Page 46 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

FRAGMENTS OF FIRE

~ A UREN~

I drift in and out of consciousness like I'm floating on warm ocean waves, each gentle rise and fall pulling me deeper into that blissful space between dreams and reality.

Soft lips press against the curve of my neck, feather-light touches that send pleasant shivers down my spine even through the haze of exhaustion.

The kisses trail upward—along my jaw, brushing the corner of my mouth, finally settling on my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest ache in ways I don't have words for.

"I'll be back later," Lachlan's voice rumbles against my skin, deep and warm like expensive whiskey. His hand smooths over my hair, fingers catching slightly in the tangled strands. "You're safe here. Sleep, Sugar."

I want to respond, want to tell him to stay, to curl back into the solid warmth of his body and never leave this perfect bubble we've created.

But my limbs feel like they're made of lead, weighted down by the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from finally— finally —letting go of tension I didn't even realize I'd been carrying.

"Rub…bish," I manage to mutter, the word slurred and barely audible as sleep pulls me under again.

I don’t even know why I say the word, or maybe I’m trying not to speak a bunch of rubbish and simply state the word instead.

Typical of me.

I feel more than hear his soft chuckle, the vibration of it through the mattress as he shifts away.

The loss of his warmth makes me want to whine in protest, but I'm already sinking, already falling back into that dark, peaceful void where nothing exists except the lingering scent of him on the sheets and the phantom pressure of his lips on my skin.

My body feels like it's been holding every muscle taut for eons—spine rigid, shoulders locked, jaw clenched against words I couldn't say and truths I couldn't remember.

But now, wrapped in sheets that smell like victory, sex, and him , I can finally let it all go.

Every defensive wall, every careful protection, every bit of armor I've worn since waking up in that hospital bed—all of it dissolves into nothing.

This is what peace feels like…belonging…and?—

The world shifts.

One moment I'm floating in blissful darkness, the next I'm strapped into a cockpit, the roar of twenty-three engines creating a symphony of controlled violence around me.

The smell hits me first— hot metal and burning rubber, high-octane fuel and the metallic tang of adrenaline-laced sweat.

My hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity as I navigate turn seven at speeds that blur the advertising boards into streams of color.

This isn't today's race.

The car feels different, responds differently.

The weight distribution is off, the steering heavier, the whole machine fighting me instead of working with me.

But I know this track— know it in my bones, in the way my body automatically adjusts for the cambered corner coming up, in the way my foot eases off the throttle at exactly the right microsecond.

"Push harder, Vale!" A voice crackles through my earpiece, harsh and demanding. "We need that podium! The sponsors are watching!"

I want to tell the voice to fuck off, that I'm already pushing as hard as the car will allow, that something feels wrong in the suspension that's making the rear end twitchy.

But before I can respond, I see them in my mirrors—two cars working in tandem, closing fast with the kind of coordinated precision that speaks of planning, not racing.

They're not trying to pass me.

They're hunting me.

"Fuck!" The curse rips from my throat as the first car clips my rear wheel, sending me into an immediate spin. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds —sky, track, barriers, sky again —as physics takes over and my car becomes a two-ton projectile with me trapped inside.

I fight for control, my arms burning with the effort of trying to wrestle the wheel back to center, but it's useless.

The second impact comes from the left, a deliberate ram that sends me careening toward the barriers at an angle that makes my stomach drop because I know— I know —what comes next.

The barrier approaches in slow motion and hypervelocity simultaneously. I have enough time to think this is going to hurt and no time at all before impact. The crushing force of deceleration slams me forward, the harness cutting into my shoulders as it fights to keep me in place.

Metal screams and tears, carbon fiber shatters into deadly shards, and then?—

Fire.

It starts small, just a flicker of orange in my peripheral vision. But in seconds it's everywhere, crawling across the cockpit like a living thing, hungry and searching. The heat is instant and overwhelming, turning my racing suit from protection to prison.

I can't breathe—the fire is eating all the oxygen, replacing it with toxic smoke that burns my lungs with every desperate gasp.

My hands fumble with the release mechanisms, but they're jammed.

Everything is jammed .

The cockpit that's supposed to protect me has become a crematorium, and I'm going to burn alive, I'm going to?—

"HELP! SOMEONE—" My voice cracks, dissolves into coughing as smoke fills my lungs.

The fire is so close now I can feel my skin starting to blister beneath the suit.

This is how I die.

This is how it ends.

Not in glory but in agony, cooked alive in a carbon fiber coffin while millions watch on television ? —

My eyes snap open as I bolt upright, a strangled gasp tearing from my throat.

I'm drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. My hands are shaking—no, my whole body is shaking, tremors running through me like aftershocks of trauma my mind won't let me fully remember.

"Fuck," I breathe, pressing my palms against my eyes hard enough to see stars. "Fuck, fuck, fuck ."

The nightmare— memory? —is already fading at the edges, leaving behind only phantom heat and the acrid taste of smoke that can't possibly be real.

My racing suit from earlier is draped over a chair across the room, and just looking at it makes my skin crawl with remembered pain that shouldn't exist.

The vibration of my phone cuts through the panic, the familiar ringtone grounding me back in the present.

In Lachlan's bed. In his private suite. Safe. Alive. Not burning.

I reach for the device with hands that are still trembling slightly, frowning at the way my fingers don't want to cooperate properly.

One look at the screen makes me groan loud enough to echo off the walls.

287 missed calls from 'Parents'

Two hundred and eighty-seven. In the span of— I check the time —three hours. That's more than one call per minute, which would be impressive if it wasn't so suffocating. Am I surprised? No . Disappointed in their lack of faith in my ability to handle myself? Absolutely.

But the current caller isn't them.

Luke's contact photo— him making a ridiculous face while holding one of his precious Labubu collectibles —fills the screen, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

I swipe to answer, my voice coming out rough and cracked when I manage, "Yeah?"

There's a pause on the other end, then Luke's voice, tinged with concern.

"Were you sleeping?"

"Mhmm," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to shake off the lingering fog of nightmare and exhaustion.

My body feels heavy, like someone filled my bones with concrete while I slept.

I slump back against the pillows, sinking into the expensive mattress that probably cost more than most people's cars.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

The question catches me off guard, too perceptive for casual conversation.

"How would you know?"

I can practically hear him shifting into protective mode through the phone.

"Your breathing is elevated and you're less enthusiastic than usual when someone calls. Usually you answer with some smart-ass comment or at least pretend to be happy to hear from me."

"Hmm," I hum noncommittally, feeling my eyelids already trying to close again. The bed is so comfortable, and now that the adrenaline from the nightmare is fading, exhaustion is creeping back in like tide returning to shore.

"Where are you?" Luke asks, and there's something in his tone that suggests he already knows but needs confirmation.

"Private suite," I mumble, not bothering to elaborate. He'll understand what that means—that I'm in Lachlan's space, his territory, the place that's apparently off-limits to everyone except me.

He sighs, long and knowing.

"No wonder the press haven't found you yet." There's a pause, then, with barely contained amusement: "Also, since when are you and Lachlan a thing?"

That makes me smirk despite everything, a small smile tugging at my lips as I remember the very public claiming that happened just hours ago.

"How do you even know about that?"

Luke's laugh is bright and incredulous.

"Maybe you haven't tuned into the news, but you're the new viral second-place Formula One entry racer who just annihilated Dmitri on and off track, then kissed Lachlan Wolfe on live television like y'all have been fucking for eons, and then revealed you're AUREN VALE, the heir of the Vale family who, I guess, no one knew your mother used to race. "

I whistle low, impressed despite myself at how quickly the media machine has started churning.

"Damn, all that came out so fast. Y'all working overtime there."

He sighs again, but it's fond this time.

"Want me to come to you?"

I consider it, weighing my need for familiar comfort against the potential complications.

Luke has been my anchor for the past year, the one constant in a life that's felt like shifting sand. But this is Lachlan's space, his sanctuary, and I don't know the protocol for having visitors in what's clearly a very private refuge.

"If Lachlan's cool with it," I say finally. "Since I think that's the only way you can get in here."

"I'll come over," he says immediately, like it's already decided.

"How? When you don't even know Lachlan..." I trail off as pieces start clicking into place, memories of Kieran at my apartment, of Caspian at my parents' house, of all the careful looks and loaded silences. "Wait. You guys all know each other?"

His chuckle is answer enough, carrying years of history I can't access. "Did you bring your little pouch of meds?"

"Yes," I answer, already knowing where this is going.

"Pop a pill and sleep so you don't have a migraine when you wake up. I'll be there soon."

I huff in mock annoyance, but we both know I'll do what he says. Luke has talked me through enough anxiety attacks and panic spirals to know what I need better than I do sometimes.

"Fine," I concede, already reaching for the small bag I'd transferred from my racing suit.

"Auren?" His voice stops me just as I'm about to hang up.

"Yeah?"

There's a moment of silence, heavy with something I can't quite identify.

Then, soft and sincere.

"You looked phenomenal on that track. I'm proud of you, baby."

The words hit me like a physical blow, making my throat tight with sudden emotion. I smile even though he can't see it, blinking away the moisture that's gathering in my eyes as I stare up at the ceiling. The ornate molding blurs slightly as tears threaten to spill over.

Because that's what I needed to hear.

Not that I was reckless or brave or insane—all things that are probably true.

But that I was phenomenal .

That someone who's seen me at my absolute worst, who's held me through panic attacks and memory gaps and nights when I couldn't remember my own name, is proud of what I accomplished today.

"Thanks, Luke," I manage, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I needed this."

I needed to race.

Needed to prove I could still do it.

Needed to show everyone— including myself —that Auren Vale isn't just a ghost of someone who used to exist, but a force to be reckoned with in the present tense.

I can feel his smile through the phone, warm and genuine and exactly what I need in this moment.

"I know."