Page 50 of Knot So Lucky

"Sibling rivalry must be nice," someone comments from the crowd.

"Right?" another tech agrees. "Wish my brother gave enough of a shit to argue about my safety."

"Honestly, I keep forgetting they're siblings," a third voice adds. "They look so damn alike I just assumed they were the same person for the first week."

"I wonder why the press only focuses on Roran, though," someone else muses.

"It's because Rory's the tech, obviously. No one pays attention to us. We're invisible until something goes wrong."

The words sting more than they should, carrying too much truth about the hierarchy in racing culture. Drivers get the glory. Techs get the blame.

"Enough!" Richard's voice cracks like a whip. "Some team leader is coming over in ten minutes to observe our testing protocols. Let's get this shit resolved before they try to steal our techniques."

I frown, curious about which team would bother sending leadership to watch us test, but the urgency in Richard's voice suggests we don't have time for questions.

"I guess I'll need this," I say, grabbing one of the helmets from the nearby rack.

The weight is familiar in my hands—not as sophisticated as the racing helmets the drivers use, but adequate for testing purposes. The interior smells like sweat and rubber and that particular chemical scent of fire-retardant materials.

"Roran," I call over my shoulder, already moving toward the nearest prototype. "I've got this."

"Cale," Roran growls, desperation creeping into his voice. "Stop him."

Cale casually jogs to where I'm sliding into the car's cockpit, and I know I have exactly three seconds to prevent him from physically removing me from the vehicle.

So I look up at him through my lashes and switch to Italian—low and intimate and absolutely devastating.

"Se mi fermi, non cavalcherò mai più il tuo cazzo come se lo intendessi davvero."

If you stop me, I'll never ride your cock like I mean it again.

The threat is delivered in the most casual tone imaginable, like I'm discussing the weather rather than making a sexual promise that has Cale's eyes going dark and his pupils dilating with immediate Alpha response.

He pauses mid-reach.

Stares into my eyes, reading the absolute sincerity there.

Then slowly, deliberately, he backs up with his hands raised in surrender.

"CALE!" Roran's voice cracks with betrayal.

Cale shrugs, expression caught somewhere between apologetic and shameless.

"I've been threatened in your mother language. My hands are tied."

"Cazzo!" Roran curses, switching to Italian himself as his frustration peaks. "Sei impossibile! Entrambi siete impossibili!"

I'm already smirking, settling deeper into the car's cockpit and adjusting the seat positioning to accommodate my smaller frame. The steering wheel sits perfectly in my grip, the pedals are positioned where I need them, and the dashboard displays are coming to life with diagnostic readouts.

This is it.

This is what I've been training for without realizing it. All those hours under cars, all those diagnostic procedures, all that intimate knowledge of how these machines work from the inside out.

Now I get to actually drive one.

I move the car to the testing line where Dante's already waiting in another prototype, his engine idling with a low rumble that vibrates through the concrete floor.

The pit crew scrambles into position, checking connections and running final safety protocols. I reach for the communications headset, adjusting it over my helmet and keying the mic.