Page 108 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Petty. I love it."
"That's our omega." She kisses my forehead, careful not to smudge my lipstick. "Come on. The boys are getting impatient."
We descend together to find the men waiting in the foyer, and my breath catches. Alessandro has actually worn color—deep burgundy that matches my lipstick. With his dark hair and green eyes, he looks like autumn personified.
"Better?" he asks, spreading his arms for inspection.
"Perfect."
The word comes out breathier than intended, but the smile it earns makes my knees weak.
"Ready for adventure?" Dante asks, offering his arm.
"Ready for anything," I confirm, accepting Damon's arm as well.
We exit as a unit—five people who shouldn't work together but do. The October air tastes like possibility, like freedom, like fuck you to everyone who said I was too old, too difficult, too much.
"François is going to hate this," I observe as we approach two vehicles—the Bentley and a Range Rover that wasn't here yesterday.
"Good," Alessandro says, opening the Bentley's door. "Allow them to all see what they missed by being cowards."
I slide into leather luxury, surrounded by my pack, heading toward whatever surprise they've orchestrated.
For the first time in twenty years, I don't need to know the destination.
I trust the journey.
PUMPKIN SPICE AND PROMISES
~ALESSANDRO~
The town square erupts in autumn glory—hay bales stacked into makeshift seating, corn stalks tied to every lamp post, and pumpkins in sizes ranging from adorable to agricultural miracle. Orange and gold bunting stretches between Victorian storefronts while vendors hawk apple cider and kettle corn. The air tastes like cinnamon and possibility.
Velvet bounces on her toes beside me, hands clasped like a child discovering Christmas exists.
"Alessandro! Look at the decorations! And the little scarecrows! Is that a pumpkin carved to look like a cat?"
Her excitement is infectious. She's transformed from the woman who verbally eviscerated François this morning into someone discovering joy in miniature moments. The outfit helps—orange skirt that flares when she spins, white blouse with an orange bow at her throat that makes her look like autumn's ambassador. Her silver hair falls in waves past her shoulders, held back by a brown velvet bow that matches her nude lipstick.
The stockings are my favorite part—sheer with tiny pumpkins climbing up her legs, disappearing under the skirtthat hits mid-thigh. Platform boots in burnt orange bring her close to my height, though I still have three inches on her.
"You're staring," she observes, catching me admiring how morning light catches in her hair.
"You're worth staring at."
"Smooth talker." But she's smiling, fingers finding mine. "You clean up nice yourself, Mr. Devereaux."
The brown turtleneck was Dante's idea—something about complementary color theory I'd tuned out. But paired with beige trousers and the Hermès belt Damon insisted on, I'll admit the effect works. My hair's slicked back in a way that feels pretentious but photographs well, and the gold-rimmed glasses I don't need for vision complete the aesthetic.
"We look like we escaped from a Ralph Lauren advertisement," she observes.
"Expensive and slightly pretentious?"
"Gorgeous and completely out of place at a small-town festival."
Which is precisely the point. Every phone in visual range is aimed our direction, some subtle, most not. By noon, #RebelQueenFallFestival will be trending, and François will be choking on his croissant.
"Hungry?" I guide her toward the corner diner, weaving through crowds that part unconsciously for us.
