Page 80 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
~ L UCIUS~
The whiskey burns less with each glass, which is probably a sign I should stop, but stopping would mean thinking clearly and that's the last thing I want right now.
My penthouse spreads out around me—all that marble and glass and modern minimalism that's supposed to scream success but really just echoes with emptiness.
The view of Monaco at night should be spectacular, all those lights twinkling like earthbound stars, but all I see is a city full of people who have no idea what's coming.
The final race. The Grand Sphynx. In five days, everything will be decided—championships, legacies, and whether I'm the villain everyone already thinks I am.
I hate this. Every fucking second of it.
The whiskey swirls in my glass, amber catching the light from the single lamp I've bothered to turn on. The rest of the penthouse sits in darkness because that's what villains do, right? Brood in the dark with their expensive liquor and their terrible choices.
My brother's face haunts me—that look of betrayal when they announced I was taking Dimitri's seat. Like I'd personally driven a knife into his back and twisted. Maybe I had. Maybe that's exactly what this is—a slow-motion assassination of everything we used to be to each other.
But they don't get it. None of them do.
I have debts to pay. Collateral to clear. And this—becoming the enemy, wearing the black hat, standing on the opposite side of the track from everyone I care about—this is the only way to keep Auren safe. To keep any of them safe.
The irony isn't lost on me that protecting them requires becoming the thing they need protection from.
Three years. That's how long I've been in this mess, though it feels like a lifetime.
Three years since I made the stupidest decision of my life, thinking I was smart enough to play with fire and not get burned.
Three years of interest compounding, of threats escalating, of the noose tightening around my neck until breathing became a luxury I couldn't afford.
A million dollars. That's what it started as—a bet, a gamble, a stupid fucking power play to prove I could succeed without my brother's shadow.
I'd been so sure, so confident that my talent would be enough.
That I could make my own way, build my own legend, show everyone that Lucius Wolfe was more than just Lachlan's disappointing twin.
The crash during trials had been spectacular. The kind of failure that gets replayed on highlight reels as a cautionary tale. And suddenly that million-dollar bet became a million-dollar debt to people who don't accept "sorry" as payment.
The interest alone would bankrupt most people. But it's not about the money anymore—hasn't been for a while. It's about control. About having a Formula One driver in their pocket, someone who can influence outcomes, fix races, ensure their bets always pay off.
I didn't mean for it to go this far. Didn't mean for Auren to get caught in the crossfire. Didn't mean for brake lines to be cut or cars to explode or Dimitri to sacrifice his career saving the woman I love.
Because I do love her. With every fiber of my being, every breath in my lungs, every beat of my traitorous heart. Which is why I've been pushing her away, making myself the villain in her story, ensuring she stays with Lachlan and his pack where she's safe.
Where she's protected from the truth of what I've become.
A noise from the kitchen makes me tense, but I ignore it. Probably just the ice maker or one of the automated systems that keeps this place running. The penthouse has more technology than a space station—all designed to make life easier but really just adding more ways for things to go wrong.
My phone rings, the sound harsh in the quiet. I don't need to check the caller ID—only one person calls this late, only one number makes my stomach twist with equal parts rage and fear.
I put it on speaker, setting the phone on the coffee table like it might explode. Maybe it will. Maybe that would be easier than what's coming.
"Good performance today," the voice says, digitally altered but still somehow managing to convey smug satisfaction. "Getting first for once. Almost like you actually have talent when properly motivated."
I don't respond. We've played this game enough times that they know silence is my only form of rebellion left.
"You better do that same thing at Grand," they continue. "The million-dollar bet needs to strike. Then you're off the hook, free to go back to being the shadow of your brother. Isn't that what you want?"
"I get it," I say, my voice flat, emotionless. The whiskey has numbed me enough that I can pretend this is just business, just another transaction. "But after this, that's it. I'm not dealing with you anymore. I've already lost everything."
The laugh that comes through the speaker is cold enough to frost the windows. "Nah. The thing you haven't lost is your life. Which is thanks to that Omega of yours being the perfect distraction in this grand race."
My hand tightens on the glass, knuckles white. They know exactly where to twist the knife.
"But don't fuck up, Lucius," the voice continues, casual as discussing the weather. "Or else we'll gladly show you how easy it is to wipe those you love out. Starting with her, then your brother, then that whole precious pack of his. We've already proved we can get to them, haven't we?"
The brake lines. The "accident" that nearly killed Auren and Dimitri. A demonstration of power, of reach, of how absolutely fucked I am.
"I understand," I manage, the words tasting like ash.
I reach for the phone, ready to end this conversation before I do something stupid like beg or threaten or tell them exactly what I think of their organization. But before I can hit the button, a whisper cuts through the darkness.
"So it's blackmail. You're being blackmailed."
My blood turns to ice. I spin around so fast the room tilts, and there she is—Auren, standing in the shadows by the hallway, looking like a ghost in the dim light.
She's wearing jeans and one of my old t-shirts that she must have stolen months ago, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that makes her look younger, softer, more vulnerable than the woman who races at 200 miles per hour.
"How did you get in here?" The question comes out strangled, panic and whiskey making my voice crack.
She holds up a key, the silver catching the light. "Obviously I have a key to your place. Duh. You gave it to me six months ago during one of your 'I want to commit but can't' phases."
Fuck. I forgot about that. Forgot about a lot of things in my desperate attempt to push her away.
"Get out," I tell her, but there's no force behind it. I'm too tired, too drunk, too overwhelmed by her sudden presence in my carefully constructed isolation.
"Why don't you just ask for our help?" She steps closer, and I can see the determination in those impossible eyes—purple-blue like storm clouds before lightning strikes.
"Your brother's help? I could get my family involved.
Hell, they have the resources to get you out of this shit.
The Vales have more money than God and connections that?—"
"NO!" The word explodes out of me, loud enough to echo off the windows. "I'm doing this my way. I don't need anyone's help, and you better mind your fucking business."
"You're really going to let these fuckers paint you like an evil stalking prick?" Her voice rises to match mine, that competitive fire that makes her magnificent on the track turning into righteous fury. "The threats, the surveillance—they're making it look like you're the one threatening me!"
"What?" The word comes out sharp, confused, because that wasn't part of the plan, wasn't something I knew about?—
"Why are you the one making the threats?" she demands, stepping closer, and now I can see the bruises still healing on her face from the crash, the exhaustion she's hiding behind anger.
Everything clicks into place with horrible clarity. They're not just using me to fix races—they're setting me up as the fall guy. If anything goes wrong, if anyone investigates, all the evidence will point to me. The jealous ex who couldn't let go, who stalked and threatened until someone got hurt.
"So you stay away from me!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "Stop coming here, stop interfering. Be a good little Omega and get out of my life!"
"You still love me!" She screams back, and the truth of it hits like a physical blow. "You're only being like this because you're being blackmailed! Let us help?—"
"NO!"
The glass leaves my hand before I realize I've thrown it. Time slows as it arcs through the air, catching the light like a crystal meteor. I see the moment she realizes it's coming, the slight widening of her eyes, the beginning of a dodge that's not quite fast enough.
The glass explodes against the wall next to her head.
The silence that follows is deafening. We both stand frozen, staring at the glittering shards scattered across the marble floor.
Then I see it—the thin line of red tracking down her cheek where a piece of glass has cut her.
Just a small wound, barely more than a scratch, but it might as well be a mortal blow for how it makes my heart stop.
Blood. Her blood. On my floor, caused by my hand, because I couldn't control my temper, couldn't find another way, couldn't?—
"Fuck... Aur—" I start, taking a step toward her, hand already reaching to help, to fix, to somehow undo this moment.
"Don't." The word is quiet, final, colder than anything the voice on the phone could manage.
She turns and walks out, each step measured and deliberate. No running, no dramatic exit, just a quiet leaving that's somehow worse than if she'd screamed or thrown something back. The door closes with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot.