Page 114 of Knot So Lucky

"—need to move faster?—"

"—warehouse is twenty minutes out?—"

"—keep him alive until we get there?—"

Him. They're talking about me. Calling me "him" because of course they are, because that's what the world sees when they look at Rory Lane.

But right now, with my thoughts scattered and my body betraying me, I can barely remember why that matters.

I need to focus.

Need to focus.

I already have backup plans for situations like this—years of self-defense training and contingency protocols drilled into me by overly paranoid parents who knew exactly how dangerous the world could be for someone with the Lane name.

But accessing those plans requires cognitive function I don't currently possess.

My mind feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving through molasses, unable to connect point A to point B in any coherent fashion.

And underneath everything is the heat.

Not external heat—the car's climate control is actually running cold, I can feel the air conditioning blasting against my skin in ways that should be uncomfortable but somehow aren't registering properly.

No, this heat is coming from inside me.

Rolling through my body in waves that make my skin tingle and my nerves light up with sensation that borders on painful. My core is clenching rhythmically, desperately, like my biology is searching for something it needs but can't find.

I'm burning up from the inside out.

My suppressants should prevent this. Should keep my Omega biology dampened enough that I don't experience these kinds of symptoms. But something's wrong—either the crash damaged my system's ability to process the medication, or the stress triggered a cascade failure, or these assholes drugged me with something that's interacting poorly with my suppressants.

The worst part is the arousal.

It makes no sense. I'm being kidnapped by men whose faces I can barely focus on, trapped in a vehicle that's moving too fast, my life very clearly in danger.

This scenario shouldn't make me horny in the slightest.

And yet my body is responding like I'm in the middle of foreplay with someone I trust. My core clenches with need that's both foreign and frighteningly intense. Slick is starting to gather between my thighs—I can feel the wetness, the biological response that my binding and suppressants are supposed to prevent.

Fuck.

Am I falling ill?

Is this what dying feels like?

Some kind of fever dream where your body betrays you in every possible way before shutting down completely?

All the exposure to Alphas today—Dante's aggressive posturing, Richard's dominance displays, Cale and Roran's protective hovering, and then Elias with his overwhelming scent that called to something primal—maybe it was too much. Maybe my suppressants are finally giving out under the strain.

Or maybe the crash damaged something internal.

Triggered biological responses that should have stayed locked away behind chemical barriers.

I'm fighting so hard not to fall unconscious.

Each breath feels like a battle. Each moment of awareness requires effort I'm not sure I can sustain.

One of the men speaks—the driver, based on the direction of his voice.