Page 168 of Knot So Lucky

"It's funny." His voice is deceptively calm, the tone he uses right before unleashing calculated verbal devastation. "This entire press conference, all you've tried to do is tear down my partner. Not acknowledge any of the accomplishments she's achieved as a driver entering the field for the first time—and as an Omega, which makes those accomplishments even more remarkable."

He leans forward, and even through the cameras I can see people in the studio reacting to the intensity rolling off him.

"If you're going to keep holding these press conferences just to insult me to my face by insultingmy Omega, don't waste our time."

The room erupts.

My Omega.

The possessive claim, stated so publicly and definitively, sends shockwaves through the press corps. Cameras flash, reporters start shouting questions over each other, the moderator attempts to regain control of the chaos.

"Mr. Thorne, are you confirming a romantic relationship?—"

"When did this pack bond form?—"

"Does the FIA know about this conflict of interest?—"

Luca rises from his chair with the fluid grace of a predator, extending his hand toward me.

I take it without hesitation, let him pull me up and guide me toward the exit while questions continue to bombard us from all directions.

The moment we're through the doors and in the relative privacy of the backstage corridor, I round on him.

"What the fuck was that?" I demand, yanking my hand from his grasp. "You just announced to the entire racing world that I'm your Omega? Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm that's going to cause?"

"Good." Luca's expression is fierce, unapologetic. "Let them talk. Let them speculate. At least now they'll think twice before implying you're only here because you're fucking your way to success."

"I can defend myself!" The words come out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding through. "I don't need you making proprietary claims about me to prove a point!"

"Then stop hiding!" Luca's voice rises to match mine, his Alpha pheromones spiking with frustrated aggression. "Stop hiding behind this male identity, behind these oversized clothesand lowered voice. Be who you actually are instead of what you think people can handle!"

The accusation hits like a physical blow.

"Thisiswho I am!" I gesture at myself—the hoodie, the baggy jeans, the deliberately masculine presentation. "This isn't some disguise I put on, Thorne. This isme. I'm not going to suddenly start dressing like—like some hypersexualized fantasy of what people think Omegas should be just to please people who don't give a damn about me beyond entertainment value!"

Luca opens his mouth to argue, and I see the moment he thinks better of it.

We stand there in the corridor, both breathing hard, the air thick with clashing Alpha and Omega pheromones that create a scent profile anyone passing by would recognize as Pack Dispute.

"There's too many reporters outside," Luca says finally, voice carefully neutral. "Vultures waiting to tear apart whatever scraps they can get. I'll drive you home."

I want to argue.

Want to insist I can handle myself, that I don't need his protection or his car or anything else from him right now.

But he's right about the reporters.

And my emotional capacity for dealing with invasive questions and camera flashes is completely tapped out.

"Fine," I concede. "But we're not discussing this anymore tonight."

"Agreed."

Luca's car is exactly what I expected—sleek, expensive, designed for speed rather than comfort. Some Italian sports car that probably costs more than most people's houses, all black paint and aggressive lines.

We don't speak as he navigates out of the studio parking structure, expertly avoiding the cluster of paparazzi and reporters who try to flag us down for comments.

The city lights blur past the windows as we drive, the late evening darkness broken by streetlights and neon signs. The silence between us isn't comfortable, but it's not hostile either. Just... heavy with things unsaid.