Page 78 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
BITTER TRUTHS AND brOKEN BONDS
~ A UREN~
"Open up," Luke says, holding a spoonful of soup that's probably more sodium than actual nutrition but somehow exactly what my body craves after three weeks of hospital food and careful recovery meals.
I roll my eyes but comply, letting him feed me like I'm some Victorian invalid who's taken to her bed with the vapors.
The soup is good—chicken noodle with actual chunks of chicken and vegetables that haven't been boiled into submission.
Homemade, because Luke doesn't believe in canned soup when someone's recovering from nearly dying.
"I can feed myself, you know," I point out between spoonfuls, though we both know I'm not going to stop him. My ribs are still tender enough that reaching for things hurts, and he's been militant about my recovery protocol.
"Shut up and eat," he says, but there's no heat in it. Just that particular brand of concerned affection that's been his default setting since they brought me home from the medical center.
My apartment has been transformed into what can only be described as a recovery commune.
Every member of the pack has essentially moved in, creating a rotation of care that would be suffocating if it wasn't so clearly born from love and fear.
The guest room has become Kieran's unofficial residence, Dex has claimed the couch, and Lachlan keeps "dropping by" at all hours with supplies I don't need and worry he tries to hide.
Currently, my bedroom is playing host to what feels like half of Monaco.
Katie sits cross-legged at the foot of my bed, scrolling through her tablet with the intensity of someone planning a military campaign—which, knowing her, she probably is.
Security protocols have been tripled since the incident, and she's taken the threats against me as a personal insult to her professional capabilities.
Rory is draped across my reading chair like a cat, her blonde hair with blue highlights catching the afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
She's wearing her usual disguise of baggy clothes and a cap, but here, in the safety of my room, she's let her guard down enough to actually look like the Omega she is rather than the Beta she pretends to be.
Wren has positioned her wheelchair next to my nightstand, close enough that she can steal sips of the tea Luke made for me while providing running commentary on everyone else's behavior.
"You're all so damn loud," Luke complains as Rory and Wren get into a heated debate about whether the latest Marvel movie was garbage or just mediocre. "You're gonna give Auren a migraine."
"I'm fine," I assure him, though the lingering headache that's been my constant companion since the crash pulses in disagreement. "Really, you don't all need to be here. Especially when the guys are coming back from their race in Italy."
The Italian Grand Prix at Monza—the Temple of Speed, they call it.
One of the most prestigious races on the calendar, and I'm stuck in bed missing it.
Three weeks of recovery for what they keep calling "minor" injuries—a concussion that was apparently not so minor, bruised ribs that make laughing feel like being stabbed, and various cuts and contusions that have painted my body in shades of purple and green.
"Minor injuries my ass," Wren mutters, clearly reading my thoughts on my face. "You literally had to be pulled from a burning car. Again. That's not minor, that's a fucking miracle you're alive."
"Twice," Rory adds helpfully. "Twice you've nearly been barbecued. Maybe consider a less flammable hobby? Like, I don't know, knitting?"
"Knitting needles are technically weapons," Katie points out without looking up from her tablet. "Probably safer to stick with racing."
They dissolve into bickering about the relative dangers of various hobbies, voices overlapping in the familiar chaos that's somehow become comforting. This is what I've missed—not the careful, quiet concern of the past weeks, but this. The normalcy of friends being ridiculous in my space.
"Besides," Rory says, turning her attention to Luke with a grin that spells trouble, "someone has to make sure lover boy here actually makes a move instead of just pining from afar."
Luke's face goes red so fast I'm concerned about his blood pressure. "I'm not—we're not—fuck off."
"Oh, he's finally being serious about his crush!" Wren crows, clapping her hands in delight. "Only took him what, two years?"
"Three," Rory corrects. "Remember that time at the Monaco yacht party where he literally walked into a pole watching Auren in that silver dress?"
"That was a door," Luke protests, his face now approaching tomato territory. "And I was drunk."
"You had one beer," I point out, unable to resist joining the teasing.
He glares at me with betrayal. "Et tu, Auren?"
The girls laugh, that bright, unrestrained sound that fills the room with warmth. These are my people—my chosen family who've stood by me through memory loss and media storms, through triumphs and nearly dying. Twice, apparently.
Katie finally looks up from her tablet, a small smile playing at her lips. "Alright, we should probably let Auren rest for a bit. Real rest, not Luke's version where he hovers and asks if she needs anything every thirty seconds."
"I don't hover," Luke protests.
Everyone stares at him.
"I hover a normal amount," he amends.
"You literally counted her breaths while she was sleeping yesterday," Wren points out. "That's serial killer behavior, not boyfriend behavior."
"I was checking her breathing pattern for irregularities!" Luke defends, but he's fighting a losing battle and knows it.
They gather their things slowly, reluctant to leave but knowing I need the rest. Each of them hugs me carefully, mindful of my ribs, and even those gentle embraces make me wince slightly.
"We'll visit tomorrow," Rory promises. "I'll bring those pastries from that place you like."
"The ones with the chocolate?" I ask hopefully.
"And the raspberry filling," she confirms. "Breakfast of champions and recovering crash victims."
Wren wheels toward the door but pauses to look back. "Try not to die before tomorrow. It would really mess up our plans."
"I'll do my best," I promise solemnly.
Katie is the last to leave, and she stops beside Luke. "The information you asked for is in the encrypted folder. Password is the usual."
He nods, something passing between them that I can't quite read. Then she's gone too, and it's just Luke and me and the aftermath of soup.
"I'll go wash these," he says, gathering the bowl and spoon with more care than dirty dishes require. "If you need anything?—"
"Call you, I know," I finish. "Luke, I'm okay. Really."
He pauses at the door, not quite looking at me. "You almost weren't. Twice now. So forgive me if I'm a little... hovery."
Before I can respond, he's gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts for the first time all day.
I close my eyes, sinking back into the pillows that smell like lavender because someone—probably Luke—read that it helps with healing. The apartment is quiet now, just the distant sound of water running in the kitchen and the muted noise of Monaco through my windows.
The confrontation plays in my mind again, the recovered memory that's been haunting me for three weeks. It's clearer now, sharpened by repetition and focus.
Lucius's penthouse, all marble and glass and cold beauty. Me standing by those floor-to-ceiling windows, fury making my hands shake. Him defensive, stubborn, refusing to see what was right in front of him.
"The pack doesn't give a shit about you, Lucius!"
The words echo in my memory, raw with emotion I can feel even now. But it's what came before that argument that I can't quite grasp—the catalyst, the thing that made me confront him so aggressively. There's a blank space there, like someone's cut out a crucial scene from a movie.
Three weeks of recovery, and they've all been suspiciously quiet about the racing world. I know the basics—races have happened, points have been scored, the championship continues. But the details? The standings? What's happening with our team? Nothing.
Every time I ask, someone changes the subject or suddenly remembers something urgent they need to do. Even Luke, who's terrible at lying, has managed to deflect with impressive consistency. Which means whatever's happening is bad enough that they've all agreed to keep it from me.
The tension has been palpable through the pack bond—that low-level anxiety that makes my skin itch and my Omega instincts scream that something's wrong with my Alphas. They think they're protecting me, but the not knowing is worse than any truth could be.
I drift off without meaning to, the medication and exhaustion pulling me under into that hazy space between sleep and waking. Time becomes elastic, meaningless, until I feel someone moving my hair from my face with gentle fingers.
My eyes flutter open to find Lachlan sitting on the bed beside me, still in his racing suit, the smell of fuel and sweat and competition clinging to him. He must have come straight from the airport, not even stopping to change, which tells me everything about his state of mind.
"Sorry," he murmurs when he sees I'm awake. "Didn't mean to wake you."
Instead of answering, I shift carefully until my head is resting on his shoulder, breathing him in. Beneath the race day scents is something else—exhaustion, worry, and a particular kind of defeat I've never associated with him before.
"How was the race?" I ask against his shoulder.
There's a pause, then: "I got third."
Third. For anyone else, that would be a podium finish worth celebrating. For Lachlan, four-time world champion, it's a disappointment. But it's more than that—it's the way he says it, flat and resigned, like it doesn't matter.
I lean my head up to look at him properly. "Who got first?"