Page 114 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Yes," I respond flatly.
"Perfect. Scoot over."
They pile into the booth—twins across from us, Alexis forcing me to move closer to Velvet until she's practically in my lap.
"Subtle," Velvet observes.
"Subtlety is for people without private jets," Dante replies, already flagging the waitress. "We saw the photos. François is having a meltdown on social media."
"Good," Velvet and I say together.
"You two are becoming eerily synchronized," Damon observes. "It's adorable and slightly concerning."
"Says the identical twin," Velvet shoots back.
"Fair point."
The waitress returns, and the twins order enough food for a small army while Alexis demands their entire coffee supply. Conversation flows easily—plans for the festival, which vendors to visit, how many pumpkins the Bentley can realistically transport.
But beneath the table, my hand never leaves Velvet's thigh.
And judging by the way she keeps shifting, pressing into my touch while maintaining perfectly normal conversation above, we're both counting minutes until we can be alone.
"Earth to horny Alphas," Alexis says loudly. "We're discussing the pumpkin carving contest."
"Right. Pumpkins." I don't even try to sound interested.
"You two are hopeless," she declares, but she's smiling. "Fine. Finish eye-fucking each other. We'll handle the festival logistics."
Velvet chokes on her cider while I try to look offended despite the accuracy of the accusation.
This is what pack feels like—teasing and want and public displays that would have horrified us six months ago.
And underneath it all, the promise of exploration that has nothing to do with festivals and everything to do with the omega currently tracing patterns on my thigh that spell out words I fully intend to make her scream later.
The day is young.
The festival awaits.
But all I can think about is fulfilling every promise I've whispered against her skin.
TRUTHS IN PUMPKIN PATCHES
~ALEXIS~
The cobblestone path winds away from the main festival chaos, following a creek that babbles about secrets the mountains keep.
Velvet's hand fits perfectly in mine—smaller but strong, fingers interlaced like we've been doing this for years instead of days. Her silver hair catches afternoon light, and every third person we pass does a double-take, recognizing the Rebel Queen even in her autumn disguise.
"Where are we going?" she asks for the fourth time, practically bouncing in those ridiculous pumpkin-print stockings.
"Patience is a virtue."
"I'm almost forty and recently dead. Patience is for people with time to waste."
The logic is flawless, but I maintain mystery for another hundred yards before the path opens into a clearing that took three phone calls and a questionable amount of money to secure.
"Oh my god."
