Page 18 of Knot So Lucky

I reach behind me and find the clasps of the binding.

The relief when it comes off is better than taking off a bra—it's like being able to breathe for the first time in fourteen hours. My ribs expand fully, my spine straightens, and I actually gasp at the sensation of air filling my lungs without restriction.

Fuck.

I need to stretch.

I roll my shoulders, feeling every vertebra pop in succession as I crack my back. My neck. My knuckles. Everything protesting the way I've been holding my body all day—tight, controlled, compact in a way that goes against every natural instinct.

Note to self: book a massage.

With all the inspections I've been doing lately, all the hours under cars and over diagnostic equipment, my body's starting to stage a rebellion. I can feel it in the way my muscles don't quite release even when I stretch, the way tension has taken up permanent residence between my shoulder blades.

I turn on the bath taps, watching water cascade into the enormous tub with a sound like rainfall. The temperature'sperfect—scalding hot in a way that would make most people flinch but feels like heaven against my perpetually cold hands.

While the tub fills, I grab one of the bath bombs from the collection lined up on the marble counter like soldiers. This one's from Cale—he sent it to my place a few weeks ago, along with a text that just said "you smell like motor oil, try this."

Like we're some sort of loving couple who sends each other bath products and thoughtful gifts.

I have to roll my eyes at the memory, but I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips as I drop the bomb into the water. It fizzes immediately, releasing swirls of purple and blue that smell like lavender and something else. Something that reminds me of Cale's scent when he's relaxed and sated and not trying to maintain his own careful facade.

Burnt cedar, dark coffee, and that underlying note of raw amber that makes my Omega instincts want to roll in it like a cat in catnip.

I sink into the bath with a groan that's probably indecent, feeling the heat seep into my abused muscles. The water comes up to my shoulders, the bath bomb foam tickling my collarbones as I lean back against the tub's curved edge.

My phone is still in the pocket of my discarded hoodie, but I can hear it buzzing. Messages. Emails. Probably my mother asking why I haven't called. Roran checking in because he worries even though he pretends not to. The team manager confirming tomorrow's schedule. Offers from other racing teams that I'm not going to accept but can't quite bring myself to decline either.

I fish the phone out with wet fingers, scrolling through the notifications with half-closed eyes.

Seventeen unread messages.

Forty-three emails.

Three missed calls.

I swipe them all away and toss the phone onto the bathmat, watching it land with a dull thud that's deeply satisfying.

Tomorrow's problem. All of it. Tonight—this morning—I just need to breathe.

The ceiling above me is coffered and painted in shades of cream that probably have fancy names like "Tuscan Sunrise" or "Himalayan Salt." I stare at it and let my mind drift, reviewing the day in that compulsive way I can never quite stop.

Two major fuck-ups.

First, zoning out like that in front of Cale. That's been happening more often lately—these moments where my consciousness just... slips. Where I'm looking at something but not seeing it, thinking about nothing and everything at once, while my body goes through the motions on autopilot.

It's the suppressants.

I know it's the suppressants.

They're not designed for long-term use at the doses I'm taking. Especially not with the frequency I've been needing them lately. The packaging says "every twelve hours as needed," but I've been taking them every eight. Sometimes every six. Because the alternative is my scent breaking through, is my biology betraying me, is everything I've built coming crashing down in spectacular fashion.

The second fuck-up: almost passing out.

That one scared me more than I want to admit.

I've pushed myself before—pulled all-nighters, worked double shifts, functioned on nothing but caffeine and spite. But this was different. This was my body staging a full-scale revolt, my knees giving out without warning, the world tilting sideways in a way that suggested I was about thirty seconds from unconsciousness.

If Cale hadn't been there...