Page 8 of Knot So Lucky

It's a trick I learned young: how to let angry Alpha voices wash over me like white noise while I retreat into my own head.

My brother taught me.

Count backward from one hundred by sevens.

Focus on math.

They can't touch your mind, even if they can hurt your body.

Ninety-three.

Dante's still ranting about respect and knowledge of his achievements, and something about his family's investment in the team.

Eighty-six.

His spit is literally flying as he gesticulates, and I'm going to have to shower after this.

Seventy-nine.

I'm halfway through calculating whether I have time to strip and clean the differential before my shift ends when I catch it.

A scent.

Not Dante's aggressive, unpleasant assault on my senses. Something else. An aroma that cuts through the motor oil, rubber, and rage like a knife through silk.

Burnt cedar. Dark coffee. Raw amber.

It wraps around me like a blanket—warm and grounding and achingly familiar—and my heart does something complicated in my chest. Something I've spent months trying to convince myself I don't feel anymore, that our hot-and-cold toxic bullshit was killed years ago.

My Omega instincts make me want to purr in complete submission at their presence.

I mentally tell it to shut the fuck up.

"Get the fuck out of their pit tech's face," a voice drawls from behind me, deceptively casual in the way that promises violence, "or you'll have to enjoy this fist."

Cale.

I don't have to turn around to know it's him. Don't have to see his face to picture the lazy, dangerous smile he wears when he's about three seconds from beating someone's ass. That voice has been haunting my dreams—both the good kind and the kind that leave me aching and frustrated—for longer than I care to admit.

I smirk, keeping my eyes on Dante's face even as I track Cale's presence behind me like a fucking homing beacon.

"How chivalrous."

But then there's another scent—this one lighter, cleaner, with notes of ozone and fresh linen that my Omega recognizes on an instinctive level that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do withpack.

Family.

I glance over my left shoulder, and sure enough, there's my identical twin brother.

Roran Lane.

He's scowling daggers at Dante, still in his racing suit from his practice session, helmet dangling from one hand like he's ready to use it as a weapon. We share the same sharp features, the same short blonde hair with its engineered highlights that catch the light, even the same star crescent tattoo under our right eyes—though his is visible while mine is currently hidden under a layer of carefully applied concealer.

Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, if mirrors could show you what you'd look like if you'd been born with the right parts to be accepted in this godforsaken sport.

One glance around the garage confirms what I already suspected:everyone has taken several large steps back.

The tension is palpable, thick enough to choke on.