Chapter 15 Lines In The Sand
Lines In The Sand
~AURORA~
Iknock on Roran's door with more force than strictly necessary, knuckles rapping against the metal in a pattern he'll recognize as urgent.
"Roran. Open the door."
"I'm preparing for a race," comes his muffled response, and even through the door, I can hear how wrong his voice sounds. Rough and strained, lacking the usual confident timbre that carries across press conferences and team meetings.
I huff, patience already wearing thin.
"If you don't open this door right now, I'm going to remind you that I'm still the better door kicker and I know how to fight dirty."
The threat isn't idle. We spent our entire childhood in martial arts classes together, and while Roran has height and weight advantages, I've always been faster.
Meaner when pushed.
There's a grunt from inside, followed by shuffling footsteps that sound unsteady.
The door opens.
Roran looks like complete shit.
His skin is the color of old parchment, clammy with sweat that's plastered his blonde hair to his forehead in unflattering clumps.
His storm-green eyes—normally sharp and alert—are glazed and unfocused.
He's gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him vertical, and even from three feet away, I can smell the sickness rolling off him in waves.
Not just illness. Something chemical underneath it. Foreign substances metabolizing through his system in ways that make my Omega instincts scream wrong, danger, and poisoned.
"Fuck no," I say immediately, pushing past him into the room. "I'm calling the family doctor."
"No," Roran protests weakly, trying to block my path with one arm. The movement makes him sway dangerously. "I have the race. I need to—"
"The fuck you're racing." I catch him before he can collapse, slipping under his arm to support his weight. "Are you insane? You can barely stand."
He's heavier than I remember, or maybe I'm just more aware of my own injuries. My ribs protest as I help guide him back toward the small cot that serves as a resting area in these driver stations. Every step is a negotiation between his unsteady balance and my limited strength.
"I'm fine," he insists, the lie so transparent it would be funny if circumstances were different. "Just need a minute to—"
"To what? Vomit on the track? Pass out behind the wheel at two hundred kilometers per hour?" I maneuver him onto the cot with more force than finesse. "Lay down before you fall down."
He collapses onto the mattress with a groan that sounds like defeat and relief combined.
I immediately grab a towel from the small bathroom attached to his station, running it under cold water until it's thoroughly drenched. The water is ice-cold against my fingers, shocking enough that it helps ground me against the rising panic.
My twin is drugged. Poisoned. Incapacitated before the most important qualifier of his career by someone who couldn't handle being beaten by a "tech."
The rage simmering in my gut wants to explode outward. Wants to find Dante and make him understand exactly what it feels like to be violated, to have your autonomy stripped away by someone who thinks they're entitled to your submission.
But rage won't help Roran right now. Action will.
I return to the cot and lay the cold towel across his forehead, watching his face relax slightly at the temperature shock. His breathing is too shallow, too fast, and his scent is all wrong—ozone and fresh linen corrupted by whatever chemical cocktail is wreaking havoc on his system.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through contacts until I find the one labeled simply "Doc."
Dr. Reeves. Our family's private physician. The one who's been managing my suppressant prescriptions and knows more about Lane family secrets than most of our actual relatives.
The line connects after two rings.
"Aurora?" Her voice is professional but warm, carrying that particular tone doctors use when they're prepared for emergencies. "Is everything alright?"
"No." I keep my voice low, conscious that walls in racing facilities aren't as soundproof as they should be. "Roran's been drugged. I'm sending you the location. You need to come discreetly—we can't let anyone know he's unwell yet."
There's a pause while she processes this information. I can practically hear her shifting into crisis mode, mentally cataloging symptoms and treatments.
"Drugged with what?"
"Unknown. But he had drinks with Dante Moretti at a press event, and he's been sick ever since. Disorientation, nausea, loss of balance, dilated pupils, chemical smell underlying his scent."
"Understood. I'll be there in fifteen minutes with a medical kit. Keep him hydrated if he can manage it, and don't let him attempt any physical activity."
"Already handled."
I end the call and look down at Roran, who's watching me through half-closed eyes.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, the admission feeling heavier than it should. "I don't want to drive in your place. Don't want to steal your spotlight when you've been working your ass off for this."
Roran's laugh is weak and bitter.
"Spotlight won't matter if we're disqualified."
"What do you mean?"
"The Omega rule," he says, words slurring slightly. "If they're bringing it back like you said, and they announce it before the race..." He trails off, but the implication is clear.
Our team doesn't have an Omega driver. Which means even if Roran could race—even if he magically recovered in the next thirty minutes—we'd be disqualified the moment the rule is announced.
Unless…
The thought forms with crystalline clarity, terrifying and inevitable.
"They're going to pull what they did in Auren's year," I say slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Announce the Omega requirement last minute, right before the race starts. Create chaos and force teams to scramble."
"Probably." Roran's eyes are closed now, the cold compress helping but not enough to overcome whatever's in his system. "Which means we're fucked either way."
We fall into silence.
The kind of heavy, loaded silence that only exists between twins who share too much history and too many secrets.
The ambient sounds of the garage filter through the walls—distant engine tests, raised voices coordinating last-minute adjustments, the mechanical symphony of a racing facility in full operation.
"Do you truly want to drive?" Roran asks finally, voice so quiet I almost miss it.
The question makes me pause, forces me to examine motivations I've spent years avoiding.
Do I want to drive?
"I enjoy being a pit tech," I say carefully, thinking through each word.
"It allows me to solve problems. To take things apart and understand how they work, then put them back together better than before.
There's satisfaction in that. In being the person who makes success possible, even if I'm not the one in the spotlight. "
I look at my hands—grease-stained even after scrubbing, callused from years of working with tools and machinery.
"I've never been in the spotlight," I continue. "Never put myself forward as the star. How would I even know if that's what I yearn for?"
But even as I say it, I remember something.
I pause, taking a deep breath that makes my ribs ache.
"When I was driving the simulation, though..." The admission comes quietly. More vulnerable. "Everything felt real as fuck. The adrenaline, the focus, the way time seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. To experience that high, even in a game..."
I trail off, but the yearning in my voice probably says more than words could.
"Even for that brief moment," I whisper, "I can only wonder what it would be like to experience it again and again. Not virtually. Not hidden behind a screen. But actually there, in the car, on the track, with everything on the line."
Roran's lips quirk into something that might be a smile if he had the energy for it.
"I knew it was you who pulled that shit off," he mutters.
I huff, defensive instinct kicking in.
"I didn't make it obvious."
"No," he agrees. "You never do. But I figured it had to be you because who else is a secret badass capable of beating professional drivers without breaking a sweat?"
Despite everything—the poison, the pressure, the impossible situation—I smirk.
"Well played."
"Get some rest," I tell him, starting to move away from the bedside. "I'll try not to land in last place and embarrass the family name."
"If you can aim for top ten, that's all you need to do," Roran says, and there's genuine confidence beneath the exhaustion. "Top ten gets us into the Formula One league. Anything beyond that is bonus."
I laugh, the sound more nervous than amused.
"If I'm lucky enough to even reach top ten and not be dead last."
I'm turning to leave when his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength for someone who can barely stand.
"Why did you never tell me?" he whispers. "About the incident."
My entire body goes still.
"What incident?"
"Thirteen." The single word lands like a bomb. "Why didn't you tell me what happened when you were thirteen?"
I don't say anything.
Can't say anything because words have abandoned me entirely, lodged somewhere between my chest and throat where they can't escape.
After a long moment, I shrug with feigned casualness that fools neither of us.
"And what was my dear brother going to do?
" I keep my voice light, detached, like we're discussing something that happened to someone else.
"Throw away the potential future you'd been building since you were ten years old?
Abandon everything to protect your tomboy sister from the cruel reality of life? "
I shake my head, looking anywhere except at his face.
"That's not fair to you, Roran."
"But it was never fair to you, Aurora." His voice breaks on my real name, and his grip on my wrist tightens. "It was never fucking fair."
I pause, finally meeting his eyes.