Page 69 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
NEON NIGHTS AND DARK DESIRES
~ A UREN~
Sponsor after-parties are predictable in the way that car crashes are predictable—you know they're coming, you can see all the warning signs, but somehow you still end up in the middle of the wreckage wondering how the hell you got there.
Tonight's designated disaster zone is Eclipse, one of Monaco's most exclusive clubs where the drinks cost more than most people's rent and the VIP section requires a DNA test, three references, and possibly a blood sacrifice.
It's supposed to be our second group activity—a "casual" night out to celebrate our continued dominance on the track and show sponsors that we're not just fast, we're marketable.
The car pulls up to the red carpet that someone has unironically laid out for a Tuesday night, and I can already see the pack of photographers circling like vultures who've spotted fresh meat.
Their cameras are raised before we've even stopped moving, the rapid-fire clicking audible even through the bulletproof glass of the Bentley.
"Ready for this?" Lachlan asks, his hand finding mine in the darkness of the backseat.
He's in full professional mode—charcoal suit that costs more than some cars, watch that could fund a small country's economy, that particular mask of controlled confidence that makes him look untouchable. But his thumb traces circles on my palm, a tell that he's not as calm as he appears.
"Born ready," I tell him, checking my reflection one last time in my phone screen.
Katie had arranged for a full glam team tonight, and they'd outdone themselves.
The dress is sleek dark maroon that hits mid-thigh, with a neckline that's just shy of scandalous and a back that doesn't exist until it reaches my tailbone.
My lips are painted dark purple—almost black in certain lights—and my skin gleams with some kind of glitter setting spray that makes me look like I've been dipped in stardust.
The sunset is doing me favors too, all golds and purples and reds bleeding across the Monaco skyline, creating the perfect backdrop for what's about to be a thousand Instagram posts.
Lachlan exits first, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease before turning to help me out.
The second my heels hit the carpet, the cameras go absolutely feral.
The clicking intensifies to machine-gun frequency, and reporters surge forward against the velvet ropes, shouting questions that blur together into white noise.
"Auren! How's pack life treating you?"
"Is this arrangement real or just for the cameras?"
"Any response to Mercedes' comments about your last race?"
"When's the wedding?"
I slide my hand into Lachlan's arm, letting him guide me forward with the confidence of someone who's done this dance a thousand times.
My smile is practiced but genuine—I've learned that the best way to handle media attention is to give them just enough to satisfy without actually revealing anything real.
Behind us, the rest of the pack emerges from the second car.
Luke and Kieran flank the group, both looking devastating in their own ways—Luke in dark jeans and a button-down that shows off his Beta build, Kieran in all black that makes him look like danger personified.
The fact that they're actually engaging with reporters, tossing out teasing comments and charming smiles, has the media losing their collective minds.
"Luke! Kieran! This is the first time you've spoken at an event!"
Luke grins, that easy charm that makes people forget he's actually calculating every word. "Well, someone's got to keep these Alphas in line."
"And someone's got to make sure the Omega doesn't burn the place down," Kieran adds, throwing me a wink that's definitely going to be gif'd within the hour.
We're inside before the vultures can recover, the heavy doors closing behind us and muffling the chaos to a dull roar.
The club is exactly what you'd expect from Monaco excess—all black marble and gold accents, with smoke machines creating an atmosphere that's one part mysterious, two parts trying too hard.
The bass from the sound system is a physical presence, vibrating through the floor and into my bones like a second heartbeat.
Our VIP table is already waiting, stocked with bottles that sparkle with real gold flakes because apparently regular alcohol isn't expensive enough. The booth is positioned perfectly—visible enough to be seen and photographed, private enough that we can actually relax.
"First round's on me," Dex announces, already pouring shots of something that smells like bad decisions and tastes like lighter fluid.
"What is this?" I ask, holding the shot glass up to the strobing lights.
"Hundred-euro tequila," he says with a grin. "Only the best for our rising star."
"That's a terrible idea," Luke protests, but he's already accepting his own shot.
"All the best nights start with terrible ideas," Caspian points out, which is probably the most rebellious thing I've ever heard him say.
We toast—to victories, to sponsors, to not dying in Monaco traffic—and down the shots. The tequila burns like racing fuel, leaving a trail of fire from my throat to my stomach. But it's good fire, the kind that loosens muscles and inhibitions in equal measure.
"Dance floor?" I suggest, already feeling the music calling to me.
"You sure that's wise?" Lachlan asks, but he's smiling. "You and tequila have a complicated history."
"That's what makes it fun."
I grab Dex first, knowing that after the week he's had commentating and dealing with media speculation about our pack dynamics, he needs the release more than anyone. He protests halfheartedly but lets me pull him onto the dance floor, where bodies move in the smoke like shadows given form.
The music is all bass and darkness, the kind of beat that bypasses your brain and goes straight to your hips. I move against Dex, my back to his chest, letting the rhythm take over. He's surprisingly good at this—keeping up with my movements, hands on my waist but respectful, letting me lead.
"You've been practicing," I accuse, having to shout over the music.
"Maybe," he admits, his breath warm against my ear. "Can't let you show us all up."
The song shifts to something slower, dirtier, and suddenly Kieran is there, moving behind me until my hips are flush against his thighs.
The temperature ratchets up several degrees as I'm sandwiched between them, Dex's hands still on my waist while Kieran's fingers trace the exposed skin of my back.
"This okay?" Kieran asks, his voice low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I answer by rolling my hips back against him, which draws a sound from his throat that's barely audible over the music but shoots straight through me anyway. His hands find my hips, guiding my movements until we're moving together like we've done this a thousand times.
Dex eventually steps back with a knowing smirk, replaced immediately by Lachlan who spins me to face him. His grin says he's about to ruin everyone else's night, and honestly? I'm here for it.
"My turn," he says, pulling me close enough that there's no space between us, just heat and intention and the promise of trouble.
We move together with the kind of synchronization that comes from knowing each other's bodies intimately. His thigh slots between mine, his hands span my lower back, and when he leans down to press his lips to my neck, I forget we're in public entirely.
The alcohol is starting to hit properly now, making everything soft around the edges.
The strobing lights turn the dance floor into a series of snapshots—Luke's hands on my waist, Caspian surprisingly fluid as he moves behind me, Kieran claiming my mouth in a kiss that's definitely going to end up on someone's Instagram story.
We're dancing as a group now, all of us moving together in ways that are probably scandalous but feel perfectly natural. I'm passed between them like we're playing some kind of game, each of them claiming a moment, a touch, a kiss that tastes like expensive liquor and poor decisions.
It's the first time we've really been relaxed in a public setting, letting ourselves blend together as a unit without worrying about optics or headlines.
The space between us dissolves until we're just bodies moving to the same rhythm, pack dynamics expressed through touch and proximity and the way they all gravitate toward me like I'm the sun they orbit around.
The heat builds until I'm pinned between Kieran and Luke, three different scents tangling with sweat and gin.
Kieran's mouth finds mine, and suddenly we're kissing like the club doesn't exist, like the hundred people around us have disappeared.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, tasting tequila and something darker, hungrier.
Luke is pressed behind me, his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck, and the combination is devastating. I'm drowning in sensation—Kieran's kiss, Luke's touch, the music that's taken up residence in my bloodstream.
When Kieran finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard, and his eyes are dark with something that has nothing to do with the club's lighting.
"We should have some alone time," I whisper against his lips, including Luke in the suggestion with a glance over my shoulder. "The three of us."
Kieran's eyebrow arches, that challenging smirk spreading across his face. "You sure you can handle both of us?"
The taunt in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly, competitive instinct mixing with arousal in a cocktail more potent than anything the bar is serving.
"Try me, Kieran," I dare, letting every ounce of Omega confidence flood my voice.
He shares a look with Luke over my shoulder, some kind of silent communication that ends with Luke saying, "Why don't we go back to our place?"