Page 131 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Malcolm and Adyani stand perfectly still, their faces masks of different flavors of horror. Malcolm's medical mind is probably already calculating angles of escape, chemical compounds that might help, legal defenses forming behind midnight eyes that have watched me sleep too many times. Adyani maintains her royal bearing even as her world collapses, chin raised despite tears tracking down cheeks that have kissed a thousand diplomatic hands.
"Wait." My voice carries over the chaos, that particular frequency I've developed over years of commanding attention. The room stills again, even breathing seeming to pause. "They deserve to know the complete truth before justice is served."
I can feel my pack's presence intensify from their position at the room's periphery. Alessandro's emerald gaze burns into my spine, a physical sensation of support. The twins' matched energy creates a defensive barrier I can sense without seeing. Alexis's female Alpha pheromones spike, protective and warning combined.
"The investigation my pack conducted went deeper than surface evidence." I turn to face the audience fully, keeping the three accused in my peripheral vision. "They uncovered layersof deception that took considerable resources and expertise to unravel. The kind of investigation law enforcement couldn't—or wouldn't—pursue."
The projection screen behind me shifts, Alessandro's remote work from his position making new evidence appear. Financial records, medical files, surveillance footage—each piece timestamped and verified.
"The truth required understanding not just who wanted me dead, but why. What possible gain could come from eliminating someone who was already dying?" I let that word hang, watch understanding ripple through the crowd. "Because yes, I was dying. Six months left according to specialist evaluation. An unclaimed omega approaching forty, body shutting down from biological imperatives denied too long."
Several omegas in the audience make sounds of recognition, of shared experience. We all know this particular death sentence, even if we don't speak it aloud.
"Which raises the question—why accelerate what nature was already accomplishing?"
I gesture toward the rear of the room. "I'd like to request my pack join me on stage to present their findings directly."
The crowd parts like biblical waters as my pack moves forward. Alessandro leads, his presence commanding space in that way that makes people step aside without conscious thought. He's changed from this morning's casual clothes into a charcoal suit that makes him look like elegant death, each movement calculated for maximum impact.
Alexis follows, her confidence transcendent in a black structured blazer over blood-red silk, her blonde bob catching lights like a weapon. The twins move in perfect synchronization, Dante in deep burgundy, Damon in midnight blue, their matching movements hypnotic enough that several people simply stare.
"Allow me to introduce them properly." My voice carries pride I don't try to hide. "Alessandro Lucien Devereaux, CEO of Devereaux Industries and primary investigator of the attempt on my life."
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Everyone knows the Devereaux name, the fortune that rivals small countries' GDP, the power that moves through shadows and daylight with equal ease.
"Alexis Rosenberg, heir to the Rosenberg banking dynasty and current director of hostile acquisitions for the Noctuary Larissa Organization."
More recognition, more shock. The Rosenberg name carries weight in financial circles that makes governments nervous.
"Dante and Damon Corleone, managing partners of Corleone International Logistics and... problem solvers for situations requiring discrete solutions."
The twins smile in unison, the expression promising violence wrapped in Armani. Several people actually step back despite being nowhere near the stage.
They ascend the steps with choreographed precision, flanking me in formation that speaks of planning, of protection, of possession that needs no words. Alessandro's hand finds the small of my back, a touch that grounds and claims simultaneously. The twins position themselves between me and the accused, bodies angled to intercept any threat. Alexis stands slightly behind, watching everything with eyes that miss nothing.
"The evidence," Alessandro says, his voice carrying that particular authority that makes boardrooms silent, "tells a different story than what might appear obvious."
He clicks his remote, and the screen shifts to display text messages, but highlighted differently than before. "The encrypted communications were indeed real. Thefinancial transfers happened. But the origination points were manipulated, IP addresses spoofed with enough sophistication to fool standard investigation."
Another click. Medical records appear, pages and pages of documentation.
"Dr. Malcolm Hayes has been keeping detailed records of our omega for fifteen years." The possessive pronoun makes Malcolm flinch. "Not just medical data, but personal observations. Sleep patterns. Emotional states. Vulnerabilities."
My stomach clenches even though I knew this was coming. We'd rehearsed this reveal this morning while I sat in Alessandro's lap, the truth making me sob until Alexis had to redo my makeup twice.
"Among these records," Alessandro continues with clinical precision, "we discovered documentation of repeated administration of sedatives without logged consent. Specifically, compounds that when combined with alcohol would ensure complete unconsciousness for six to eight hours."
The crowd's collective intake of breath sounds like wind through graves.
"Furthermore," Alexis steps forward, her voice cutting like crystal, "financial analysis revealed Dr. Hayes has been skimming from medical supply budgets for four years. Small amounts, carefully distributed, but totaling nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Money that should have gone to omega care instead went to maintaining apartments where surveillance equipment monitored Ms. Morclair without her knowledge."
She clicks her own remote, and the screen fills with images—my bedroom from angles I never knew existed, my office under constant watch, even my bathroom with cameras positioned to avoid full nudity but capture everything else.
"The surveillance network was extensive," Alexis continues. "Professional installation requiring access to Ms. Morclair'sprivate spaces during times when she was conveniently unconscious. Times that corresponded with Dr. Hayes's documented visits for 'medical care.'"
Bile rises in my throat despite having seen these images before. The violation feels fresh, raw, witnessed now by hundreds who are documenting every moment.
"But Dr. Hayes's perversion—and it was perversion, not love—wasn't limited to watching." Dante steps forward, his usual warmth replaced by cold fury. "Bank records show regular payments to an individual who has since confessed to attempted poisoning. Small doses of reproductive suppressants added to the wine Ms. Morclair consumed. Not enough to kill, just enough to ensure she remained dependent on medical intervention only he could provide."
