Page 170 of Knot So Lucky

And as I ride the elevator up to my suite, I find myself thinking that maybe Luca Thorne understands me better than I've been giving him credit for.

CHAPTER 33

Sanctuary And Stolen Moments

~AURORA~

The roar of the crowd is still echoing in my ears even though I'm three corridors away from the main track.

First place.

Again.

Our second consecutive win in the Formula One entry races, and the media is absolutely losing their minds. Luca and I crossed the finish line with him barely edging me out for the top podium position—close enough that the photo finish required computer analysis to determine the winner.

The kind of racing that makes headlines and breaks viewership records.

But right now, all I can think about is how desperately I needsilence.

My jumpsuit is still damp with sweat, my muscles are trembling from the sustained adrenaline of two hours of pushing a car to its absolute limits, and my senses feel like they've been scraped raw. Every sound is too loud, every light too bright, every scent too overwhelming.

Overstimulation is a bitch when you're an Omega trying to maintain composure in front of thousands of people.

Behind me, I can hear the press corps shouting questions that blend together into incomprehensible noise:

"—officially confirmed pack bonds?—"

"—the missing week, can you explain?—"

"—speculation about heat cycles affecting performance?—"

"—Thorne Racing's unprecedented winning streak?—"

I keep walking, ignoring them all with the practice of someone who's learned that engaging only encourages more invasive questions.

My cranky mood isn't helping. I can feel it sitting heavy in my chest—irritation and exhaustion mixing with the residual adrenaline from the race into a cocktail of emotions I don't have the energy to process right now.

And the worst part?

I know there's a press conference scheduled in ninety minutes.

Another hour and a half of performing composure while reporters ask the same stupid questions with no civility. More speculation about my heat cycle, more insinuations about "special favors," more demands that I explain and justify and defend my existence in spaces that were never designed for people like me.

I can't do it. Not right now.

The garage is my destination—the one place in this entire circus of a racing facility where I might find actual peace. Most of the team should be at the post-race meeting with Richard, analyzing telemetry and discussing strategy adjustments for the next competition.

Which means the garage will be blessedly empty.

I slip through the side entrance, and the familiar scent of motor oil and rubber and metal hits me like coming home. Thespace is dim, most of the overhead lights off to conserve energy between sessions. Only the emergency lighting remains, casting everything in soft shadows that feel infinitely more comfortable than the harsh brightness outside.

My car—the prototype I just drove to victory—sits on its maintenance stand in the center bay. Still radiating heat from the engine, still carrying the scent of burnt rubber and high-performance fuel that makes my racing heart sing even through the exhaustion.

I move toward it automatically, muscle memory guiding me to the diagnostic station where I can check the post-race data. But my body has other ideas.

Instead of pulling up telemetry, I find myself sliding under the car.

The maintenance platform is cool against my back, the enclosed space underneath the chassis creating a cocoon of metal and shadows that blocks out the world. I can hear the engine ticking as it cools, smell the complex mixture of fluids and materials that make up a race car, feel the residual vibrations in the frame from two hours of sustained high-speed operation.