Chapter 42 Final Checks And Fatal Mistakes
Final Checks And Fatal Mistakes
~AURORA~
The garage is quiet at this hour.
Most of the team is in the briefing room going over strategy for today's race, leaving me alone with the prototype car and the particular peace that comes from being surrounded by machinery I understand completely.
I'm on my back underneath the chassis, running my hands along fuel lines and suspension components with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that's saved my life more than once.
Every connection point, every bolt, every seal—checked and rechecked until I'm certain nothing has been tampered with.
The sabotage attempts have made me paranoid in the best possible way.
My phone sits on my chest, flashlight beam directed at the particular section I'm examining. The undercarriage smells like fresh oil and rubber, familiar and grounding in ways that calm the pre-race anxiety thrumming through my veins.
Just this race away from the grand prix.
One more competition before the championship finale that will determine everything we've been working toward.
The pressure should be overwhelming.
Instead, I feel focused. Ready. Like all the chaos and threats and complications have refined me into something harder than I was months ago.
"You planning to marry that car, or can I steal you for a moment?"
Adrian's voice makes me smile even before I roll out from under the chassis.
I use the creeper to slide out smoothly, blinking against the brighter light of the main garage. Adrian stands beside the diagnostic station, holding two cups of coffee that smell like heaven and exactly what I need right now.
"Coffee?" I sit up, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my jumpsuit pocket. "You're officially my favorite person today."
"Just today?" He feigns hurt, crouching down beside me and placing one of the cups on the nearby counter. "I'm wounded, tesoro."
The Italian endearment makes warmth bloom in my chest. Adrian's been using his mother's language more frequently around me—small intimacies that speak to comfort and trust.
"Okay, fine. You're my favorite person most days." I reach for the coffee, already anticipating that first sip of perfectly prepared caffeine.
But Adrian catches my wrist gently, his thumb brushing over my pulse point in a gesture that's both tender and possessive. His amber-and-vanilla scent wraps around me, mixing with my smoke-and-vanilla in ways that never fail to make my Omega instincts purr with contentment.
"What are you going to do to derail the press this time?" he asks, his smile turning into a smirk. "Last week's rave appearance has them absolutely losing their minds. The photos, the videos of you dancing with Luca and Cale—very effective distraction from the actual racing."
I laugh, remembering the absolute chaos that erupted on social media after our night out.
"I should probably show up for the next press conference, huh? Give them something to actually report on instead of speculating about my personal life."
"Probably." Adrian shifts to sit fully on the garage floor beside me, apparently unconcerned about getting his expensive clothes dirty. "But are you okay? Actually okay, not just saying what you think I want to hear."
The question catches me off guard.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Why?"
"You sure?" His green eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me feel seen in ways that are both comforting and slightly uncomfortable. "No pressure building up? Not feeling overwhelmed by everything happening?"
I think about it honestly, taking inventory of my mental and emotional state.
The threats are still there—anonymous messages, sabotage attempts, the constant low-level anxiety of knowing someone wants me hurt or dead.
The pressure is immense—championship implications, pack dynamics, being the first openly Omega racer in Formula One.
The public scrutiny is exhausting—every move analyzed, every choice questioned, every relationship dissected by people who've never met me.
But underneath all that?
I'm okay.
Actually okay, not just performing okay for other people's comfort.
"I'm good," I say firmly, meaning it. "Completely okay. Why? Afraid I'm gonna disappear on you?"
Adrian's smile comes slowly, transforming his face from concerned to something softer. He leans in, one hand coming up to cup my jaw while his thumb traces my lower lip with deliberate pressure.
Then he kisses me.
Not aggressive or demanding like Luca's kisses tend to be. Not playfully intense like Cale's usual approach. This is tender—Adrian's particular brand of affection that speaks to genuine care wrapped in controlled passion.
His lips move against mine with focused attention, like kissing me is the most important thing happening in the world right now. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth, requesting rather than demanding entry, and I open for him eagerly.
The kiss deepens, and suddenly I'm breathless.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my short hair and holding me in place while he thoroughly explores my mouth. The angle is perfect, the pressure ideal, the taste of him—coffee and something uniquely Adrian—making me want more.
When he finally pulls back, I'm gasping slightly, my lips swollen and my heart racing.
"Nah," he says quietly, his voice rough with barely controlled want. "Just feeling sentimental."
I pout, tilting my head in confusion.
"Sentimental? That's what we're calling that kiss?"
His smile turns slightly wicked.
"Are you free after the race?"
"Hell yeah." I don't even need to check my schedule.
Whatever's planned can be rescheduled.
"Good." He shifts closer, his finger pointing to the left side of his neck—right where pack bonds typically manifest as bite marks. "Then it's movie night. Just you and me. And I want a bond mark right here."
Heat floods through me—part arousal, part emotional overwhelm at what he's requesting.
Bond marks are permanent. Visible symbols of pack connection that can't be hidden or denied. Adrian asking for one means he wants the world to know I'm his, that our connection is as real and significant as my bonds with the others.
"You feel left out?" I ask quietly, studying his face for signs of insecurity. "Being the last one? We haven't really had the time to—"
"Never," he interrupts, his smile genuine and warm. "You're saving the best for last, tesoro. I'm patient."
The confidence in his voice makes me smirk.
"Cocky much?"
"Just honest." He leans in for another kiss, this one briefer but no less intense.
Someone clears their throat loudly, breaking the moment.
We pull apart to find Jenny and Richard standing at the garage entrance, both looking amused. Behind them, Marco whistles obnoxiously.
"Two lovebirds in a tree!" Marco sings out, grinning. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
"I'm leaving," Adrian announces, standing smoothly and brushing off his pants. But his eyes are laughing as he looks down at me.
"You'll leave once I'm done my coffee," I declare, reaching for the cup still sitting on the counter. I turn my attention to Richard and the others. "Everything is set for the race. Car's ready, telemetry looks good, no anomalies in any systems."
Richard nods, his expression shifting into professional assessment.
"Good work, Rory. This is going to be an amazing race.
" He pauses, and something in his tone makes my attention sharpen.
"Though this particular race doesn't require Omega drivers.
If you want to sit out and let Luca and Elias handle it—especially with Roran officially transferred to Creed—that's completely fine. No pressure."
The offer hangs in the air, weighted with implications I don't have time to fully parse.
"I'm good," I say firmly, taking a sip of the coffee. "Only two races left until championship. I'm not sitting out now."
The coffee tastes perfect—black, strong, exactly how I like it. I take another sip, letting the caffeine start working its magic on my pre-race focus.
Richard moves toward Marco, the two of them discussing technical standards and pit crew timing for today's session. Jenny joins them, her voice adding to the professional conversation about tire strategies and fuel management.
I'm halfway through the coffee when something feels... off.
"Did you make this differently today?" I ask Adrian, frowning at the cup.
He takes it from my hands, sipping carefully before his expression shifts into confusion.
"It's bitter. More bitter than usual." He pauses, clearly running through his preparation process mentally. "But I made it exactly how you like it. Same beans, same ratio, same method."
"Yeah, it's definitely off." I look around the garage, suddenly hyperaware of who's been near the diagnostic station where the coffee was sitting.
Richard and Marco are still talking, their backs to us. Jenny is checking something on her tablet. The garage feels normal—the usual pre-race energy, nothing overtly suspicious.
But something is wrong.
The world begins to sway.
Just slightly at first—a subtle shift in my perception that I might dismiss as standing up too quickly or pre-race adrenaline. But then it intensifies, the garage floor seeming to tilt beneath me like I'm on a boat in rough water.
"Adrian?" My voice sounds distant to my own ears, like I'm hearing myself through water.
He says something—his mouth moves, concern evident in his expression—but the words are far away. Muffled. Incomprehensible through the sudden roaring in my ears.
My eyes catch on something I hadn't noticed before.
A sticky note.
Small and yellow, stuck to the wall behind the counter where my coffee had been sitting.
I stumble toward it, my legs not quite obeying commands properly. Everything feels sluggish, disconnected, like my brain is sending signals through molasses.
The note has a single word written in neat block letters:
"Checkmate."
The word registers with horrible clarity even as my vision starts to blur at the edges.
Checkmate.
Game over…
Someone drugged my coffee. Not just drugged it—poisoned it, possibly. And they left a note to make sure I knew it wasn't an accident. That this was deliberate, planned, the culmination of weeks of threats and sabotage.
"Adrian—" I try to speak, try to warn him, but my tongue feels thick and uncooperative.
The garage spins violently, and suddenly I'm falling.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the concrete, Adrian's amber-and-vanilla scent wrapping around me even as consciousness starts to slip away.
I hear shouting—distant and distorted.
Richard's voice, maybe.
Jenny screaming for medical.
Marco's panicked cursing.
But it's all fading, pulled away by whatever was in that coffee.
My last coherent thought before darkness claims me completely is of that note.
"Checkmate."
Someone finally made their winning move.
And I walked right into it.