Page 42 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

"You fucking—" Dmitri switches back to Russian for more creative cursing before addressing Lachlan directly. "Who is this fucking cunt trying to act like YOUR Omega when everyone knows you don't even fuck anyone! You're like monk, too pure for pussy!"

I bite my bottom lip, trying to contain my reaction to the sheer idiocy of that statement. The tension radiating from Lachlan is delicious—controlled violence wrapped in a professional racing suit. When he looks at me, his expression is so deadly cold it sends heat straight to my core.

God, why is barely controlled homicidal rage so fucking hot on him?

I meet his gaze with my most flirtatious smile, batting my eyelashes in an exaggerated display of Omega sweetness that we both know is complete bullshit.

"Alpha," I purr, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You're supposed to reward me for being a good little Omega and reaching the finish line."

I see the exact moment his control snaps. His pupils dilate, his jaw clenches, and the growl that rumbles from his chest is purely primal—the sound of an Alpha pushed past his breaking point by his Omega's public challenge.

Three... two... one...

His hand wraps around the front of my throat in a possessive grip that's firm enough to make a statement but gentle enough not to restrict my breathing. Before I can make another teasing comment, his mouth crashes down on mine in a kiss that's absolutely inappropriate for public consumption.

This isn't a sweet victory kiss. This isn't a choreographed PR moment. This is Lachlan claiming me in front of the entire world, his tongue demanding entrance that I gladly give, his free hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise through the racing suit.

I moan into his mouth, not caring about the hundreds of cameras capturing every second. My hands fist in his suit, pulling him closer, letting everyone see that this isn't one-sided.

That the mysterious Omega who just crashed their party belongs to their champion, and their champion belongs to her.

The shutters are going absolutely wild, the sound like a swarm of mechanical insects.

I can hear shouted questions, exclamations of shock, at least three different languages worth of commentary on what they're witnessing.

But it all fades to white noise compared to the roar of blood in my ears and the taste of Lachlan on my tongue.

He tastes like victory and energy drinks and something uniquely him that makes me want to climb him like a tree right here on the track. The hand on my throat tightens slightly, a warning or a promise, and I whimper in response.

That small sound seems to remind him where we are. He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away, our lips still close enough that we're sharing breath, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are dark with promise and frustration in equal measure.

"You're in so much fucking trouble," he grumbles, his voice rough with arousal and barely contained violence.

I smile, the expression probably more dazed than I intended. "But?"

I see the stubbornness flash in his gaze, the part of him that doesn't want to give me what I'm asking for because he knows it'll just encourage my reckless behavior.

But I know how to wait him out. I stare back patiently, keeping my expression expectant, making it clear I'm not moving until he gives me what I need.

What we both need, really.

"You're fucking insane," he growls, but there's fondness mixed with the exasperation.

"Yes, I know that," I agree easily. "But that's not what I want to hear."

His jaw works as he fights his own nature.

An Alpha praising an Omega who just pulled a stunt that could have gotten her killed, who exposed their relationship to the world without warning, who basically gave a massive middle finger to anyone who thought they could control her—it goes against every instinct bred into him.

But this is Lachlan.

My Wolf. The man who chose me over his career, who's been waiting for me to remember him, who just watched me take second place in my comeback race.

"You did good, Sugar," he finally says, the words firm and clear despite his obvious reluctance. "Really fucking good."

I have to bite back a squeal of delight, the praise hitting me like a shot of pure dopamine. Instead, I lean in closer, searching his face. "Really?"

He rolls his eyes, but his grip on my throat tightens as he pulls me in for another kiss—shorter this time, but no less possessive. When he pulls back, his voice carries enough to be picked up by the nearest microphones.

"Really. Now if you don't get moving, I'll keep my word and spank you right here and now."

The declaration causes an audible gasp from our audience, and I feel heat flood my face at his boldness.

The fact that he said it loud enough to be caught on tape, knowing it'll be replayed on every sports channel and gossip show for the next week—this man is more dangerous than I gave him credit for.

I squirm out of his hold, flicking my hair over my shoulder in a move that's pure bravado to cover my embarrassment.

"Leaving!"

Before the cameras can swarm us properly, Lachlan takes control of the situation.

His hand captures mine in a grip that's gentle but unbreakable, and he starts leading me away from the chaos.

His presence parts the crowd like Moses with the Red Sea—no one quite brave enough to get between an Alpha and his Omega when he's radiating this much protective energy.

But as we pass Dmitri, who's still sprawled on his ass like an overturned turtle, Lachlan pauses. The sudden stillness makes everyone around us freeze, the silence so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.

He crouches down next to the Russian driver with predatory grace, and when he speaks, his voice carries the kind of calm that precedes natural disasters.

"You dare raise your voice at my Omega ever again," he says, each word precise and deadly, "and I'll make sure those legs can't press anything ever again. Not a brake pedal, not a gas pedal, not even a fucking doorbell. Understand?"

He rises smoothly, adding something in Russian that makes Volkov's face go pale beneath his helmet. From the way several Russian journalists gasp, I'm guessing it wasn't a compliment about his driving skills.

Then we're moving again, Lachlan pulling me along with renewed purpose. The crowd parts even faster now, everyone suddenly very interested in being anywhere but in our path.

We're almost clear when one brave soul—a young reporter who probably drew the short straw—calls out desperately:

"What's your name? The Omega—what's your name?"

I can't resist.

Even being dragged along by an Alpha who's probably planning several creative ways to punish me for this stunt, I can't pass up the opportunity for one last dramatic moment.

I turn back, flashing them my most devious smile—the one that usually precedes me doing something that'll give my parents heart attacks. The cameras go crazy again, shutters firing like automatic weapons.

"Auren Vale!" I declare, making sure my voice carries clearly. "Absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The silence that follows is beautiful.

Complete. Perfect. Like the moment between lightning and thunder, when the world holds its breath waiting for the inevitable chaos.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The explosion of noise is physical—reporters screaming questions, photographers fighting for position, commentators trying to process what they've just learned. I catch fragments as Lachlan continues pulling me away:

"—Vale? THE Vale family ? —"

"—thought she was dead ? —"

"—racing before the accident ? —"

"—parents going to sue ? —"

"—Wolfe's Omega all along ? —"

But I don't need to care about any of that right now.

Not when I'm trying not to skip like a giddy schoolgirl, my hand still held firmly in Lachlan's grip.

He's navigating us through the paddock with the efficiency of someone who's memorized every shortcut and hidden passage, clearly intent on getting us somewhere private before the full weight of what just happened crashes down.

I study the back of his head as we walk, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his racing suit stretches across his back with each determined stride.

He's going to fuck me. That much is obvious from the pheromones he's pumping out, from the possessive way he hasn't let go of my hand, from the promises written in every line of his body.

He's going to fuck me everywhere and anywhere he can before we have to face the consequences of my grand reveal.

Before my parents descend with their lawyers and their disappointment.

Before the media circus really gets rolling.

Before reality intrudes on this perfect bubble of adrenaline and victory and rediscovered connection.

I may not remember our past together, may not have access to the memories that clearly haunt him. But right now, in this moment, I don't need them. Because I can feel it—the chemistry, the pull, the rightness of being next to him.

The exhilaration of the race is still singing in my blood, mixing with the arousal from that public claiming, creating a cocktail of sensation that makes me feel more alive than I have since waking up in that hospital bed.

This is what I've been missing. Not just the racing, but this—the complete package of speed and danger and passion that apparently defines who I am when I'm not being carefully managed and medicated into compliance.

Lachlan pulls me around another corner, and I recognize we're heading for the drivers' private area—a section of the paddock that's off-limits to media and most team personnel.

Good. Perfect. Because I don't think I can wait much longer to get my hands on him properly, to celebrate this victory in the most primal way possible.

My Wolf won our race.

I came second in my comeback.

We've just announced our relationship to the world in the most dramatic way possible.

And now?

Now we're going to disappear for however long we can steal, and I'm going to let him show me exactly how proud he is of my performance. How frustrated he is with my recklessness. How much he's missed me, even if I can't remember missing him back.

The thought sends heat spiraling through me, and I pick up my pace to match his longer strides.

He glances back at me, and something in my expression makes his eyes darken further.

"Problem, Sugar?" he asks, but his voice suggests he knows exactly what kind of problem I'm having.

"Just admiring the view," I reply with false innocence. "And thinking about how this whole racing thing comes with some very interesting perks."

His laugh is dark and full of promise.

"You have no idea."

But I think I do.

Or at least, I'm starting to.

Because this feeling— this mixture of triumph and desire and pure, unadulterated life —this is what I've been searching for in all those late-night gaming sessions and careful conversations with friends who couldn't tell me the whole truth.

This is who I am when I'm not being protected from myself.

And honestly?

I can get used to this exhilarating lifestyle of lust and drive.