Page 70 of Knot Their Safe Haven
We drink, and I watch her throat work, watch the way candlelight plays across her skin, watch her exist in space I've created specifically for her pleasure.
"Tell me," she says, selecting an oyster with the confidence of someone who's attended a thousand formal dinners, "what happens after dinner? After these seven courses and carefully selected wines?"
"We talk. Or don't talk. We sit by the fire I'll build despite having three fireplaces inside. We discuss the pack, the Haven, the future, or we discuss nothing and just exist in the same space without conditions or expectations."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow Alexis arrives, probably with enough luggage to outfit an army. The twins follow the day after. Then you meet your pack properly, not as a medical emergency but as the woman we've chosen."
"Chosen." She tastes the word like wine. "Not claimed. Not taken. Chosen."
"And choosing in return. Every day, every moment, choosing to stay or choosing to leave. The papers are legal fiction. Everything real requires continuous consent."
She sets down her oyster fork, studying me over those sexy librarian glasses.
"You know what you smell like to me?"
The question catches me off-guard.
"Tell me."
"Like leather libraries and expensive whiskey. Like thunderstorms over the ocean. Like power that doesn't need to announce itself." She inhales deeply, and her pupils dilate. "Like the promise of very bad decisions that feel incredibly right."
"Is that what this is? A bad decision?"
"The worst." But she's smiling, that crimson mouth curved in invitation. "Dating someone five years younger. Accepting a pack I barely know. Trusting strangers with my life's work. Absolutely terrible decisions."
"And yet?"
"And yet here I am, in a dress that costs more than most cars, having dinner with a billionaire who apparently orchestrated a seventeen-year campaign to win me, while my entire world burns down and rebuilds simultaneously."
"When you put it like that, it does sound insane."
"Sanity was never my strong suit." She selects another oyster, and I absolutely do not watch her mouth as she savors it. "Tell me about Alexis."
"What about her?"
"A female Alpha. That's rarer than male Omegas. How does she manage it?"
"By being absolutely fucking terrifying when necessary." I pour more wine, noting how she unconsciously leans toward me, drawn by our matched scents. "In public, she's Alexander Rosenberg, venture capitalist and professional ball-buster. In private, she's Alexis, who insists on painting everyone's nails while planning corporate takeovers."
"And the twins?"
"Dante and Damon Corleone, yes, like the movie, yes, they find it hilarious. They share everything—clothes, cars, occasionally partners who can handle both. They're also the reason three would-be infiltrators are currently reconsidering their life choices."
"They sound..."
"Intense? Overwhelming? Slightly unhinged?"
"Perfect." She says it simply, honestly. "A pack of misfits for the misfit omega."
"You're not a misfit."
"I'm nearly forty, unclaimed, difficult, set in my ways?—"
"You're experienced, independent, brilliant, and know exactly what you want." I lean forward, close enough that our scents mingle. "Do you know what that's worth to Alphas who've spent their lives surrounded by people who pretend? Who submit because society says they should, not because they choose to?"
The waiter returns, clearing plates and placing the second course—seared foie gras with blood orange reduction, paired with a Tokaji from 2007.
