Page 106 of Knot So Lucky

My legs give out without warning—exhaustion and suppressant crash and too much stress combining into sudden loss of coordination.

Cale catches me from behind, hands on my waist steadying me before I can hit the floor. Elias still has my hand, turning back with alarm written across his features.

"I'm fine," I insist automatically, because that's what I always say.

But Elias is already frowning, free hand coming up to press against my forehead with careful gentleness.

"You're far too warm to be fine," he says quietly, and there's concern in his voice that makes my chest tight. "When's the last time you ate? Drank water? Had more than three hours of sleep?"

I open my mouth to respond, but I honestly can't remember the answers to any of those questions.

"I'm perfectly fine," I insist instead, pulling away from both of them with more force than necessary. "I just need a drink and to use the washroom. I'll be right back."

Elias frowns but nods, giving me space even though every line of his body language screams reluctance to let me out of his sight.

Cale looks equally unhappy with this plan; his overprotective instincts clearly warring with respect for my autonomy.

"I'm not made of glass," I tell them both, voice firmer than I feel. "I'll be back in five minutes."

I don't wait for further argument, heading toward the nearest restroom with determination, I absolutely don't feel internally.

The Omega-designated washroom is mercifully empty when I push through the door.

Modern facilities like this have started including gender-neutral and designation-specific restrooms as part of the Omega participation initiative, though I've noticed most are woefully underutilized since there are so few Omegas in professional racing.

There's a lounge section attached—plush seating, ambient lighting designed to be soothing rather than stark, a small refrigerator stocked with water and electrolyte drinks.

I grab a bottle of water and drain half of it in one continuous swallow, the cold liquid shocking against my throat but grounding in its immediacy.

My reflection in the wall of mirrors shows exactly how rough I look.

Flushed skin. Dilated pupils. Hair plastered to my head in unflattering chunks despite my attempts to fix it after removing the helmet. The star crescent tattoo under my eye is stark against my flushed cheeks, no longer hidden by concealer.

I can’t possibly be going into Heat, right? Nah…impossible when I took an additional dose. Ugh…this must be a side effect of sorts.

I wrinkle my nose, catching an odd scent underneath the usual bathroom smell of industrial cleaners and air freshener.

Something chemical. Artificial. Slightly sweet in a way that makes my Omega instincts uneasy.

"What the hell is that nasty aroma?" I mutter, moving toward the stalls.

Maybe someone spilled perfume, or there's a cleaning product I'm not familiar with. Facilities like this use all kinds of specialty chemicals to maintain that polished corporate appearance.

I enter a stall, take care of business with the mechanical efficiency of someone too tired to care about anything beyond immediate necessities, and flush.

When I open the stall door, three men are standing in the lounge area.

I freeze.

They're not racing personnel—I'd recognize team uniforms. They're not security—wrong body language, too casual in their positioning. They're just... men. Alpha men, based on the competing aggressive scents suddenly filling the small space.

Older than me. Larger. Dressed in nondescript clothing that could belong to maintenance staff or catering, or any of a dozen other service positions that allow access to restricted areas without raising suspicion.

My heart rate kicks up, adrenaline flooding my system with fight-or-flight chemicals that make the suppressant crash exponentially worse.

But I force myself to remain still.

To not show fear or panic, because that would give them power they haven't earned yet.