Chapter 18 Collision Course #2
He offers his hand when he reaches the stage—not demanding, not assuming, just... offering with the kind of patient certainty that suggests he'll wait as long as necessary.
I don't hesitate.
My hand fits into his like it belongs there, his fingers closing around mine with gentle firmness. He guides me off the stage and toward the exit, and the most remarkable thing happens.
People move.
Not because he's pushing. Not because he's using size or aggression to clear a path. They just... move. As if his mere presence creates an invisible bubble that forces anyone close to step back automatically.
It's like he's aura farming or some shit.
The crowd parts before us with minimal fuss, and I feel Cale fall into step behind me—a protective presence at my back while Elias leads from the front.
We walk down a hallway that leads away from the main conference area, the noise fading with each step until it's just the sound of our footfalls and my own breathing in my ears.
That's when I stumble.
My legs give out without warning—exhaustion and suppressant crash and too much stress combining into sudden loss of coordination.
Cale catches me from behind, hands on my waist steadying me before I can hit the floor. Elias still has my hand, turning back with alarm written across his features.
"I'm fine," I insist automatically, because that's what I always say.
But Elias is already frowning, free hand coming up to press against my forehead with careful gentleness.
"You're far too warm to be fine," he says quietly, and there's concern in his voice that makes my chest tight. "When's the last time you ate? Drank water? Had more than three hours of sleep?"
I open my mouth to respond, but I honestly can't remember the answers to any of those questions.
"I'm perfectly fine," I insist instead, pulling away from both of them with more force than necessary. "I just need a drink and to use the washroom. I'll be right back."
Elias frowns but nods, giving me space even though every line of his body language screams reluctance to let me out of his sight.
Cale looks equally unhappy with this plan; his overprotective instincts clearly warring with respect for my autonomy.
"I'm not made of glass," I tell them both, voice firmer than I feel. "I'll be back in five minutes."
I don't wait for further argument, heading toward the nearest restroom with determination, I absolutely don't feel internally.
The Omega-designated washroom is mercifully empty when I push through the door.
Modern facilities like this have started including gender-neutral and designation-specific restrooms as part of the Omega participation initiative, though I've noticed most are woefully underutilized since there are so few Omegas in professional racing.
There's a lounge section attached—plush seating, ambient lighting designed to be soothing rather than stark, a small refrigerator stocked with water and electrolyte drinks.
I grab a bottle of water and drain half of it in one continuous swallow, the cold liquid shocking against my throat but grounding in its immediacy.
My reflection in the wall of mirrors shows exactly how rough I look.
Flushed skin. Dilated pupils. Hair plastered to my head in unflattering chunks despite my attempts to fix it after removing the helmet. The star crescent tattoo under my eye is stark against my flushed cheeks, no longer hidden by concealer.
I can’t possibly be going into Heat, right? Nah…impossible when I took an additional dose. Ugh…this must be a side effect of sorts.
I wrinkle my nose, catching an odd scent underneath the usual bathroom smell of industrial cleaners and air freshener.
Something chemical. Artificial. Slightly sweet in a way that makes my Omega instincts uneasy.
"What the hell is that nasty aroma?" I mutter, moving toward the stalls.
Maybe someone spilled perfume, or there's a cleaning product I'm not familiar with. Facilities like this use all kinds of specialty chemicals to maintain that polished corporate appearance.
I enter a stall, take care of business with the mechanical efficiency of someone too tired to care about anything beyond immediate necessities, and flush.
When I open the stall door, three men are standing in the lounge area.
I freeze.
They're not racing personnel—I'd recognize team uniforms. They're not security—wrong body language, too casual in their positioning. They're just... men. Alpha men, based on the competing aggressive scents suddenly filling the small space.
Older than me. Larger. Dressed in nondescript clothing that could belong to maintenance staff or catering, or any of a dozen other service positions that allow access to restricted areas without raising suspicion.
My heart rate kicks up, adrenaline flooding my system with fight-or-flight chemicals that make the suppressant crash exponentially worse.
But I force myself to remain still.
To not show fear or panic, because that would give them power they haven't earned yet.
"Either you come with us quietly," the one in front says, his voice carrying the particular cadence of someone who's delivered threats so often they've become routine, "or we can just do the usual drug-and-go method. Your choice."
I roll my eyes—an automatic response to absurdity that probably isn't the smartest move given the circumstances.
"Do we really have to do this?" I ask, letting exasperation bleed into my voice. "Like, can we take a rain check? I'm exhausted, my ribs hurt, I just want to go home and sleep for approximately eighteen hours."
The three men frown in unison, clearly not expecting that response.
"Luca's gotta learn not to piss us off," the speaker declares, like this explains everything. "You follow us and we'll make sure you don't die in the crossfire."
Oh.
This isn't about me specifically. This is about Luca. About using me—his new team partner—as leverage or collateral or whatever criminal enterprises use to settle scores with wealthy racing champions.
Great. Fantastic. Exactly how I wanted this day to end.
I sigh with the resignation of someone whose day has gone so catastrophically wrong that kidnapping barely registers as surprising.
"Fine. Go ahead and cuff me or whatever. Let's get this shit over with." I hold my wrists out in front of me. "But if you knock me out, you're done."
They reach for zip ties or handcuffs or whatever method of restraint they've prepared, and I add quickly:
"My tracker…the one embedded in my body…can tell if I'm unconscious. It monitors my heart rate, blood pressure, and neural activity. So, unless you want the whole-ass SWAT-FBI-CIA squad descending on your location within minutes, I'd be cautious about the whole 'drug and go' thing."
The men pause, exchanging uncertain glances.
"Fuck," one of them mutters. "She is a Lane."
Like my family name is simultaneously a curse and a complication they hadn't adequately planned for.
"Hey." I keep my voice reasonable, like we're negotiating business terms instead of my kidnapping.
"I'm just forced to be partnered with Luca because of commission rules.
He's not my Alpha in any way. If you want to use me as collateral, just make sure I stay alive and my family won't mobilize the entire Lane Industries security apparatus. "
It's not entirely true—my family will absolutely lose their minds regardless—but these idiots don't need to know that.
The men confer in whispered conversation, I can't quite make out, weighing options and risks.
Finally, the leader huffs and gestures toward the door.
"Follow. Don't try anything stupid."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I lie cheerfully.
Because I'm absolutely going to try something stupid the moment an opportunity presents itself.
But for now, cooperation seems like the path of least immediate violence.
I follow them out of the bathroom, moving with false calm while my brain frantically calculates options.
Cale's obsession with me is going to notice I'm gone. He times bathroom breaks, tracks my movements even when he's pretending not to, has the kind of hypervigilant awareness that comes from years of keeping my secrets.
If I'm not back in five minutes—hell, probably three—he's going to come looking.
He’ll find the empty bathroom and immediately know something's wrong. Will raise alarms and mobilize resources and probably commit several felonies in the process of finding me.
So I just need to survive long enough for Cale's stalker tendencies to save my life.
Please let Cale's obsession with me be enough to get me out of this, I think desperately as I'm led down a service corridor toward an exit I don't recognize.
Or else I'm absolutely fucked.