Page 218 of Knot So Lucky

"Are you free after the race?"

"Hell yeah." I don't even need to check my schedule.

Whatever's planned can be rescheduled.

"Good." He shifts closer, his finger pointing to the left side of his neck—right where pack bonds typically manifest as bite marks. "Then it's movie night. Just you and me. And I want a bond mark right here."

Heat floods through me—part arousal, part emotional overwhelm at what he's requesting.

Bond marks are permanent. Visible symbols of pack connection that can't be hidden or denied. Adrian asking for one means he wants the world to know I'm his, that our connection is as real and significant as my bonds with the others.

"You feel left out?" I ask quietly, studying his face for signs of insecurity. "Being the last one? We haven't really had the time to?—"

"Never," he interrupts, his smile genuine and warm. "You're saving the best for last,tesoro. I'm patient."

The confidence in his voice makes me smirk.

"Cocky much?"

"Just honest." He leans in for another kiss, this one briefer but no less intense.

Someone clears their throat loudly, breaking the moment.

We pull apart to find Jenny and Richard standing at the garage entrance, both looking amused. Behind them, Marco whistles obnoxiously.

"Two lovebirds in a tree!" Marco sings out, grinning. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"I'm leaving," Adrian announces, standing smoothly and brushing off his pants. But his eyes are laughing as he looks down at me.

"You'll leave once I'm done my coffee," I declare, reaching for the cup still sitting on the counter. I turn my attention to Richard and the others. "Everything is set for the race. Car's ready, telemetry looks good, no anomalies in any systems."

Richard nods, his expression shifting into professional assessment. "Good work, Rory. This is going to be an amazing race." He pauses, and something in his tone makes my attention sharpen. "Though this particular race doesn't require Omega drivers. If you want to sit out and let Luca and Elias handleit—especially with Roran officially transferred to Creed—that's completely fine. No pressure."

The offer hangs in the air, weighted with implications I don't have time to fully parse.

"I'm good," I say firmly, taking a sip of the coffee. "Only two races left until championship. I'm not sitting out now."

The coffee tastes perfect—black, strong, exactly how I like it. I take another sip, letting the caffeine start working its magic on my pre-race focus.

Richard moves toward Marco, the two of them discussing technical standards and pit crew timing for today's session. Jenny joins them, her voice adding to the professional conversation about tire strategies and fuel management.

I'm halfway through the coffee when something feels... off.

"Did you make this differently today?" I ask Adrian, frowning at the cup.

He takes it from my hands, sipping carefully before his expression shifts into confusion.

"It's bitter. More bitter than usual." He pauses, clearly running through his preparation process mentally. "But I made it exactly how you like it. Same beans, same ratio, same method."

"Yeah, it's definitely off." I look around the garage, suddenly hyperaware of who's been near the diagnostic station where the coffee was sitting.

Richard and Marco are still talking, their backs to us. Jenny is checking something on her tablet. The garage feels normal—the usual pre-race energy, nothing overtly suspicious.

But something is wrong.

The world begins to sway.

Just slightly at first—a subtle shift in my perception that I might dismiss as standing up too quickly or pre-race adrenaline.But then it intensifies, the garage floor seeming to tilt beneath me like I'm on a boat in rough water.