Page 105 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"You're already half in love with her, aren't you?" Alexis asks from the front.
"More than half," they admit together.
"Good. But behave yourselves. Don't overwhelm her on day one."
"Yes, Alpha," they chorus, and the formality is so unexpected I almost laugh.
"What? If we said 'yes ma'am' you'd kick our asses," Dante points out.
"Obviously," Alexis agrees. "I'm not a ma'am. I'm a terrifying Alpha female who races cars and hostile-takeovers companies."
"And makes excellent breakfast," I mumble against Damon's shoulder.
"She's listening," he says with amusement.
"She's always listening," Dante confirms. "Rebel Queens don't miss anything."
Their hands stay linked with mine as the car continues through mountain roads. Safe between men who could probably kill with their bare hands but hold me like spun glass. Protected by an Alpha female who drives like death is optional. Claimed by a pack that sees me clearly and wants me anyway.
The smile spreads across my face as sleep pulls me under properly.
This is what being chosen feels like.
Not hidden or qualified or complicated.
Just chosen. Publicly. Enthusiastically.
With kisses that taste like forever and scents that feel like home.
PUBLIC DECLARATIONS
~VELVET~
"C'est complètement déraisonnable!"
The French explodes from my mouth as I storm into the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear while François—the director of one of our major funding organizations—spews his concerns about my recent media exposure. The cottage's kitchen gleams in morning light, all marble and chrome and windows revealing mountains dressed in October gold.
"Non, François. The movement isn't about hiding who we are anymore." I yank open the refrigerator with enough force to rattle bottles. "If you're threatening to pull funding because I won't confirm or deny having a pack, that's your prerogative."
A pitcher of lemonade waits on the middle shelf—Alexis's creation from this morning, already becoming my new addiction. The perfect balance of tart and sweet, with fresh mint that makes each sip feel like sophistication. I pour a glass one-handed while François continues his tirade.
"Les photos sont partout!" he insists, and I can practically see him waving the papers.
The photos are everywhere.
Of course they are. The twins kissing me at the airport yesterday has apparently broken the internet. #RebelQueenClaimed trending worldwide. Photos from every angle of two mob princes marking their territory while I stood there looking thoroughly kissed and not remotely apologetic.
"Et alors?" I shoot back, taking a long sip of lemonade. "What I do in my personal life isn't collateral for business negotiations. If you want to threaten withdrawal over gossip?—"
"It's not gossip when there's photographic evidence of you with men young enough to be?—"
"Careful, François." My voice drops to dangerous registers. "Think very carefully about your next words."
He doesn't heed the warning.
"This is clearly some publicity stunt to make yourself seem attractive at forty. But it won't work long-term, and I don't want our company's assets associated with that image. The desperate aging omega clinging to?—"
An arm wraps around my waist from behind, solid and warm and smelling of leather and storm clouds. The phone disappears from my hand before I can unleash the fury building in my chest. Alessandro brings the device to speaker, setting it on the marble island.
