Page 46 of Redline
Something sharp pulls through Dominic’s cheek, a tiny muscle jumping near his ear. "Why would I care where she is? I’m not her keeper."
"Clearly." I watch through the crack as Luka’s eyes drop, snagging on the wreckage: the half-unbuttoned fly, the disheveled shirt, the mussed hair. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. "Never mind. I get it. Didn't realize you were... busy."
"Go away, Luka," Dominic grunts.
"Hey, don't let me stop the fun. But remember we leave at six a.m. sharp tomorrow," Luka says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll leave you to your 'privacy.'"
Dominic waits until the floor stops groaning under Luka's weight before he finally clicks the door shut. The guy who just had me pinned against the wood is gone. He turns around, and the wall is back up—higher and colder than before. He looks at me with a flick of his eyes that is almost cruel.
"You should probably use the back stairs," he says, his voice flat, devoid of the gravelly hunger from moments ago. "Unless you want to give him a second show."
The dismissal is a sharp slap, but I refuse to flinch. I resmooth my skirt, my movements icy despite the fact that my knees are still vibrating.
Disgust should be the only thing I feel. I should be dwelling on his arrogance, his need for control, or the simple fact that the sound of his breathing still grates on my nerves. But as I look at him, logic loses ground to a hot, prickly wave of shame.
The truth is, I’m no better than the females downstairs. I’m just another person who let him press her against a door simply because he looked good in a dark shirt. Having judged them for a lack of substance, I now find myself shaking in the aftermath of a someone who won't even look me in the eye now that he’s had his "taste."
I meet his gaze with a sharp, toxic smile, hiding the fact that I feel like a total loss.
"Don't worry, Valerio," I say, my voice steady even if my blood is still screaming. "I’ve had enough of this 'scenery' to last me the rest of my life."
I don't wait for a rebuttal. I walk past him, out the door, and into the hallway. I don’t look back. I just head for the stairs, my skin still humming from his touch, trying to outrun the bone-deep reckoning that’s already gaining on me.
I’m halfway down the stairs before the sterile air of the mansion hits me. The reality of how my evening swerved completely off course doesn't just settle; it crushes. I had built my entire reputation on being the one person he couldn't break—the one who saw the facade behind the talent and refused to bow to it. Yet, in one breath, I’d traded that leverage for the pressure of his hands against a door. I’d fought for the lead, only to drive myself right off the track.
Fuck.I wasn't supposed to be part of the wreckage. I was the one too smart to get caught in the engine. Instead, I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross—and the most devastating part is I knewexactly what I was doing. I’d just created a problem I didn’t know how to fix—and the worst part was, deep down, I was already wondering how long it would take to feel it again.
Chapter thirteen
Dominic
Iwon.Obviously.Anyone who acted surprised hasn't been paying attention to the data for the last few years. The season opener was a clinic—a masterclass in late braking and tire management that left the rest of the grid fighting for scraps in my rearview. The headlines called it a "statement win." I just called it Sunday.
Now, days later, the desert is a memory. I’m back at the practice track, the engine of the test car ticking as it cools inside the bay. It’s a sharp, clipped rhythm, the only sound in the garage besides the distant, high-pitched whine of an air wrench. I strip my gloves off, tossing them toward the workbench without looking.
Lifting the helmet free, I let the sweat dry fast against my spine. There’s a particular deadness that comes after a sessionlike this. Not exhaustion, just a quiet transition where the track finally lets go of you. I roll my shoulders, letting the cockiness settle back into place like a second skin. Familiar. Useful.
I flex my right hand, but the tips of my index and middle fingers are dead weight—a dull, humming numbness that refuses to spark. I give them a sharp shake, waiting for the jitter to fade.
"You were late on the apex of turn four for six laps straight," Landon’s voice cuts through the silence.
He’s hovering by the screens, his face tight. He hasn't been in my ear long, but he’s already mastered that grating, paternal tone—the one that assumes his stopwatch knows more than my gut.
"I wasn't late," I say easily, scrubbing a towel over my neck while discreetly rubbing the pads of my fingers against the rough fabric. "I was taking a wider line to see how the grip held on the exit. The tires liked it."
"The tires hated it. You were scrubbing speed for the sake of a feeling. If you trust the line I gave you, you won't have to chase the car on the exit."
"I'll trust the line when it stops feeling like a dead end," I mutter, shoving my hand into my pocket so he can't see the slight tremor in my grip.
Tension locks across Landon’s face—that familiar look of someone who’s about to dig in his heels. "A dead end? The data shows—"
"The data doesn't feel the asphalt," I snap, my voice rising. The numbness in my fingers is moving up toward my palm now, a dull, crawling sensation that makes my skin feel like it belongs to a stranger. "You want a robot, go build one. You want a winner, let me drive the damn car."
"That’s enough."
Luka’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the tension. He’s been leaning against a stack of spare tires watching us with that unnerving, observant stillness. He doesn't look at Landon; he looks straight at my right arm, his eyes tracking the way I’m gripping the fabric inside my pocket.
"Let’s take a break, Dom," Luka says, stepping into the space between us. He places a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that looks like brotherly support to Landon, but I feel the subtle pressure. A warning. "Go hit the showers. Cool down, get the sweat off. We’ll regroup afterwards."
