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Franco stood behind a blue velvet curtain, hearing the lively chatter of the reporters beyond. He felt like he was being thrown to the wolves, then he caught a familiar scent.
He gripped Violet’s hand, surprising her out of her own brooding slumber.
“Do you smell that?”
Violet stuck her nose into the air as they both tried to narrow down the various fragrances in the air. He detected something rotting, blended together with a gasoline-like car oil scent.
Smelling car oil at a racetrack wasn’t exactly unexpected. But the blending with the day-old garbage bag stench made it distinct.
Instinctively, Franco peered through the curtain before the microphone had been set up. Then, through some kind of cosmic luck, he locked eyes with someone in the waiting crowd.
Franco let his beast emerge slightly as he squinted at the man wearing a casual outfit with a press pass tied around his neck. It was merely through tapping into his shifter abilities that he was able to zoom in on the increased heart rate of the man, whose eyes went as wide as the full moon when Franco’s stare did not break.
The man’s neck throbbed with his increased pulse jumping up and down like a skipping record player. That was when he bolted, scurrying past the reporters and out the back door.
Franco smashed through the curtain to unrestrained awes, crashing through the crowd in hot pursuit of the man who had fled.
It was the same scent he had picked up from the wolves who had intruded upon Violet and his morning run. He must have been involved somehow, or else why on earth would the bastard run?
“FRANCO!”
Violet called to him, but it dissipated fast. Photos were being snapped of him chasing the stranger through a bustling crowd, some of them recognizing him, others whipping out their phones to record the entirely surreal moment.
But Franco didn’t notice or care. He needed to know who was fucking with his career, his pursuit of personal glory, something he had worked his entire life for.
THIRTEEN
VIOLET
Violet knew the moment her fated mate was about to leap forward. They were permanently tethered at the waist whether they were ready to accept that or not. She had been standing behind him when she saw him peek through the curtain, then launch into the waiting, unaware crowd.
A member of his sponsored team went for the microphone immediately, trying to backtrack and do some recovery PR. After only really having been with Franco for a few days, Violet knew that something had perked his attention that was entirely vital to the race. He had mentioned sabotage, and she had assumed he referred to the wolves that had come for them in the forest.
Violet went after Franco just as quickly as he had launched himself into the crowd. She pushed past the people who tried to follow him, snapping cameras incessantly, screaming questions into her ear about her status as his girlfriend, wife, partner, mistress, the whole shebang.
“ARE YOU WITH FRANCO? ARE YOU HIS SECRET MISTRESS?”
She tried not to let her annoyance get to her, pushing past people with a strength that could easily topple them over. Her tiger was ready to swipe at anyone who came too close. After weaving through the large group of people, she finally arrived at the back door, shoving it open with a force that made it bang against the wall.
She moved into a full-on sprint, chasing her lover on the virtue of his scent and prideful nature. She caught it, wafting in the wind, as people stood and stared and recorded her on their phones as popcorn and refreshments were thrown into the air.
“HEY!”
Violet didn’t stop to apologize. If Franco was after the people who had come for them in the woods, he was going to need backup. The situation must have been dire for him to behave in such an impulsive way. Racing was his entire way of life, and he wasn’t going to throw it away for anyone or anything.
Not even for her.
Violet stopped abruptly at the gift and trinkets shop, skittering over the gravel ground and nearly hammering into a cluster of people. They frowned at her, looked her up and down, and continued on.
His scent had stopped and was lingering somewhere. Violet tried to slow her breathing as she sauntered into the gift shop, ignoring the gawkers who had apparently never seen a tall, sweaty woman running in heels before.
“Violet.”
She stood in an aisle between stuffed animals and key chains that had a plethora of racers’ names and sponsors imprinted upon them. It was the valley of pointless purchases and souvenirs that upheld the basics of capitalism. She saw him standing there, hands in the pockets of the slacks he had put on after his brisk shower.
Sweat coated the small strands of hair pinned to his forehead. He gazed down at the magazine rack, his chest heaving with a distinct wheezing sound.
For a second, Violet thought he had been tranquilized or, worse, even poisoned. He was standing so still that he could have been mistaken for a mannequin. He seemed fixated on something ahead of him but not quite lost in the tumultuous storm of his thoughts.
