Page 9 of Knot So Lucky

Because when Cale Hart and Roran Lane are in the same room and united in purpose, smart people make themselves scarce.

They're not even in the same pack.

Hell, they're rivals more often than not, our families locked in some bitter feud that goes back generations.

But when it comes to me—to protecting me and hiding my deepest secret—they present an absolutely terrifying united front.

"You've got about five seconds to back up," my brother says, his voice flat and cold in a way that makes Dante's earlier growling look like a child's tantrum. "And then we'll recalculate your facial structure."

"Free of charge," Cale adds helpfully. "Consider it a service."

Dante looks between them, doing the math.

He might be an entitled Alpha asshole, but he's not completely stupid. Two Alphas—both of them established racers with nothing to lose and everything to prove—against one?

The smart move is obvious.

"This isn't over," Dante snarls at me, jabbing a finger in my direction.

"Looking forward to it," I deadpan.

He shoulders past Cale with more force than necessary—stupid, that, because Cale's the type to take that as an invitation—and storms out of the garage. The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I sigh and turn to face my protection detail.

"You know, you don't have to interfere every time a driver loses their shit on me."

"Yes, we do," my brother says immediately.

"Absolutely we do," Cale agrees, which is probably the only thing they'll agree on all day.

Cale's standing there with his arms crossed, and even in his casual clothes—dark jeans and a band t-shirt that's seen better days—he's unfairly attractive.

Tall and lean in a way that suggests coiled strength, tattoos crawling up his forearms and disappearing under his sleeves. His black hair is shaved close on the sides, longer on top, and his silver-gray eyes are currently fixed on me with an intensity that makes my suppressants work overtime.

"The only one who's gonna be yelling in your face is me," he grumbles, and I hate how my body responds to that promise. How my Omega instincts interpret it asmineinstead of the threat it should be.

My brother makes a disgusted noise.

"Not if you want me to kick your fucking ass for bullying my younger brother."

"Younger by three minutes," I interject.

"Still counts," he shoots back.

Cale rolls his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I swear he's older."

They're glaring at each other now, testosterone and rivalry crackling in the air between them like static electricity.

On any other day, I'd let them posture and threaten each other until they either started throwing punches or remembered they have practice schedules to keep.

Today, I'm tired and thirsty and increasingly aware that my morning suppressant is wearing off faster than it should.

I shoo them away with both hands.