Page 110 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"No! I love it. The windows, the mountains, the absolute impracticality of heating that much glass." Her smile dims slightly. "But I'll have to go back to the city eventually. The Haven?—"
"Why?"
"Because I can't run a revolution from a mountain cottage."
"Says who?" I lean back, pulling her against my side. "The cottage is forty minutes from the city center. Twenty by helicopter. Your staff is completely capable of handling daily operations. You could work remotely, commute when needed, and actually have somewhere safe to retreat to."
"Helicopter?" Her voice rises an octave. "Who has a helicopter?"
"We have three. The company has seven, but those are for business."
She gapes at me. "Casual helicopter ownership. Of course."
"You had a Dubai princess in love with you and she never offered helicopter transport?"
Pink floods her cheeks. "Not... specifically."
"Don't tell Alexis or you'll be helicoptered everywhere. She just got her license and she's insufferable about it."
"Alexis can fly helicopters?"
"Alexis can do anything she decides to learn. It's actually annoying."
"Speaking of our terrifying female Alpha—" She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Is she actually royalty?"
The smile escapes before I can stop it.
"Alessandro!"
"She's heir to a banking dynasty that's technically nobility. Swiss aristocracy, though they prefer 'banking royalty' these days."
"And nobody told me?"
"Alexis doesn't advertise it. Says hereditary wealth is boring compared to earned fortunes." I shrug. "Plus everyone assumes the twins are the ones with royal connections."
"Because they act like the world exists for their entertainment?"
"Exactly."
Our food arrives in waves—platters that could feed small armies. Pancakes thick as phone books, eggs so orange they look fake, bacon that actually smells like smoke instead of sadness. Velvet makes sounds that belong in different contexts as she tastes everything.
"Oh god, real butter. When did I last have real butter?"
I spread jam on a biscuit, holding it to her lips. "Open."
"I can feed myself."
"But where's the fun in that?"
She accepts the bite, eyes rolling back dramatically. "That's inappropriate for public consumption."
"Wait until you try the gravy."
We work through breakfast with me feeding her every third bite, watching her fight between independence and enjoyment. By the time plates are cleared, she's practically purring, leaning into me with contentment that makes my chest tight.
"Dessert?" I ask against her hair.
"I'm so full I might explode." She stretches, the movement pressing her chest against the white blouse in ways that test my control. "But what did you have in mind?"
