Page 58 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

ROMANTIC INTERLUDES

~ L ACHLAN~

"Now, what do we have here?" Auren's voice carries that particular blend of surprise and delight that makes all the planning worth it.

My grin is big and proud because I was able to set all this up despite our insane schedule—the candles flicker on the rooftop private sector against the infinite pool that decorates the outdoor restaurant, now ours for the evening.

Barcelona spreads out below us like a carpet of lights, the Sagrada Familia illuminated in the distance, the Mediterranean a dark mirror reflecting the moon.

The restaurant normally books months in advance, but being a four-time Formula One champion opens doors that stay closed to mere mortals. A few calls, a signing session for the owner's son, and suddenly the entire rooftop is ours from sunset to whenever we decide to leave.

"You've been working hard these last couple of days," I tease, taking in how the candlelight plays across her features. "And it's time to be a little romantic before we're back to being all business tomorrow."

She laughs, the sound bright against the evening air.

The red dress she's wearing drapes perfectly around her figure—not too formal, not too casual, just the right amount of elegance with a hint of danger.

The fabric catches the light when she moves, shifting from crimson to burgundy to something deeper that makes me think of expensive wine and poor decisions.

I usher her to the table I've had specially set up near the pool's edge, pulling out her chair with a flourish that makes her roll her eyes even as she smiles. I wait until she's settled before taking the seat opposite her, though it goes against my usual preference.

"You know I normally like to sit next to my partners," I tell her, adjusting my napkin with unnecessary precision. "Makes me feel more intimate than across, which feels more authoritative. Like we're having a business meeting instead of a date."

"Well," she says, raising the glass of champagne that's already been poured, "technically this is a business dinner. We are discussing race strategy, aren't we?"

"Absolutely," I agree with mock seriousness. "Very professional. Nothing personal about this at all."

The waiter appears with the first course—some architectural construction involving foam and flowers that probably has a name longer than a German compound word.

We eat stupidly perfect food that neither of us really tastes, too caught up in conversation about everything except what's actually on our plates.

"Three sponsors," she says eventually, stabbing at what might be fish or possibly transformed vegetable matter. "Three sponsors gone in two days. That's got to be some kind of record."

I knew this would come up. It's been the elephant in the garage all week—the steady drip of corporate partners deciding that an Omega on the team is too controversial for their brand image.

"They're cowards," I say simply. "PetroMax, Digit-All, and Sovereign Banking. All of them deciding to bail at the idea of you being partnered with me, thinking the first race was a fluke."

"A fluke," she repeats, her voice flat. "Because obviously, I just accidentally drove from twenty-third to second. Whoops, my bad, didn't mean to be fast."

"Which is exactly why I thought this would be a good way to cheer you up," I gesture at our surroundings. "Forget about scared money men who can't see talent when it's burning rubber in their faces."

She sighs, but there's a smile playing at her lips. "You know what? I'm actually happy my parents offered Katie's services. That woman has done a damn good job blocking everything off. I haven't seen a single death threat in three days."

"That's... a depressingly low bar for success."

"Welcome to being an Omega in professional sports," she says with a shrug that's trying too hard to be casual.

Then her expression shifts slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "Though I did get a photo of me leaving my apartment. Which was odd."

I sit up straighter, immediately on alert. "What do you mean? Show me the picture."

She shrugs, taking another sip of champagne. "I deleted it. It's probably nothing. You get stalkers all the time when you suddenly become famous. Part of the territory, right?"

I arch an eyebrow her way, not buying the casual dismissal for a second. There's a difference between fan photos and targeted surveillance, and something about her tone suggests this was the latter.

"Don't worry about it," she says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Katie's handling security. That's literally what she's paid for."

I want to press, to demand more details, to possibly call Katie right now and have her run a full security sweep.

But I also recognize that look in Auren's eyes—the one that says she's choosing not to let fear control her actions.

It's the same look she had before climbing into that car for the first race, the same determination that's always made her extraordinary.

So instead, I turn my hand palm up, interlacing our fingers, and watch the city lights reflect in her eyes.

The view is spectacular—Barcelona stretching out in all directions, the sound of distant music drifting up from the streets below—but I'm more interested in the way wonder plays across her face.

I'll do anything to protect her. Because watching the world twinkle in her eyes is far better than watching flames before they roll back and close?—

The memory hits without warning.

Her car engulfed in fire. The sound of metal screaming. Her eyes rolling back as smoke filled the cockpit. The endless seconds before I could reach her, before I could pull her free, before I could breathe life back into her lungs ? —

Wind snaps across the rooftop, sending her hair across her mouth and pulling me back to the present.

I reach out, tucking the errant strands behind her ear with fingers that only shake slightly.

Then I lean in and kiss her slow—not the hungry kind we usually fall into but the kind that stakes a claim without teeth.

Soft but certain, a promise more than a demand.

Her fingers curl in my shirt, pulling me closer despite the table between us, and I think: this is how I die, happily.

It's so easy to enjoy intimacy with her like this, like she's truly our Omega again. Like before, when everything was simpler and the future stretched out ahead of us full of possibilities instead of complications.

We never got the chance to go the full way before the accident.

Never got to complete the bond, to mark each other properly, to make it official in the way that matters to our biology as much as our hearts.

But I have every intention of doing it this time.

To mark her. Claim her. To ensure she's ours now and always, no matter what challenges come.

I'm taking things slow because I want her to adjust to the others as well—Kieran with his quiet intensity, Caspian with his analytical affection, Dex with his strategic mind and surprising gentleness.

That will take time with our crazy schedule, with races every other week and training in between, with media obligations and sponsor events and all the circus that comes with Formula One.

My phone vibrates on the table: Lucius calling.

I don't answer.

I'm giving him the silent treatment, which might be a little immature for someone my age, but if he's not going to commit—if he's going to continue coming in and out of our lives as he pleases like we're some kind of rest stop on his journey to wherever—then I'm not going to encourage it.

"Trouble in paradise?" Auren teases, having noticed me declining the call.

"Just someone who needs to learn that actions have consequences," I reply, signaling for the check.

The waiter appears with the leather folder, and I slip my card inside without looking at the total. When someone provides this level of privacy and perfection, cost becomes irrelevant.

"We make a good team, you know," she says as I sign the tip section—generous enough to ensure we'll always get a table here. "On and off the track."

"The best," I agree, standing and offering her my hand.

She takes it, rising with that grace that seems effortless but probably comes from years of having to be constantly aware of how she moves through space. The dress shifts as she stands, revealing a flash of leg that makes my mouth go dry.

We make our way to the elevator, her hand still in mine, conversation light and easy.

She's slightly tipsy—not drunk, just relaxed in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

The champagne has put color in her cheeks and a looseness in her shoulders that I want to bottle and save for the harder days ahead.

"Ground floor?" she asks as we step inside.

"Mmm," I agree, pressing the button. But the moment the doors close, I press her against the mirrored surface, kissing her with all the passion I've been holding back during dinner. My palm slides up her thigh, finding the slit in her dress and taking full advantage.

She moans into my mouth, the sound echoing in the small space, but then her hand catches mine just as I'm about to reach more interesting territory. She grins against my lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, "Earn it in Sector 2 tomorrow."

The challenge in her voice makes me grin wider. "Oh, I'll earn it. The question is whether you can keep up."

"Please," she scoffs. "I started twenty-third and finished second. Keeping up is what other people worry about."

The elevator dings, doors opening to the lobby, and we manage to compose ourselves just enough to look respectable. My hand stays on her lower back as we navigate through the restaurant, both of us fighting grins like teenagers who just got away with something.

Outside, the Barcelona night is warm and alive, but my good mood evaporates when I spot them—a pair of paparazzi, cameras already raised. They must have been tipped off, probably by someone at the restaurant looking to make a quick euro.

But surprisingly, Luke is there, having just emerged from the building across the street. He takes in the situation with one glance and immediately shifts into protective mode.

"Auren! Perfect timing," he calls out cheerfully, moving to intercept. "How was dinner?"

He positions himself between her and the cameras with practiced ease, creating a human shield as he guides her toward the car. "Go ahead and get in," he tells her quietly. "I'll run interference."

She squeezes my hand once before sliding into the backseat, the door closing with expensive finality. The photographers are still shooting, but Luke's bulk blocks most of their angles.

"Want a ride?" I offer, though I can guess his answer.

He laughs, loud enough for the photographers to hear. "Nah, I ain't getting caught in whatever frisky things you're gonna do in that car. I know that look, Wolfe."

I smirk, very aware the paparazzi are recording every word. Let them. Let tomorrow's headlines speculate about what exactly the champion and his Omega get up to after romantic dinners.

"Thanks for not cockblocking me," I tell Luke, patting his shoulder with a wink. "See you tomorrow."

"Try to get some actual sleep," he calls after me as I slide into the car. "We've got quali tomorrow!"

The door closes, and I tap the privacy screen. Our driver knows the routine—straight home, no stops, no interruptions. The tinted glass turns the Barcelona streets into impressionist paintings, all blurred lights and suggested shapes.

Auren kisses me like a checkered flag—victorious and final and absolutely certain. When she finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, and there are things that need to be said.

"About knotting," she starts, and I can see her gathering courage. "About marks, about control. I want to take it slow, but... I'm approving of those things. When the timing is right. When it feels like it means something more than just biology."

"Of course," I agree immediately, though my Alpha instincts are doing victory laps at the implication. "We go at your pace. Always. And I'll make sure the others are aware of your boundaries, what you're comfortable with."

She nods, relief visible in her expression. Then that wicked grin returns, the one that means trouble in the best possible way.

"But right now," she continues, her voice dropping to something that makes my pulse spike, "I need to at least enjoy a ride from you."

She's definitely tipsy, just enough to lower inhibitions without affecting coordination. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers, "Oh, I can give you a ride, my Wolf."

The promise in her voice, the heat in her eyes, the way she's already shifting to straddle my lap despite the confines of the car—I couldn't be more excited for the thrill to come.