Chapter 29
Systems And Sabotage
~AURORA~
The Thorne Racing compound is intimidating in ways I wasn't prepared for.
It's not just the size—though the facility is massive, sprawling across what must be several acres of prime real estate. It's not just the cutting-edge equipment visible through every window and doorway, machinery that probably costs more than most people's houses.
It's the atmosphere.
Everything here screams precision and excellence.
The floors are polished to a mirror shine.
The walls display championship trophies and photos of victory moments captured in perfect detail.
Even the air smells expensive—some combination of high-end cleaning products, premium coffee, and the particular scent that comes from world-class racing facilities.
This is where champions are made.
And I'm standing in the middle of it wearing a jumpsuit that's slightly too big, eating an orange like I don't have a care in the world, watching two Alphas argue over absolutely nothing.
"Your racing line through Turn Seven is sloppy," Luca says, arms crossed and scowling at Cale with the kind of intensity usually reserved for mortal enemies. "You're giving up at least two-tenths of a second every lap."
Cale's answering glare could strip paint.
"My racing line is efficient. Just because it's not your preferred approach doesn't make it wrong."
"It makes it slower."
"It makes it adaptable. When conditions change or traffic develops, I can adjust without losing momentum."
"That's just an excuse for not committing fully to the optimal line."
"Optimal for you, maybe. We have different driving styles, Thorne. Accept it and move on."
I roll my eyes so hard I can practically feel my brain rattling, peeling another section of orange, and popping it into my mouth. The citrus bursts across my tongue—sweet and slightly tart, refreshing after the morning workout session that left me sweaty and sore.
They've been at this for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of arguing about racing lines and brake points and aerodynamic theory, their voices getting progressively sharper while their Alpha scents spike with competitive aggression.
Burnt cedar and coffee clashing with dark chocolate and gunpowder, creating an atmosphere in the training facility that's both overwhelming and oddly entertaining.
Because they're not actually fighting. Not really. This is some weird Alpha dominance dance disguised as technical discussion, each of them trying to establish hierarchy through competitive posturing about racing strategy.
It would be annoying if it wasn't so predictable.
"You know," I comment around a mouthful of orange, not bothering to pitch my voice lower since we're in a private training facility, "you two sound like my old roommates arguing about who left dishes in the sink. Except somehow more petty."
Both Alphas turn to glare at me simultaneously, and the synchronized response makes me grin.
"We're having a professional discussion," Luca says, voice tight with barely controlled irritation.
"About driving techniques," Cale adds, like that justifies the last twenty minutes of increasingly absurd bickering.
"Uh-huh." I finish the orange, wiping juice from my fingers onto my jumpsuit. "Professional. That's definitely the word I'd use for whatever the fuck this is."
Before either of them can respond—probably with more defensive posturing—Adrian appears at my elbow with a plate of actual food.
Not just snacks or protein bars, but real food.
Grilled chicken breast, quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, and fresh fruit arranged artfully on the side. It looks like something from a restaurant rather than facility cafeteria food.
"Figured you might be hungry," Adrian says, his smile warm and genuine. "Training's been intense, and you need to keep your strength up."
The thoughtfulness hits me unexpectedly hard, making my chest tight with emotions I don't quite know how to process.
"Thank you," I manage, accepting the plate with probably more enthusiasm than is dignified. "This is perfect."
Adrian's scent—warm amber and vanilla—wraps around me in ways that feel comforting rather than overwhelming. He's the youngest of the pack at twenty-four, but somehow he carries himself with the kind of easy confidence that usually takes years to develop.
Probably comes from being a billionaire heir who's never had to question his place in the world.
But the privilege hasn't made him entitled or dismissive. If anything, he uses his resources to take care of the people around him, which is evident in the quality of food he just handed me and the genuine concern in his expression.
"I'll partner with you for prepping the cars," Elias says, appearing on my other side like he materialized from thin air.
His green eyes are bright behind those round spectacles, already cataloging the work ahead.
"Physical drills start in forty minutes, and Richard wants all three prototypes ready for simulator integration testing. "
The technical talk grounds me, pulling me back into familiar territory where I actually know what I'm doing.
"Sounds good," I agree, already mentally cataloging the prep work required. "We'll need to run full diagnostic sweeps on each unit, calibrate the suspension geometry to match simulator parameters, and verify the telemetry systems are synced properly."
Elias's smile widens.
"Exactly what I was thinking. We make a good team."
The casual acknowledgment of our compatibility—both professional and personal—makes warmth bloom in my chest.
The three of us settle into easy conversation while I eat, discussing technical specifications and testing protocols with the kind of detail that probably seems obsessive to outsiders but feels perfectly natural to people who love this work.
Adrian asks intelligent questions about aerodynamic modifications, revealing that despite his reputation as the "pretty boy billionaire," he actually understands racing mechanics at a deep level.
Elias explains his latest AI algorithm for predicting tire degradation patterns, gesturing enthusiastically while describing data modeling approaches that make my brain hurt in the best way.
And through it all, Cale and Luca continue arguing in the background.
"—completely ignoring the fundamental physics of weight transfer—"
"—your approach assumes perfect conditions that never exist in actual racing—"
"—if you'd just listen for five seconds—"
"—listening to you complain about my driving style for the past thirty minutes—"
I tune them out, focusing on the food Adrian brought and the comfortable conversation with him and Elias. The pack dynamics are still settling, rough edges being smoothed through proximity and shared purpose.
But we're getting there.
The facility doors burst open with enough force to make several people jump, and Richard Pemberton storms in with the particular energy of a man who has reached the absolute limit of his patience.
"HART! THORNE!" His voice carries across the entire training floor, sharp with authority. "Unless you two want me to bench you both for the entry races, you will cease this pissing contest immediately!"
Both Alphas freeze mid-argument, expressions shifting from combative to guilty so fast it would be funny if Richard wasn't radiating genuine anger.
"My office," Richard continues, voice dropping into something dangerous. "Now. And bring your professional attitudes with you, or I swear to god I will make you regret wasting my time with your territorial bullshit."
Cale and Luca exchange glances—some wordless communication passing between them—before following Richard toward the administrative section of the compound like students being sent to the principal's office.
I watch them go, fighting the urge to laugh at how quickly they deflated under Richard's authority.
"Well," Adrian comments mildly, "that was inevitable."
"Honestly surprised it took this long," Elias agrees. "Pack Alphas establishing hierarchy usually gets messy before it stabilizes."
I finish the last bite of chicken, setting the empty plate aside with satisfaction.
"Think Richard will actually bench them?"
"Nah." Adrian shakes his head. "He needs them both for the competition. But he'll make them squirm for a while, maybe assign some humiliating teamwork exercises."
The mental image of Cale and Luca being forced to do trust falls or some corporate team-building nonsense makes me grin.
"Come on," Elias says, offering me his hand to help me up from where I've been sitting. "Let's get those cars prepped before the physical drills start. I want to run full diagnostics on the telemetry systems—something felt off during yesterday's test runs."
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. His skin is warm against mine, and the brief contact sends pleasant tingles through my nervous system that have nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with pack bonds.
We head toward the garage section of the compound, Adrian trailing behind while checking something on his phone.
The Thorne Racing garage is a temple to automotive excellence.
Three state-of-the-art prototypes sit on lifts, each one a masterpiece of engineering and design. The walls are lined with tool chests and diagnostic equipment that makes my heart rate pick up with genuine excitement.
This is where the real work happens. Where theory becomes practice and ideas become championship-winning machines.
I grab my toolkit—the same battered case I've carried for years, familiar weight grounding me—and approach the nearest prototype with Elias beside me.
"I'll start with the suspension calibration," I say, already dropping to my knees to access the undercarriage. "You run the electrical diagnostics?"
"On it." Elias moves to the computer station with practiced efficiency, fingers flying across the keyboard.