Page 104 of Knot So Lucky

Cale's hand, warm and familiar, sliding down to my wrist where he squeezes gently.

Then he leans in close enough that his lips are against my ear, voice pitched below the range of the microphones.

"Stai bene? Hai bisogno di una pausa?"

Are you okay? Do you need a break?

The Italian cuts through my dissociation like a knife, pulling me back to my body with jarring suddenness. I blink rapidly, the room coming back into focus with uncomfortable clarity.

I look at Cale, meeting his grey eyes that are full of concern and barely concealed worry.

We share a look—one of those silent conversations where entire paragraphs pass in seconds through expressions and minute body language shifts.

I'm okay,my expression says, even though we both know it's a lie.

You're not,his responds,but we'll deal with it later.

I realize belatedly that everyone is waiting for me to answer something.

A question that was asked while I was mentally absent, now hanging in the air with expectant silence.

"I'm sorry," I say, voice rough from not speaking for several minutes. "Could you repeat the question?"

The reporter who asked—a middle-aged Beta man with a receding hairline and an expression that suggests he thinks very highly of his own intelligence—looks annoyed at having to repeat himself.

"I asked what makes you think you're qualified to race at this level when you've spent your entire career hiding in the shadows as a pit tech?"

Before I can formulate a response that's professional instead of telling him exactly where he can shove his condescending question, another voice cuts in.

"She must be some ditzy Omega who's just playing the part for attention now." This from a different reporter—younger, female, with the kind of sharp smile that suggests she specializes in character assassination. "Probably got lucky with that win today and won't be able to replicate it once real competition starts."

Ditzy Omega.

As if my designation determines my intelligence. As if being female and Omega means I can't possibly possess the skill or talent to compete at this level. As if today's first-place finish was somehow an accident or luck instead of years of training and innate ability.

My hands clench into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms hard enough to sting.

Cale's scent spikes with aggressive fury, burnt cedar mixing with something sharper that speaks to barely controlled violence. His body language shifts into something predatory, protective instincts overriding media training.

But before either of us can respond, a third voice cuts through the tension.

"If you're going to stand here and insult my new driving partner," Luca Thorne says, his voice carrying across the room with cold authority, "then you might as well leave this conference. I don't answer questions from unprofessional douchebags."

The entire room goes silent.

What?

I turn to stare at Luca with confusion that must be written across my face in neon letters.

He's looked annoyed with my existence since the moment we met—furious about being beaten by a "tech," frustrated with being partnered with someone he clearly considers beneath him, radiating the kind of Alpha aggression that usually precedes either fights or spectacular tantrums.

But now he's... defending me?

Publicly shutting down the reporter's insulting question with the kind of cutting dismissiveness that will definitely make headlines?

Luca stands, the movement drawing every eye in the room.

His scent—cedar and leather with gunpowder and rain—intensifies with his anger, filling the space with Alpha dominance that makes several of the reporters actually lean back.