Chapter 36
Apex And Ashes
~AURORA~
Dawn comes too fucking early.
But pack training waits for no one.
I roll out of bed with a groan, stumbling toward the bathroom while Shadow meows indignantly from her spot on my pillow. Apparently, early morning workouts don't align with kitten schedules.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed in running gear—compression shorts under loose athletic pants, sports bra reinforced with my usual binding, oversized hoodie to complete the masculine silhouette.
My short hair is still damp from the quick shower, and I've forgone makeup entirely because who the fuck wears makeup to run at dawn?
The Thorne compound's training facility is lit up like a beacon against the pre-dawn darkness. I can see figures already assembled near the track—my pack, gathered and waiting with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Luca stands at the front, looking disgustingly alert for this ungodly hour. His dark hair is pulled back in a small knot, and he's wearing professional running gear that probably costs more than my first car. His scent—dark chocolate and gunpowder—is sharp with anticipation.
Cale leans against the fence, mid-stretch, looking equally awake. Burnt cedar and coffee mixing with the morning air, creating a scent profile that makes my Omega instincts purr despite my exhaustion.
Adrian stands slightly apart, wearing designer athletic wear that somehow makes him look like he's ready for a photo shoot rather than actual exercise. But the way he's stretching suggests he's more than capable of keeping up, privileged billionaire aesthetic aside.
And Elias is doing warm-up laps already, his sandalwood-and-steel scent trailing behind him as he circles the track with easy efficiency.
"Morning, sunshine," Cale calls when he spots me approaching. "Ready to suffer?"
"Fuck off," I respond eloquently, my voice still rough with sleep. "It's inhumane to expect coherent conversation before sunrise."
Luca turns at my arrival, his expression somewhere between amused and approving.
"Lane. Vance. You two are running an extra lap today."
I blink, processing the words through my foggy brain.
"What? Why?"
"You skipped work yesterday," Luca says simply, like this explains everything. "For your absence. So that's your punishment—one extra lap to make up for the absence."
Elias jogs over, not even winded from his warm-up.
"Worth it," he says cheerfully, giving me a smile that makes my chest warm despite the impending physical torture.
"Totally worth it," I agree, remembering the dinner, the wine, the way Elias marked my neck with that hickey that's still visible despite my attempts to cover it.
Adrian groans dramatically. "I'm too rich to be struggling with the team like this. I could be sleeping in silk sheets right now. With a personal massage therapist on call."
"And yet here you are," Cale points out, grinning. "Suffering with the rest of us peasants."
"Because I'm a goddamn professional," Adrian mutters, but he's smiling as he joins our group.
The scents of the pack mix together—dark chocolate and gunpowder, burnt cedar and coffee, warm amber and vanilla, sandalwood and steel, and my own smoke and vanilla. The combination creates something uniquely ours, a scent profile that marks us as pack to anyone with functioning olfactory senses.
"Alright," Luca announces, his Alpha authority making everyone snap to attention despite the early hour. "Five miles. I'm setting pace. Keep up or explain why you couldn't in the debrief meeting afterward."
"Fuck," Cale mutters. "He's in that mood."
Luca's "pace" turns out to be absolutely brutal.
He takes off like he's being chased by demons, eating up ground with long strides that force the rest of us to push just to stay within reasonable distance. His competitive nature apparently extends to morning runs, because he's clearly trying to break us.
Adrian keeps up surprisingly well despite his complaints, his breathing controlled and steady. The billionaire playboy facade hides genuine athletic capability, muscles working efficiently to maintain the grueling speed.
Cale runs beside him, occasionally throwing out commentary that would be annoying if it wasn't so accurate.
"Thorne's compensating for something," he pants. "Probably jealous about Elias's date success."
"Shut up, Hart," Luca calls back without breaking stride. "Save your breath for running."
"I have plenty of breath," Cale lies, his words coming out winded. "Could run circles around you."
"Prove it then."
The challenge makes Cale surge forward, and suddenly it's a race within the run. The two of them pushing each other with competitive energy that would be toxic if it wasn't also clearly strengthening their bond.
Elias runs beside me, keeping pace easily despite the punishment lap hanging over our heads. His breathing is controlled, efficient, the product of years of physical training.
"You good?" he asks quietly, voice barely audible over the sound of our feet hitting pavement.
"Yeah." I push through the burning in my lungs, the ache in my legs. "Actually kind of enjoying this. The push. The early morning clarity."
Because there's something meditative about running at dawn.
The world still quiet, the air fresh and cool, nothing to focus on except breathing and movement and the pack around me.
It grounds me in ways I didn't expect.
Reminds me that despite all the chaos and complications, I have this. People who push me to be better, who run beside me literally and figuratively.
We complete the five miles as a unit—ragged and breathing hard, but together. Even Luca's murderous pace can't break us apart.
Then Elias and I continue for the extra lap while the others recover, and somehow it doesn't feel like punishment at all. Just more time to run and talk and exist in the liminal space between night and day.
By the time we finish, the sun is fully up, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink that make the exhaustion worth it.
The pit stop drills are where my skills truly shine.
I'm in the car—one of our prototype racers, stripped down for practice—while the pit crew assembles around me with focused intensity. Marco leading the team, Rodriguez on tires, Chen managing fuel systems, Jenny and Sarah handling aerodynamic adjustments.
The garage smells like rubber and fuel and the particular electricity of pre-race preparation. My heart rate is elevated, adrenaline mixing with exhaustion from the morning run to create a state of heightened awareness.
"Alright, Rory," Richard's voice comes through the comm system, crisp with authority. "Three-lap sprint, then pit stop simulation. We're timing everything. Entry speed, position accuracy, crew execution, exit acceleration."
"Copy," I respond, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
"Rory?" Another voice joins the comm—familiar and immediately calming. "It's Roran. Mind if I help with strategy?"
"Hell yeah," I say, grinning inside the helmet. "Could use your brain on this."
"Good," Roran replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Because your next race with the pack is approaching, and I'll help however I can."
The words make my chest tight with emotion I don't have time to process.
"Thanks, bro," I manage. "I really appreciate it. I'll keep doing my best."
"I know you will. Now let's show them what Lane driving looks like."
The lights go green, and I'm off.
Three laps at sprint pace—pushing the car to its limits, testing brake points and apex approaches, feeling out the balance and response characteristics. The prototype handles beautifully, responsive to even minor steering inputs, power delivery smooth and immediate.
Roran's voice guides me through strategy adjustments.
"Late apex on Turn Three, carry more speed through the chicane. You're being too conservative—trust the downforce."
"Brake later into Six. The car can handle it, stop being gentle."
"Perfect line through Eight. Do that again but squeeze another tenth out of the exit acceleration."
His coaching is surgical, precise, identifying micro-improvements that add up to significant lap time gains.
The pit entry comes too fast—I'm still amped from the sprint laps—but I nail the speed limit and positioning, bringing the car to a precise stop in the marked zone.
The crew erupts into motion.
Organized chaos that's really carefully choreographed efficiency. Tires come off and go on with mechanical precision. Fuel systems engage and disengage. Aerodynamic adjustments are made with tools moving too fast to track individually.
Fourteen seconds. That's how long the stop takes.
Fourteen seconds that could be the difference between winning and losing in actual competition.
"Good stop," Richard announces. "Exit when ready."
I punch the accelerator, feeling the car surge forward with renewed grip from fresh tires. The exit is clean, smooth, hitting my marks perfectly.
"Beautiful," Roran says, pride evident in his voice. "That's my sister."
The endearment makes me smile despite the concentration required for driving.
We run the drill five more times, each stop shaving off fractions of seconds as the crew finds their rhythm. By the final run, we're down to twelve-point-three seconds—competitive with the top teams in the sport.
When I finally pull into the garage and kill the engine, my whole body is vibrating with adrenaline and satisfaction.
This is what I'm good at. Not just driving, but the complete integration of driver, car, and crew working as a seamless unit.
Marco helps me out of the car, grinning.
"Damn good driving, Rory. You're going to dominate that race."
"We'll see," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral despite the surveillance I know we're maintaining on him.
Because despite the sabotage suspicions, Marco has been nothing but professional and supportive. If he's being coerced, I haven't seen evidence of it yet.
"Thanks for the assist, Roran," I call toward the comm station.
"Anytime, sis. Anytime."