly loud in the enclosed space.
We all look down as a small black head emerges from between my shirt and jacket, the kitten apparently deciding that now is the perfect time to make its presence known.
Before any of us can react, the kitten launches itself from my chest with surprising agility, landing perfectly on Rory's chest where it immediately curls up and starts purring.
"Get that thing off—" Roran starts.
"It could have germs—" Cale adds.
But the kitten just purrs louder, tiny body vibrating with contentment as it settles against Rory's sternum like it belongs there. Like it's claiming territory and has no intention of being moved.
Santos pauses in her work, looking at the kitten with an expression that suggests she's seen weirder things but not by much.
"As long as it's not interfering with medical care," she says slowly, "I suppose it's fine?"
The three of us stare at the kitten. The kitten purrs contentedly. Rory remains unconscious, breathing steadily and strongly beneath the small warm weight.
"That's your pack's kitten?" Roran asks, voice flat with disbelief.
"Yeah." I watch the kitten knead tiny paws against Rory's chest, claws carefully retracted. "Must have snuck into my equipment bag. We've been fostering it for a couple of weeks."
"Who the hell are you?" Cale's eyes narrow with suspicion. "You said Elias, but that doesn't tell us shit."
I consider deflecting.
Consider maintaining the nerdy tech persona and avoiding complications.
But these two clearly have connections and resources, and they're going to run background checks the moment they have an opportunity.
Better to control the narrative now than have them discover details I'd prefer to keep private.
I adjust my posture slightly—nothing dramatic, but enough that the casualness becomes something more deliberate.
More controlled.
When I speak, my voice carries a different edge. The tone I use in family business meetings, when being underestimated is no longer useful.
"Elias Vance. Lead mechanic and AI systems engineer for Thorne Racing's prototype development division." I pause, watching their reactions. "Heir to the Vance branch of the Bravati family."
The effect is immediate.
Both of them go still in that particular way that suggests they recognize the name and are rapidly recalculating the threat assessment.
The Bravati family operates in circles that occasionally intersect with legitimate business but are more commonly associated with.
.. less legal activities. Arms dealing, information brokerage, and strategic acquisitions that don't bear close scrutiny.
We're not as publicly wealthy as families like the Lanes, but we have connections that money can't buy and influence that operates in shadows rather than boardrooms.
The ambulance is moving fast—I can feel the turns, hear the sirens clearing traffic ahead of us.
We're headed to some private medical facility, based on the coordinates I glimpsed on Santos's tablet.
The kind of place that caters to wealthy families who need discretion more than they need insurance approval.
Mafia heirs. Drug lords. Biker club leadership.
The kind of clientele who pay in cash and ask no questions as long as confidentiality is guaranteed.
"You can do your background checks later," I continue, keeping my voice level. "But I'm one hundred percent confident he's my scent match. And until he wakes up and I can ensure he's okay, I'm not going to be gotten rid of that easily."
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
Cale and Roran exchange a look—entire conversations happening in the space of seconds through expressions and minute body language shifts that speak to years of knowing each other.
Finally, Roran speaks.
"You realize what you're saying. What you're getting involved in."
It's not a question.
"Yes." I meet his eyes steadily. "I nearly died today because I ran onto a track to save a kitten. Your—" I hesitate over the pronoun, "—driver nearly died saving me from my own stupidity. That creates a debt I take very seriously."
"And the scent match thing?" Cale's voice is carefully neutral. "That's not just Alpha instincts running hot from adrenaline?"
"No." I shake my head, certainty settling deeper in my chest with every passing second. "I know what adrenaline feels like. This is…far from it."
I trail off, not having words for the sensation that bloomed in my chest when our eyes met. For the way my Alpha instincts recognized something fundamental and true.
"I’m positive this is legit," I finish simply.
Santos works quietly through our conversation, checking monitors and making notes on her tablet while studiously pretending she's not hearing every word of this incredibly sensitive discussion.
The kitten continues purring on Rory's chest, a small black spot of contentment in the middle of chaos.
The ambulance takes another turn, and I can feel us decelerating slightly.
Must be getting close to the facility.
"Fine," Roran finally says, though his tone suggests it's anything but fine. "But if you step out of line, if you do anything to expose or endanger—"
"I understand." I cut him off gently. "The secret's safe. You have my word."
"The word of a Bravati." Cale's lip curls slightly. "That's supposed to be reassuring?"
"It's supposed to be binding," I correct. "My family might operate in grey areas, but we don't break our word once given. It's bad for business."
The ambulance comes to a complete stop, and I can hear voices outside—security protocols, probably, checking credentials before allowing access to the private facility.
Santos starts preparing for transfer, organizing equipment and disconnecting monitors in preparation for handoff to the facility's medical team.
The kitten finally stands, stretching with that particular feline disregard for gravity or appropriate timing, before hopping back into my lap and immediately curling up again.
Apparently, I've been chosen as the preferred transport method.
"When he wakes up," Roran says quietly, and there's something almost pleading beneath the aggression, "don't push. Don't demand explanations. Don't—"
"I'll follow his lead," I promise. "Whatever pace he's comfortable with."
The doors open, flooding the ambulance with bright artificial light and the organized chaos of a medical facility prepared for incoming emergency patient.
But as they wheel Rory away on the stretcher—Cale and Roran flanking like honor guards, Santos rattling off vitals and treatment notes—I remain seated for a moment.
Processing.
Calculating.
Because my life just became exponentially more complicated.
I met my scent match by nearly dying.
She's an Omega woman disguised as a male pit tech, hiding her designation in one of the most Alpha-dominated industries in existence. She's connected to the Lane family, which means wealth, power, and complications I can barely begin to imagine.
And she just crashed a prototype racing car to save my life.
The kitten purrs in my lap, tiny claws kneading through my jeans in contentment.
"Well," I murmur to the small creature, "I guess we're doing this."
Because Elias Vance might be socially awkward and more comfortable with engines than people, prefer data analysis to emotional navigation, and have spent most of his life avoiding exactly this kind of messy interpersonal complication.
But I'm also one hundred percent confident that the unconscious driver being wheeled into the facility is my scent match.
And until he—she—wakes up and I can ensure she's okay, I'm not going to be gotten rid of that easily.