Chapter 16 Unveiled #2
The approaching team stops a few feet away, and the lead driver pulls off his helmet to reveal features that I recognize immediately, despite never having met him in person.
Luca Thorne.
The reigning Formula One champion. The Alpha who overthrew Auren Vale and Lachlan Wolfe's dominance last season. The one I beat in the virtual qualifier, and apparently just beat again in an actual race.
I frown and look back at the scoreboard, scanning for his placement.
3RD PLACE - LUCA THORNE - THORNE RACING
Third place. Which means I didn't just beat him—I demolished him, put two positions between us in a race where every tenth of a second counts.
And he looks furious.
His features are sharp with barely contained rage, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping. His eyes—an intense shade of blue that probably looks stunning in promotional photos—are currently burning with the kind of anger that precedes either spectacular tantrums or calculated revenge.
Another male is running after him, smaller and clearly trying to play damage control.
"Luca, please—" The second Alpha grabs Thorne's arm, voice pitched in that particular tone of desperate pleading. "Press is watching and I really don't want to have to fight to protect your reputation this season, please—"
They both stop in their tracks at the exact same moment I pause mid-breath.
Because their scents hit me all at once.
Luca's first—expensive cologne layered over something primal and distinctly Alpha. Cedar and leather with underlying notes of gunpowder and rain, sharp enough to cut through the ambient smell of rubber and gasoline.
Then the second Alpha's scent crashes into me like a wave—rosemary and mint mixing with something warmer, almost like honey and old books, carrying an intellectual edge that speaks to controlled intensity.
And underneath both of them, woven through their individual scents like threads in a tapestry:
Sandalwood.
Steel.
Gasoline and vanilla in trace amounts that my Omega instincts recognize with devastating certainty.
Pack scent.
The realization hits me with the force of a train wreck, goosebumps erupting across my arms and down my spine despite the racing suit and the binding and every physical barrier I've erected.
These two Alphas share pack bonds. Their scents are too complementary, too deliberately layered to be a coincidence.
And underneath it all is that same base note I smelled on Elias—the pack signature that marks them as belonging to the same social unit.
"Fuck," I whisper, the curse barely audible over the ambient noise of the pit area. "Don't tell me these two are also in Elias's pack."
The thought spirals into panic territory before I can stop it.
One scent match is unprecedented enough—finding an Alpha whose biology calls to mine on the most fundamental level. But three? Three Alphas all from the same pack, all triggering the same visceral response?
That's not just rare.
That's impossible…right?
Except apparently it's not, because my Omega instincts are currently screaming recognition at full volume, suppressants be damned.
Before I can process this new complication—before I can even begin to think through the implications of potentially being scent-matched to an entire pack—reporters and officials descend on our position like locusts.
Camera crews jostle for angles. Microphones get shoved in faces.
An official in a high-visibility vest pushes through the crowd with the kind of determined authority that suggests he's about to make this situation exponentially worse.
"Excuse me," the official says, voice carrying across the crowd with practiced projection. "We need clarification on the driver's identity."
All eyes turn to me.
Every camera, every microphone, every curious onlooker suddenly focused on the person standing at the center of what's about to become a scandal of epic proportions.
The official looks at me, then at his tablet, then back at me with confusion written across his features.
"Though your team did win the race," he says slowly, choosing words with visible care, "you're clearly not an Omega. The new regulations require—"
Ugh. Not fucking now.
"Aurora Rory Lane." I cut him off, switching to my real voice mid-sentence.
The effect is immediate and dramatic.
My natural vocal register—higher, distinctly feminine despite months of training it lower—rings out across the suddenly silent pit area with the clarity of a bell.
"Roran Lane's sister," I continue, crossing my arms and tilting my head in a gesture of casual defiance that I absolutely don't feel internally.
"Aurora is my legal first name. Rory is what most people call me because it's easier than explaining that my parents gave identical twins nearly identical names. "
The silence stretches for one heartbeat.
Two. Three.
Then everyone seems to gawk simultaneously, the pieces clicking into place with almost audible clicks as brains process the information.
The pit tech they've been working with for months is female.
And an Omega, if the scent that's probably breaking through my failing suppressants is any indication.
"I'm the official pit tech of our team," I add, voice steady despite the internal screaming. "Which is why everyone normally minds their business about my personal life."
One of the reporters—a woman with a microphone branded with a major sports network logo—stutters through her next question.
"B-b-but how are we just finding this out now? You've been with the team for months…the background checks, the medical screenings, the—"
I shrug with feigned casualness.
"I don't know? The whole bromance allegations between me and Cale should have made you guys do your research better."
The reporter gasps, eyes going wide as another piece slots into place.
She looks at Cale, who arches an eyebrow in my direction while I give him a pointed glance that clearly communicates please don't make this worse.
"Are you saying—" The reporter's voice climbs an octave with excitement. "Are you saying you're in a relationship with your brother's best friend and racing partner?!"
Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
"Yup." I let the word pop with deliberate emphasis. "So fair warning to any interested packs out there: we're a package deal. Tough luck. Then again, you'll have to deal with my brother first, so have fun with that negotiation."
The crowd erupts.
Questions flying from every direction, cameras flashing, people shouting for clarification or additional details or just generally losing their collective minds at the scandal unfolding in real-time.
Before I can be completely throttled with questions—before the mob can close in and demand answers I'm not prepared to give—Richard appears like a guardian angel in team manager clothing.
"Emergency meeting," he announces with the kind of authority that brooks no argument. "Right now. This applies to you, too, Cale."
Cale sighs with exaggerated put-upon suffering, but his hand finds mine with practiced ease.
"Why the fuck not," he mutters, loud enough for the nearest microphones to catch. Then, raising his voice to address the crowd: "Duty calls as this race's champions. Any questions can be saved for the official press conference."
He starts to walk away, pulling me along, when a reporter's voice cuts through the noise with a question designed to provoke.
"Is this just some one-sided romance for attention? Trying to capitalize on your unexpected win with a publicity stunt?"
Cale stops so abruptly that I nearly crash into his back.
For a moment, he's completely still.
Then he spins around with such sudden violence that I spin with him, the world tilting as momentum carries me forward.
The move is so swift, so perfectly executed, that one second I'm standing beside him and the next I'm in his arms. He's lifting me—actually lifting me off my feet despite my protests and the cameras and the entire fucking world watching.
Then he's kissing me.
His mouth crashes against mine with bruising intensity, claiming and possessive and absolutely devastating in its thoroughness. His tongue demands entry that I grant on instinct, too shocked to do anything except kiss back with equal fervor.
The kiss tastes like burnt cedar and coffee and victory, aggressive and desperate and carrying months of complicated feelings condensed into this single public declaration.
When he finally breaks away—only when we're both gasping for air—he keeps me elevated, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.
He walks backward toward the exit, addressing the stunned crowd with a voice that carries confidence bordering on arrogance.
"Nah," he says, grin sharp enough to cut. "Aurora Lane is my Omega and we're totally taking pack applications. So have fun applying."
Before anyone can formulate a response—before the reporters can recover from their shock enough to shout follow-up questions—he's carrying me off, striding away from the chaos with me still held against his chest.
I gawk up at him, mind reeling from too many revelations in too short a time.
"Cale Hart," I whisper fiercely, acutely aware that cameras are probably still trained on us, "what the fuck did you just do?"
He chuckles—low and satisfied and completely unrepentant.
His grey eyes meet mine with warmth that makes my chest tight.
"Playing my luck."