Page 104 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"We greet our omega with enthusiasm," he explains. "Usually less public, but?—"
"But there were witnesses," Dante finishes. "Cameras. Probably someone from the financial papers who recognized us."
"And you're not worried about being associated with me?"
They turn to look at me with such synchronized confusion that it would be comical if not for the intensity in their eyes.
"Why would we be ashamed," they ask in perfect unison, "of being seen with the Rebel Queen who's stunning, saved thousands of omegas, and is hot as fuck?"
I gape at them, looking between identical faces that somehow radiate different energies despite shared features.
"See?" Alexis calls from the front. "When we say you're hot, we mean it. The twins just have zero filter about it."
"We should probably do formal introductions," Dante says, squeezing my hand. "Since you were mostly unconscious when we met before."
"I'm Dante. Older by seven minutes. I handle the legitimate side of family business—real estate, shipping, some light arms dealing that's completely legal in international waters."
"Damon," his brother adds. "I manage the parts that require more... flexibility. Construction unions, waste management, solving problems for people who can't go to police."
"Mob princes," I say, not a question.
"Guilty. Though technically we're more like mob kings now that grandfather's retired to Sicily." Dante's thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"Some people have moral objections to our methodology," Damon observes.
"I run illegal safe houses for traumatized omegas using money I launder through seventeen shell companies." Theadmission comes easily. "Moral high ground isn't really my terrain."
"Perfect woman," they breathe together.
"How do people usually tell you apart?" I ask, needing to understand the men who've claimed me.
"They don't," Dante admits. "We've been switching places since childhood. Even mother struggled sometimes."
"But you're different." The observation comes without thought. "Dante, you smell like gunpowder. Damon has cordite. Same base notes—leather and espresso—but the overtones are distinct."
The car goes silent except for engine purr and tire whisper on pavement.
"What?" I look between them, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I say something wrong?"
"Our mother was the only one who ever noticed that." Damon's voice carries something raw. "She said Dante smelled like the gun range, and I smelled like the demolition site."
"Clearly whoever you've dated before didn't try hard enough." The words come out sharper than intended. "It's not that difficult if you actually pay attention beyond surface cologne."
Their hands find mine simultaneously—Dante's right, Damon's left—and the gesture feels like something clicking into place. These men who share everything have lost the one person who could distinguish them, and here I am, silver-haired and nearly forty, casually noting what others missed.
A yawn escapes before I can stop it, the day's adrenaline finally catching up. Between racing sports cars and being kissed by Italian Alphas who look like sin in pinstripes, exhaustion hits like a sledgehammer.
"Rest," Dante murmurs, his arm sliding around my shoulders.
"We've got you," Damon adds, adjusting so I can lean against him comfortably.
My eyes drift closed, their scents wrapping around me like expensive blankets. The Bentley's movement is hypnotic—smooth acceleration, gentle curves, the occasional murmur of conversation above my head.
"She really can tell us apart," Dante whispers, and there's wonder in it.
"First omega who's bothered to notice," Damon agrees. "Most just see matching faces and assume we're interchangeable."
