Page 64 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

"Does that mean you never got to explore what you liked?" she asks, settling back in her seat but keeping her hand on mine.

"What do you mean?"

She tilts her head, considering her words. "You know? Love. Roles... Genders."

The question lands like a depth charge, exploding assumptions I didn't even know I'd been carrying. I smirk to cover the sudden vulnerability, but she sees right through it.

"I didn't," I admit. "Never had the chance. Or maybe never gave myself permission."

"Are you scared to try because you don't want to disappoint them? Even now?"

The question cuts straight to the heart of it. I'm quiet for a long moment, listening to the distant sound of kart engines and the hum of the neon signs.

"Yes," I finally say. "It's hard not to hear their voices in the back of my mind, telling me what's appropriate, what's acceptable, what maintains the family image. But I want to try. Want to explore."

I meet her eyes, needing her to understand. "Obviously that's your call, not mine. You're the one who'd have to be okay with... whatever that exploration looks like."

She squeezes my hand, her smile soft but certain. "I wouldn't be against it at all. In fact, I encourage it."

She strokes my cheek, her touch grounding me in the present moment. "Life's too short to not discover who you really are, what you really want."

I lean in, drawn by something stronger than gravity. Our foreheads touch first, then our noses brush, and I have to ask even though every cell in my body is screaming to just take what's being offered.

"Can I kiss you? Properly this time?"

Her answer is to close the distance herself, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that's nothing like the gentle one from moments ago.

This is heat and intention, her tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open for her.

She tastes like beer and hot sauce and something uniquely her that makes my head spin.

I kiss her like I've wanted to since she walked back into our lives—deeply, intently, without hesitation or doubt. My hand tangles in her hair, pulling her closer despite the table between us, and she makes a sound that shoots straight through me.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, and her lips are swollen in a way that makes me want to dive back in immediately.

"I enjoyed this date," she says, her voice slightly rough.

"It's not over yet," I point out, and her grin turns wicked.

We clean up our trash, leaving a probably excessive tip for the server who's been politely ignoring our corner booth. Outside, the rain has stopped but the air is still thick with moisture, creating halos around every light source.

I've parked my truck at the edge of the lot, and we end up sitting on the tailgate, legs swinging over the edge like teenagers. She's produced churros from somewhere—I didn't even see her buy them—and they're still warm, coated in cinnamon sugar that gets everywhere.

"Question," she says, holding up a churro. "Cinnamon sugar or my mouth?"

It's such a ridiculous question that I laugh, then make the mistake of choosing the churro first. She pouts dramatically until I correct my error, kissing the cinnamon from her lips in a way that makes her giggle against my mouth.

"Much better choice," she murmurs.

We're sharing the last churro, her head on my shoulder, when I notice the motorcycle.

It's idling too long by the gate, the rider hidden behind a full helmet and dark leathers.

Could be nothing—lots of bikes come to check out the kart track.

But something about the posture, the way they're positioned to see us but pretending not to, sets off every alarm in my head.

The bike revs once, aggressively, then speeds away. I catch enough of the plate to matter—partial numbers, custom frame that's not stock—and file it away to check later. But I don't want to ruin this moment with paranoia.

Instead, I drape my jacket over Auren's shoulders with casual ease, using the gesture to pull her closer. "Getting cold?"

She sees through it immediately—she always does—but plays along. "Freezing. We should probably head back."

I walk her to my car without making it a scene, but I'm hyperaware of every shadow, every movement in our periphery. The drive back to her building is quiet except for the music she's put on—something with a heavy bass line that fills the spaces where conversation might go.

When we pull up to her building, she checks her phone and goes completely still. The change is immediate and jarring, like someone dumped ice water over the warm contentment of the evening.

I lean over to see the screen:

YOU DON'T BELONG. CRASH OUT.

The number is different from anything in her contacts, and when I scroll up, I can see this isn't the first message.

"How long?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

She shrugs, attempting casual and missing by miles. "Few days. Maybe a week."

"Auren..."

"I've been getting texts, threats, photos of me in front of my apartment," she admits in a rush. "I was collecting them for Katie, building a file. But I didn't see the need to worry anyone. It's just trolls being trolls."

"Trolls don't usually know your address," I point out. "Or follow you to kart tracks. Or?—"

"I know," she interrupts. "I know, okay? I just... I didn't want everyone going into overprotective Alpha mode. I wanted to handle it myself."

I take a breath, reminding myself that getting angry won't help. "From now on, you tell us if you see anything suspicious. Anything at all. I'll loop the others in, and we'll figure out a better security protocol."

She nods, looking smaller than she has all evening. I hate that someone is trying to steal the joy she found on the track tonight, trying to make her afraid of the thing she loves most.

"I'm not leaving this curb until you're upstairs with the alarm armed," I tell her.

She leans across the console and kisses me, tongue sweet with residual cinnamon sugar, a promise and a thank you rolled into one. "I'll text you when I'm inside."

The last look she throws over her shoulder as she walks to her building is the kind that reprograms a man's entire operating system. Even worried, even threatened, she moves with the confidence of someone who refuses to be intimidated.

I wait until I see her lights come on, until my phone buzzes with her confirmation text, before I pull away from the curb. But I don't go home.

Instead, I call Caspian.

"We need to look into something," I say without preamble when he answers. "Auren's been getting threats. More serious than the usual social media garbage."

"How serious?" His voice immediately shifts into problem-solving mode.

"Photos at her apartment. Someone was at the kart track tonight. Different numbers, but coordinated messaging."

"I'll start a trace on the numbers. Can you forward me what you have?"

"Already sending them. And we need to talk to Luke about increasing security at her place since he's normally around."

"On it."

I hang up and immediately dial Luke. He answers on the second ring, sounding slightly out of breath.

"Everything okay?" he asks, because late-night calls rarely bring good news.

I fill him in quickly—the threats, the surveillance, the need for increased vigilance. He listens without interrupting, then says simply, "I'll handle it."

That's Luke—no drama, no questions, just quiet competence.

Before the call ends, I take a breath and dive into completely different territory. "Hey, Luke... you free sometime next week?"

"I can make time," he says, and there's something in his voice that suggests he knows this isn't about Auren's security. "What's up?"

I can feel myself blushing, grateful he can't see me through the phone. The words come out in a mutter, nervous energy making them run together. "Let's grab some drinks sometime. Just you and me."

The pause that follows feels eternal, even though it's probably only a second or two. Then I can hear the smile in his voice, warm and surprised and pleased.

"Sounds like a plan."