Page 67 of Knot Their Safe Haven
I adjust the burgundy pocket square—chosen to match the dress I left for her—and check my watch.
Seven-thirteen. She's been awake for over an hour according to the cottage's discrete monitoring system. Showered fortwenty-three minutes. Applied the lotions and cosmetics I'd instructed the staff to provide—La Mer, Chanel, Tom Ford, brands that whisper luxury without screaming it.
The suit is Brioni, tailored to millimeter precision in oxblood so dark it appears black until light catches the fabric. The shirt beneath is crisp white Egyptian cotton, no tie because formality has its limits. Italian leather shoes that cost more than most cars, though she won't care about that.
Velvet appreciates quality but despises waste, a contradiction I've spent years parsing.
Everything choreographed, calculated, perfect.
Which is why the universe chooses this moment to throw its curve ball.
The click of heels on engineered wood sends electricity down my spine.
Measured steps, confident despite recent trauma.
The sound of a woman who's decided to play the game rather than flee the board.
I turn.
And forget how to breathe.
She's weaponized the dress. That's the only explanation for how fabric can transform flesh into pure devastation. The burgundy silk clings to curves that shouldn't exist on someone who nearly died, creating architecture where trauma tried to destroy. Her skin glows—not from the lotions but from something internal, some decision made in front of a mirror that changed everything.
The silver hair is a revelation. No purple remains, just moonlight spun into waves that frame her face like she's stepped from a Renaissance painting. The stylist gene in our DNA recognizes perfection—the subtle wave, the shine that speaks of health returning, the way it catches light like precious metal.
Glasses perch on her nose—cat-eye frames in black that make her look like a librarian with secrets.No contacts tonight.She's choosing comfort over convention, authenticity over armor.
Her lips are war paint in crimson, the exact shade of the wine in my glass, the exact shade of fresh blood, the exact shade of promises about to be made.
Black Louboutin heels add four inches she doesn't need, bringing her to the perfect height for?—
No. Focus.
She stops ten feet away, and that's when it hits.
The scent.
Black orchids in full bloom, but underneath, a layer of addiction begins to sprout like in full bloom. Cinnamon and amber, vanilla and something indefinable that makes my hindbrain screamMINEin frequencies only Alphas hear. It's not just her natural scent amplified by recovery. It's an aroma that makes my mouth water and my control fracture.
I stand, intention focused on pulling out her chair like a gentleman, like Alexis threatened me to be. Three more steps and the scent intensifies, wrapping around me like silk rope. My body responds instantly—pupils dilating, pulse accelerating, every Alpha instinct roaring to life.
Her nostrils flare.
She's scenting me too, those dark eyes widening behind designer frames as she processes what her omega biology is screaming.
The realization hits us simultaneously.
Her jaw drops, a soft gasp escaping those crimson lips.
No way in all heavens…
Scent match.
"No way." Her voice comes out breathy, disbelieving.
The universe's most sadistic joke—making us scent matches now, after everything.After twenty years of her suffering withincompatible alphas versus my seventeen years of waiting. For all of it to come full circle after she nearly died believing no one truly wanted her.
And viola. Fate brings us together in the best unity to emphasize how destined we are to one another.
