Page 41 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
THE REVEAL
~ A UREN~
I lift myself out of the cockpit with practiced ease, my muscles remembering the motion even if my mind doesn't recall the thousands of times I've done this before.
The carbon fiber bodywork is scarred with evidence of our battle—rubber marks from where I kissed the barriers just close enough to gain those precious tenths of seconds, scratches along the sidepods from my calculated contact with Volkov.
She's not pristine anymore, but she's beautiful in her battle damage.
"You did me good," I tease the car, running my gloved hand along the warm engine cover as if she can hear me, feel my gratitude for not failing when I pushed her beyond reasonable limits.
People might think I'm crazy for talking to my rides, for naming them and treating them like living beings instead of mere machines.
But I've always been like that—at least, I think I have.
Everything feels more alive when you match name with personality, when you acknowledge the spirit that seems to inhabit these magnificent beasts of speed and engineering.
"I think I'll call you Phoenix," I murmur, patting the car one last time. "Because we both rose from the ashes today, didn't we?"
The sound of stampeding feet draws my attention, and I look up to see a horde of reporters racing toward me like hungry wolves scenting fresh meat.
Their cameras are already rolling, microphones extended like weapons, each one desperate to be the first to unmask the mysterious Sugar&Spice who just gave them the story of the year.
I glance over to where Lachlan's car sits further down the straight, already surrounded by his crew.
They're helping him out even though it's abundantly clear he doesn't need assistance—he could probably climb out of that car in his sleep after four consecutive championships.
But it's tradition, part of the choreographed dance of victory that Formula One has perfected over decades.
No one's rushing to help me, of course. I'm the mysterious nobody, the last-minute substitution who shouldn't even be here.
The crew is keeping their distance, probably unsure of protocol when dealing with an unknown Omega who just crashed their exclusive party.
Understandable, really. They don't know if I'm about to collapse from exhaustion, burst into tears, or bite someone's head off for getting too close.
All valid concerns, honestly.
I smirk at the thought before finally jumping down from the car, my racing boots hitting the asphalt with a satisfying thud.
The impact sends a small shock through my legs, reminding me that I'm not as young as I used to be—though at twenty-five, that's probably more about the year of inactivity than actual age.
I make a show of dusting off my racing suit, brushing away imaginary debris as if that wild ride hadn't left its mark all over the previously pristine surface.
The suit is streaked with tire rubber, oil spots, and god knows what else from the chaos of overtaking twenty cars in fifty laps.
But that's what makes it perfect—battle scars that prove I earned my position through skill and audacity, not luck or favoritism.
The thundering footsteps are getting closer, and I can make out individual voices now—reporters shouting questions in multiple languages, photographers cursing at each other for better positions, the general mayhem that follows any spectacular racing performance.
My grin widens. This is it. The moment I've been building toward since I first decided to steal that car and remind everyone who Auren Vale really is.
Time for the PR stunt that's going to go viral in 3... 2... 1...
I drop into a low stretch, bending forward to touch my toes in a move that's part genuine muscle relief, part calculated performance.
The position makes my hair bunch up inside the helmet, adding pressure that I use to my advantage.
As I rise from the stretch in one fluid motion, I reach up and pull off my helmet with theatrical precision.
The effect is immediate and exactly what I intended.
My hair—jet black at the roots transitioning to vibrant magenta at the ends, with new purple strands woven throughout—cascades down in a waterfall of curls that reaches nearly to my lower back.
The release from the helmet's confines makes it fan out dramatically, catching the late afternoon sun and creating a halo effect that the photographers are going to absolutely love.
The sound of camera shutters firing is like machine-gun fire, hundreds of shots per second as they capture every angle of the reveal.
I've been hiding how long my hair has grown for months, always keeping it in tight buns or using extensions to create the illusion of shorter styles.
But this—this called for the full dramatic effect.
I shake my head slightly, letting the curls settle naturally around my shoulders and down my back.
With my hair like this, I know I look like my mother's doppelganger from her younger years—the same bone structure, the same distinctive coloring, the same ability to command attention just by existing in a space.
But where my mother was all elegant control and refined beauty, I'm wilder.
More dangerous. The dark maroon lipstick I carefully applied before the race has somehow survived intact, making my lips look like I've been drinking wine—or blood.
The dark red blush brings out the warm undertones in my lightly tanned complexion, a perfect contrast to the pale, porcelain-doll Omega stereotype.
I turn my head just as I sense someone approaching from my peripheral vision, my smirking expression already in place before I fully register who it is.
Dmitri Volkov is inches from my face, his features contorted with fury, spittle flying as he launches into a tirade of Russian curses that would probably make his babushka faint.
His face is red beneath his helmet—he hasn't even bothered to remove it, too focused on confronting me to worry about proper post-race protocol.
"Сука!" he spits, switching to heavily accented English. "You fucking cunt! How dare you cut me off like that? I could have finished you in heartbeat if I wanted!"
I let my smirk deepen, tilting my head slightly as I study him with the kind of detached amusement usually reserved for watching toddlers throw tantrums in grocery stores. He's practically vibrating with rage, his Alpha pheromones pumping out in waves meant to intimidate and dominate.
Too bad for him I've never been good at following biological imperatives.
"Well, why didn't you?" I ask, my voice carrying just enough condescension to really twist the knife. "By my calculations, you were four seconds and three centimeters short. That gave me at least three other opportunities to pass you properly if you hadn't gotten soft after that final turn."
His face somehow manages to get even redder, which is genuinely impressive from a physiological standpoint.
"You got cocky," I continue, warming to my theme.
"Thought you could throttle down and cruise to second place once you saw me coming.
But here's a free lesson for next time: you don't hold back when defending your position.
When you see a viper showing its fangs, you either strike first or get out of the way. You did neither."
The growl that rumbles from his chest is purely animal, designed to remind me of our obvious Alpha and Omega dynamic. In his world, that growl should have me cowering, baring my neck in submission, apologizing for daring to challenge his authority.
Instead, I meet his gaze steadily, my smirk never wavering. If anything, it gets wider.
"You think this is funny?" he snarls, stepping even closer until I can smell the rage-sweat and frustration rolling off him. "You little Omega think you can be cocky? Think you can threaten me? ME? I'm going to be champion this year!"
My smirk transforms into a full smile, the kind that shows too many teeth to be friendly. I lean in slightly, close enough that my next words are just between us despite the dozens of cameras capturing every second of this confrontation.
"Слушай внимательно," I begin in perfect Russian, watching his eyes widen at my fluency.
"If you don't get out of my face in five seconds, you're going to find out why they used to call me the Viper on track.
And trust me, whatever championship dreams you're nurturing?
They'll seem really insignificant when you're trying to remember how to walk straight. "
But I'm not done. Switching back to English for the benefit of our audience, I add just loud enough for the nearest cameras to pick up: "Besides, my Alpha is going to be the fifth consecutive Formula One champion. So it's best you back off before you find out why he keeps me hidden."
The threat is barely out of my mouth when Dmitri doesn't just get moved—he gets launched.
A hand appears from behind me, connecting with Volkov's chest with enough force to send the Russian driver stumbling backward.
He tries to catch himself, arms windmilling comically, but physics and surprise work against him.
His ass hits the asphalt with a satisfying thud that's definitely going to bruise both his tailbone and his ego.
I whistle low, a sound of appreciation for the sheer efficiency of the violence, as I feel the warm, solid presence of Lachlan's suited frame behind me. He's radiating protective fury, his scent sharp with aggression and something else—pride, maybe? Possessiveness definitely.
I cross my arms and tilt my head condescendingly at Volkov, who's staring up at us from his undignified position on the ground. "See? I warned you. Five seconds. You made it to about three and a half. Really should work on your listening skills."