Page 57 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
When I try to move past him, he lets his scent flex—pine over petrol, sharp and aggressive in a way that makes my nose wrinkle. It's similar to Lachlan's but wrong somehow, like a familiar song played in a minor key.
"Better drivers learn from better men," he says, just loud enough to ensure everyone hears, just pointed enough to be a clear dig at his brother.
The tension ratchets up another notch. I can feel Lachlan behind me, probably one second away from doing something that'll make headlines we don't need.
Caspian has gone very still in that way that suggests he's calculating angles and probabilities of violence.
Even Dex has descended from the pit wall, drawn by the promise of conflict.
But before anyone can escalate, Luke appears out of nowhere like some kind of Beta ninja. He slides between Lucius and me with perfect timing, a clipboard in one hand and a lazy smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Sorry, need to steal Auren for a moment," he says cheerfully, already herding me toward safety with the efficiency of a shepherd who's dealt with too many wolves. "Urgent... clipboard things."
"Why are you here?" Luke asks Lucius directly, his tone still pleasant but with steel underneath.
Lucius's grin turns saucy, the kind of expression that probably melts underwear at fifty paces. "I took a side gig to help take photos of this place while they review my plentiful list of contracts I've been offered. Making up time, you know. Keeping busy."
The words are casual but the implication is clear—he's considering offers from other teams. He's keeping his options open. He's not committed to this pack, this team, this complicated arrangement we're all trying to navigate.
He excuses himself with elaborate courtesy that's more mocking than polite, but not before giving me one last look. It's loaded with things unsaid, with history I can't quite access, with a possessiveness that he has no right to feel but does anyway.
Then he's gone, taking his cameras and his chaos with him, leaving the garage feeling somehow both emptier and more charged.
"Well," Kieran says after a moment, breaking the silence. "That was fun."
"Thrilling," Dex agrees dryly.
Caspian just shakes his head and returns to his laptop, probably calculating the statistical probability of fratricide before the season ends.
I try to shake off the encounter, to refocus on the data I need to review, but there's a weird energy lingering in the air. Like ozone before a storm. Like everyone's waiting for something to break.
My phone buzzes with a notification, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen, expecting some routine update from Katie about schedule changes or media obligations.
Instead, it's a tagged photo that somehow got through her security filters.
The image shows me leaving my building last night, clearly taken with a long-lens camera from across the street. I'm in casual clothes—jeans and one of Lachlan's hoodies that I definitely stole—looking tired but content. Normal post-training exhaustion.
But it's the caption that makes my frown deepen: Who's she really with?
The implication is obvious. They're suggesting I'm playing multiple members of the pack, that the public display with Lachlan was for show, that behind closed doors the situation is more complicated. Which, to be fair, it is. But not in the way they're suggesting.
I should probably be more concerned about photographers staking out my building, about the invasion of privacy, about the security implications. But honestly? After death threats and hate campaigns and people suggesting I should drive off a cliff, one creepy photographer seems almost quaint.
I delete the photo with a dismissive swipe.
Katie will handle it when she does her regular security sweep.
She'll trace the source, probably have words with building security, maybe arrange for some discrete counter-surveillance.
That's what she's paid for—to handle the shadows so I can focus on the light.
Besides, who cares if people are watching my place?
I've got security now—professional, expensive, the kind that comes with electromagnetic scramblers and military backgrounds.
If someone wants to waste their time taking photos of me buying groceries or walking to my car, that's their sad life choice.
There are bigger fish to fry in this ocean of competition. Tomorrow we fly to Barcelona for the Spanish Grand Prix. Three days of practice, qualifying, then the race itself. My first real Formula One race as an official Titan Racing driver, with all the pressure and scrutiny that entails.
The photographer, whoever they are, is just another shadow trying to distract from what really matters. And shadows only have power if you let them linger in your peripheral vision, drawing focus from the road ahead.
I pocket my phone and head back to the data room, ready to spend the next three hours analyzing telemetry until my eyes bleed.
Because that's what it takes to compete at this level—absolute focus, complete dedication, and the ability to ignore the noise whether it comes from haters online, complicated ex-boyfriends, or creepy photographers.
The shadows can linger all they want.
I've got bigger things to worry about.
Like how to find those extra two-tenths through Copse without ending up in the barrier.
Like how to manage tire temperatures over a full race distance.
Like how to prove that an Omega belongs here not just as a diversity requirement but as a genuine competitor.
I vow not to linger on it because there are bigger fish in the sea of competition.