She thought he’d disappear by morning, but when she woke up, he was still there holding her. He confessed everything to her and pulled out a folded up contract from his pocket, asking her to choose him.
And she did.
To his credit, he took care of her. Paid her bills. Made sure she ate. Never restricted where she went or what she was doing. The only condition he insisted on was simple, he would go wherever she did, even if it was in the shadows behind her.
She’d laughed, telling him that if he wanted to watch her twenty-four-seven, then he might as well be her boyfriend.
That seemed to please him even more than the signed paper. To him, it meant she was open to his feelings. In return, he promised he’d be the best boyfriend possible, never giving her a reason to look anywhere else but at him. So far, he’d kept that promise, and my best friend was the happiest I’d seen her in years.
Nathan’s gaze flicked to mine, quickly sliding away again as he cleared his throat, gently setting Lark back on her feet.
“Hey, Olivia. Thanks for coming with her. I had to check in with my contact before they let us in.”
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as I swallowed a smile. He always looked faintly uncomfortable after public affection, as if he hadn’t quite adjusted to being the kind of man someone ran toward.
Lark squealed and grabbed our hands, tugging us forward.
“Come on! This is so exciting!”
Nathan squeezed her fingers. His attention never strayed far from her.
“This way, baby,” he said softly. “That entrance is for spectators for the race. The pre-party access is around back, under the stadium at the finish line.”
We moved away from the lights and noise, rounding the building into a quieter stretch of concrete and shadow. The roar of engines grew closer and more violent the deeper we went.
A single steel door waited at the end of the path, and my heartbeat picked up as we approached. The air in front of the door wavered for half a second, a subtle distortion that bent the darkness before smoothing out again.
A shimmer rolled across the surface, pale and clean.
Air magic.
I slowed slightly, studying the steady ripple of magic hypnotizing me. Just like all supe-related things, it was both beautiful but deadly.
Nathan rested his hand on the knob but didn’t turn, didn’t move.
The metal beneath his palm shimmered, a faint ripple spreading outward in thin, invisible waves. The air pressed inward, testing, tasting. A soft click followed, quiet but decisive, and the door swung open.
Music poured out first, loud with a fast beat. We stepped across the threshold.
Engines idled beneath the concrete floor, layered and steady, their vibrations crawling up through the soles of my boots. The warehouse-like ceiling caught the noise and threw it back down in a low, metallic hum. Every car inside seemed to breathe in sync, their hoods trembling faintly with contained power.
The air felt dense, charged. It clung to my skin and settled heavy in my lungs. Each inhale carried heat, oil, and something sharper that prickled along the back of my throat. The overhead lights flickered faintly as currents of magic drifted between steel beams and polished chassis.
Two clean rows of cars stretched out in front of us on a diagonal, positioned next to each other with a wide aisle between them. They sat low to the ground, suspensions tight, spoilers angled aggressively. Neon underglow washed the concrete in color—fluorescent purples, bright pinks, electric blues, and radioactivegreens, turning the oil stains into shimmering specks on the concrete
Clusters of supes lingered near their vehicles. Some leaned against doors with arms crossed. Others crouched beside open hoods, fingers tracing over engraved runes embedded in engine blocks. Conversations revolved around top speed and wind drag, speaking my language.
Lark giggled beside me. “Oh no. I have a feeling we’re going to lose Via.”
Her voice barely carried over the steady chorus of idling engines. A few heads turned toward the entrance. My breath caught, but their eyes only swept over us before quickly drifting back to chrome and carbon fiber. I let out a sigh of relief.
Music pounded from the other side of the warehouse, bass vibrating through stacked speakers near a raised DJ booth. A tight circle of bodies moved in front of it—wings flashing, claws glinting, sharp teeth catching the strobe lights as they collided and spun.
“Let’s dance!” Lark tugged at Nathan’s arm, already stepping toward the shifting mass of bodies.
A sharp turbo whine cut through the music from somewhere along the left row, and all attention snapped sideways.
I watched as a small crowd formed around an open hood. Someone gestured animatedly at a polished Ramson 1058Z engine, its components gleaming under fluorescent lights. The turbo breathed again—short, eager bursts—drawing a few appreciative nods from those standing closest.
