Page 46 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Alessandro Lucien Devereaux.
The name tasted like future on a tongue that couldn't move.
Like possibility in a body that might not work.
Resonated with hope in a heart that had forgotten how to hope.
Mine.
Darkness.
Complete and absolute.
But for the first time in twenty years, it didn't feel like drowning.
I was diving deep, knowing someone would pull you back up.
Like finally being caught after decades of falling.
"You're mine now."
Yes.
Finally.
I’m yours…
A WAR IS BREWING
~ALESSANDRO~
The billionaire in this novel was apparently capable of making his Omega come seven times in a single night using only his tongue and what the author called his "throbbing manhood of destiny."
Ridicolous.
I turned the page with one hand, the other resting on the armrest of the uncomfortable hospital chair I'd been occupying for the past six hours. The protagonist was now declaring his undying love while somehow maintaining an erection that defied both medical science and basic human decency.
"You're mine, little Omega," he growled, his amber eyes blazing with possessive fire as he thrust his massive?—
I snapped the book shut, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Manhood of destiny," I muttered to the quiet room. "Christ, Alexia."
My pack member had insisted these novels would teach me about "proper Omega courtship" when I'd mentioned Velvet months ago.
Apparently, my approach to relationships was, in her words, "all dick and no heart, which works fine for club hookups but not for claiming a real woman."
The irony wasn't lost on me that Alexia—or Alex, as she preferred publicly—had given me sex advice when she spent most of her time pretending to have different equipment entirely. The world wasn't ready for female Alphas in positions of power, so she played the part of Alexander during business hours and Alexia when we were alone.
"Read the whole series,"she'd insisted, shoving a stack of paperbacks at me during our last pack meeting."Learn something about romance that doesn't involve hostile takeovers or strategic mergers."
I glanced at the cover—a shirtless man with anatomically impossible abs cradling a swooning Omega against a backdrop of mysterious fog.
If this was romance, reality was clearly broken.
Real relationships involved medical crises, decades of waiting, and dealing with men too cowardly to sign their names on the dotted line when it mattered.
The heart monitor's steady rhythm pulled my attention back to the bed where Velvet lay, still unconscious but stable after six hours of surgery. They'd managed to repair the nerve damage, realign her spine, address the internal bleeding that had been slowly killing her.
