Page 127 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Never experienced because I've only had them alone."
The pain in that admission makes me want to resurrect every Alpha who's failed her just to kill them properly.
"Never alone again," I promise. "We'll worship you through every wave, keep you satisfied and safe and so thoroughly claimed you forget other packs exist."
"Bold promises."
"Fact. We'll let you feel like the true omega you've always been but never got to explore. That's a vow I can confidently keep."
Dante stirs beside us, mumbling something about keeping it down, but his hand finds hers in sleep, completing our circuit.
Velvet laughs softly. "A heat with four Alphas. That sounds either amazing or fatal."
"Definitely amazing. Possibly fatal. Worth finding out?"
"Yeah," she breathes, and I hear the smile in it. "Worth finding out."
Above us, a meteor streaks across the sky—brief and brilliant and gone before we can point it out. But we all see it, even Dante who's supposedly sleeping, because his lips curve against Velvet's shoulder.
"Make a wish," he murmurs.
"Don't need to," she responds. "Already got it."
We lie there as the night deepens, our omega finally relaxed between us, and I think: this is what victory feels like.
Not the business deals or territory expansion or any of the thousand conquests that built our empire.
Just this—a woman who's learning to be loved, twins who've found their missing piece, and the promise of heats and adventures and a future that tastes like cinnamon and possibility.
Tomorrow, we'll make it official.
Tonight, we hold her under stars that witness our vows, and that's already everything.
THE RECKONING
~VELVET~
The conference hall thrums with anticipation thick enough to taste—metallic like blood before a storm.
Three hundred bodies packed into a space designed for two hundred, their collective breathing creating its own weather system beneath crystal chandeliers that cost more than most people's annual salaries. Cameras line every wall, their red recording lights creating a constellation of surveillance that would have terrified me once.
Now I find it fitting.
The mahogany podium waits at center stage, polished to mirror perfection, microphones clustered like metal flowers hungry for secrets. Behind it, a projection screen displays the Haven's logo—a phoenix rising from stylized flames, wings spread in defiance. The irony isn't lost on me that I'm about to burn everything down while standing beneath that symbol.
My dress is calculated perfection—deep burgundy that photographs beautifully, conservative enough for respectability but fitted enough to remind everyone I'm still very much a woman. The Hermès scarf at my throat, patterned with golden leaves, conceals the fading marks from my pack's enthusiasm. My silver hair is pulled into an elegant chignon that took Alexisforty minutes to perfect this morning, every strand strategically placed for maximum impact.
"Two minutes," Marina whispers from my left, her tablet clutched like armor against the chaos brewing. She's been my secretary for seven years, has seen me through every crisis, but even she doesn't know what's coming.
I scan the assembled crowd from my position at the side entrance. Government officials in suits that scream taxpayer funding. Omega rights activists in designer protest wear. Medical professionals with their white coats worn like capes. And there, in the front row exactly where I knew they'd position themselves—my past wearing hope like cologne.
Knox sits ramrod straight in a charcoal suit I've never seen him wear. His silver hair is slicked back, grey eyes fixed on the podium with an intensity that suggests he's manifesting my appearance through sheer will. His hands rest on his thighs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches and releases in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.
Beside him, Adyani is resplendent in a cream pantsuit that makes her skin glow like burnished gold. She's completed her transition beautifully—softer features, longer hair that falls in waves past her shoulders, but still carrying that regal bearing that once commanded kingdoms. The roses in her hand—white, because she knows red reminds me of blood—rest in her lap like an offering to gods who've already chosen sides.
Malcolm occupies the aisle seat, and the calculation in that placement isn't subtle. Positioned for quick access to the stage, to me, to whatever fantasy he's constructed about this moment. His navy suit is impeccable, his medical bag at his feet because he never goes anywhere without it, and his midnight eyes track every movement in my peripheral vision like he's taking my pulse from twenty feet away.
They're all watching the stage with the kind of anticipation that borders on desperation.
