Page 51 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

MEDIA CIRCUS

~ A UREN~

The press conference room is a special kind of hell designed by people who've never had to sit under blazing lights while hundreds of strangers dissect every micro-expression on your face.

I sit next to Lachlan at the long table that's been set up for this circus, trying to maintain the composed expression that my mother drilled into me during years of "proper Omega deportment" lessons that I apparently retained despite the memory loss.

The questions come like rapid-fire bullets, each reporter more eager than the last to get their soundbite, their viral moment, their piece of the Auren Vale puzzle that they can package and sell to the masses.

"Miss Vale, how does it feel to be the first Omega to come second in the preliminary race for one of the greatest racing competitions in the world?"

I lean toward the microphone, acutely aware of how every movement is being captured by dozens of cameras.

"It feels like I should have come first, but I suppose second place isn't terrible for someone who supposedly forgot how to drive."

A ripple of laughter runs through the room, but another reporter is already jumping in, not wanting to lose momentum.

"Are you even prepared to race against men who've been in the industry for years? Some of them have been racing professionally since before you were in secondary school."

The condescension in his tone makes my teeth clench, but I keep my smile pleasant.

"Well, considering I just beat twenty-one of those experienced men while starting from dead last, I'd say I'm managing just fine. But thank you for your concern about my preparation. Very touching."

Lachlan shifts beside me, and I can feel the amusement radiating from him even though his expression remains professionally neutral. His hand rests on the table near mine, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth.

Another reporter— a woman this time, with sharp eyes and an even sharper suit —leans forward.

"Was this destined, perhaps? Your mother was a former racer back in the day, though she never reached Formula One level due to the obvious implications of that era. Do you see this as fulfilling her unrealized dreams?"

The question hits closer to home than I'd like, mainly because I have no fucking idea what my mother's racing dreams were or weren't. That's apparently another piece of information that got filed under "things Auren doesn't need to know for her own good."

"My mother's dreams were her own," I say carefully. "Mine are mine. Though I'm sure she's thrilled to see an Omega competing at this level, even if she's probably also planning my funeral for the scandal I've caused."

More laughter, but it's nervous this time.

Everyone knows the Vale family's reputation, their power, their tendency to make problems disappear with surgical precision.

"With the new rule implications requiring you to be the Omega for Wolfe's pack," another reporter jumps in, his tone suggesting he's about to drop what he thinks is a bombshell, "how can we believe this dynamic will stay professional?

You're essentially forced into an intimate arrangement for the sake of competition. "

Before I can respond, another reporter— younger, hungrier for scandal —blurts out.

"Are you pregnant?"

The question hangs in the air like a particularly offensive fart, and for a moment, the entire room goes silent.

Then I snicker—I can't help it.

The absurdity of the question, the timing, the sheer audacity—it's too much.

Beside me, Lachlan rolls his eyes so dramatically I'm surprised they don't fall out of his head, which sets off a wave of laughter from other reporters and bystanders who apparently have some sense of decency.

"Yes," I deadpan into the microphone. "I'm pregnant with a litter of tiny race cars. They're due in the spring. We're very excited."

The laughter is genuine this time, but Terek—Lachlan's manager who's been standing at the side of the room looking increasingly stressed—steps forward with his hands raised.

"Alright, alright, let's maintain some professionalism here. Please ask appropriate questions, not tabloid nonsense."

The thing is, we've been in here for forty-five minutes already being drilled with questions, and the majority of the session has been focused on Lachlan. All these reporters were far more intrigued by getting insights from the current champion that could go viral on social media at any moment.

Every word he says gets dissected, turned into headlines, posted with dramatic captions about the "mysterious twin revelation" and what it means for Formula One.

It's only now, in the last five minutes of this thing, that they're suddenly fascinated with asking me questions, as if my existence suddenly means something to them. As if I wasn't worth their time until they'd exhausted every possible angle with the champion.

My stomach has other opinions about this extended press session, and it's not being subtle about it.

Terek, probably noticing that my attention has drifted from the latest question about my training regimen, tries to bring me back into the conversation.

“Well, how are you feeling, Auren?"

"Hungry," I answer honestly, and right on cue, my stomach lets out a growl that could probably be heard in the parking lot.

It's the kind of rumble that suggests I haven't eaten in days rather than just skipping breakfast, a proper roar that my digestive system has apparently been saving for maximum embarrassment.

I pout as silence falls over the room, everyone apparently stunned that my body would dare have biological needs during their important press conference.

For a moment, nobody seems to know how to respond to this very human interruption to their carefully orchestrated media event.

Then Lachlan loses it.

His laughter starts as a snort, evolves into a chuckle, and then becomes full-bodied laughter that transforms his entire face.

Gone is the serious champion, the controlled Alpha who's been giving measured responses for the better part of an hour.

This is just Lachlan, amused by the absurdity of it all.

He rises from his chair with the fluid grace that comes from years of athletic conditioning, and his hand finds mine before I even realize he's moving.

"Sorry folks," he announces, pulling me to my feet with gentle insistence. "My Omega is hungry and I can't possibly be a good Alpha by starving her. No further questions."

His hand is warm and solid in mine, and he's already guiding me toward the exit before anyone can object.

The reporters explode into a frenzy of follow-up questions and camera flashes, but we're already moving, Lachlan navigating us through the chaos with the same precision he uses on the track.

"I didn't think my stomach would do that," I say, blushing as we push through the doors into the hallway.

He laughs again, the sound echoing off the walls.

"Good, because I've been starving for the last twenty minutes and it's about time we get out of this place."

The driver is already waiting outside, because of course Lachlan had an escape plan.

The crowd in front of the conference hall goes absolutely wild when we emerge. The noise is overwhelming—screaming fans, shouting reporters, the click of hundreds of cameras all trying to capture this moment.

Lachlan slides on his sunglasses with practiced ease, and I follow suit, grateful for the barrier between me and the chaos.

Our hands are still tightly linked as we make our way toward the car, and I'm glad I brought the sunglasses because they let me scan the crowd without being obvious about it.

There are so many more Omegas present today than I've ever seen at a racing event. They're holding signs, wearing homemade t-shirts, screaming their support.

I catch glimpses of the messages as we pass:

#FirstOmegaFormulaOneChampion #ValeForTheWin #SugarAndSpiceAndEverythingFast #OmegaPower

One girl, probably no more than sixteen, is crying actual tears as we pass, clutching a sign that reads "You Made Me Believe I Can Do Anything."

The weight of that statement, the responsibility of being suddenly thrust into the role of representation for an entire designation, hits harder than I’d like.

That I’m inspiring others do believe they can achieve anything…

But there's no time to process it.

Lachlan ushers me into the car first, his hand on my lower back protective and possessive in equal measure. He closes my door before walking around to the other side, and immediately, reporters surge toward him.

"Lachlan! What do you and your new apparent Omega have in store for this season?"

He pauses with his hand on the door handle, and I watch through the tinted window as he turns to face them. Even with sunglasses hiding his eyes, his smirk is unmistakable.

"You should expect a thrilling season of the unexpected," he says, his voice carrying that particular blend of confidence and challenge that makes him such a compelling champion.

"Because I'm not the one you should be worried about.

" He pauses for dramatic effect, and I swear every reporter leans forward in anticipation. "My Sugar is the wild card."

He gives them a wink that's going to be gif'd and shared across every social media platform within minutes, then slides into the car beside me.

The door closes with expensive finality, shutting out the chaos.

The driver begins to move immediately, navigating through the crowd with professional skill. Lachlan reaches forward and signals for the privacy screen to be raised, and within seconds, we're isolated in our own little bubble of tinted glass and leather seats.

I sigh in relief, sinking back into the seat.

"Man, this is going to be overwhelming. All the time. I gotta make sure I eat more before these things."

He turns to look at me, and there's something apologetic in his expression.

"We should have made sure you ate this morning."

I smirk, remembering how I'd woken up to an empty suite.

"Y'all were gone trying to be mini Bruce Lee squad at the gym. I didn't want to bother you."

"You could have joined us," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes heat pool low in my belly.

I'm already slipping off my sunglasses, needing to be free of their weight. My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, undoing the first three to let some air in. The press conference room had been stifling, and I blow air up at my face in relief.

When I look back at him, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His sunglasses are off too, and those blue-green eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with hunger for food.

"We both know if we're working out together," I say, my voice dropping to something more intimate, "we're doing a different kind of workout."

He licks his lips, slow and deliberate.

"Well, cardio is cardio, right?"

I roll my eyes even as heat floods through me at the implication.

"I'd like to walk normally in front of these maddening crowds and not confirm I was flipped, tossed, and dunked by my Alphas on the first official day as a team."

His grin is pure sin as he hooks his arm around me, pulling me close with that Alpha strength that never fails to make my pulse race.

Then his mouth is on mine, and I'm moaning into the kiss before I can help myself. It's deep and possessive, his tongue claiming my mouth like he's trying to prove a point—to me, to himself, to the universe.

We're making out like teenagers in the back of this luxury car, and I can't bring myself to care about propriety or what the driver might think. Lachlan kisses like he races—with total focus and devastating precision.

When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. He whispers against my lips, "Can we talk over lunch?"

There's something vulnerable in his voice, a note of uncertainty that seems at odds with the confident Alpha who just claimed me in front of the international press.

We share a look, and I realize he's seeking my validation, my agreement, my partnership in whatever comes next.

"Yeah," I say softly. "We can."

His smile is brilliant, transforming his face from handsome to devastating.

He presses his forehead against mine in a gesture that feels more intimate than the kiss, then gives me a quick peck before pulling away.

But he keeps holding my hand, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm that make me shiver.

I wonder what he wants to talk about.

The pack dynamics? Lucius and his complicated relationship with everyone? The fact that I'm about to sign contracts this evening that will officially make me part of their Formula One team?

There are so many conversations we need to have, so many things that have been left unsaid in the whirlwind of the last forty-eight hours.

But that's for lunch.

For now, I let myself enjoy this moment—sitting in the back of a car with a man who looks at me like I'm both his greatest victory and his most dangerous challenge, heading toward a future that's completely uncertain but absolutely thrilling.

This evening, contracts are going to be officially signed.

My signature on documents that will change everything, that will make this arrangement official in the eyes of the racing world and the legal system. Once that ink dries, there's no going back.

I'll be committed to this team, this pack, this complicated dance between past and present that I'm only beginning to understand.

It's now or never to figure out how we're going to approach this season. How we're going to navigate the media attention, the pack dynamics, the complicated relationship with Lucius, the expectations of an entire designation looking to me for representation.

But despite all of that— despite the pressure and the uncertainty and the weight of expectation —I find myself smiling.

For the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Even if the path forward is complicated as hell without knowing what I’m truly getting myself into.

We're going to figure it out…we're going to race and we're going to win.

Wolfe’s Pack is going to slay this season.