Page 83 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"This is me going to bed."
"I see that."
Neither of us moves.
"We're very bad at this," I observe.
"Terrible. Worst self-control in recorded history."
"One more kiss?"
"One more will turn into twenty more."
"I'm very good at math. I can count."
"Velvet.” I’m thriving on pushing his buttons, but I doubt even with how sexually wired I am, I wouldn’t even last with how tired I am.
"Fine. Be responsible, appropriate, and boring," I tease with a huff, pouting my lips as I cross my arms like I’m going to have a hissy fit.Or an adult tantrum.
He crosses the distance between us in two strides, cups my face, and kisses me like the world is ending. My moan would probably be louder if it wasn’t lost in the hollows of his possessive mouth.
It's fierce and desperate and perfect, his tongue claiming my mouth while his hands stay frustratingly still on my face.
When he pulls back, we're both wrecked.
Yeah. We should sleep for our sanity…because this chemistry?
Lethal.
"Goodnight, Velvet."
"Goodnight, Alessandro."
I make it three steps before turning back.
"For the record? This was the best first date in the history of first dates."
His smile could power cities.
"Wait until you see what I have planned for the second."
THE FEMALE ALPHA'S VIGIL
~ALEXIS~
The glass house breathes with morning—condensation fogging windows where cool mountain air meets interior warmth.
Five-forty-three AM according to my Patek Philippe, though my body clock knew the time before I checked. Years of international markets trained me to function without sleep, to find clarity in the liminal hours when the world pretends to rest.
My bare feet make no sound on heated floors as I navigate the cottage's geometry. The architects who designed this place understood privacy and exhibitionism in equal measure—walls of transparency where nature deserves witness, solid barriers where humans need shelter.
Very Swiss in its precision, very Italian in its drama.
Wet forest fills my lungs with each breath. Pine and moss, rain-soaked earth and that particular sweetness of autumn decay. The mountains here smell different from home—cleaner, younger, less burdened by centuries of human ambition. But underneath the environmental perfume, another scent winds through the cottage like silk thread.
Velvet.
Black orchids in full nocturnal bloom, but morning has shifted the notes. Where night brings out the cinnamon and amber, dawn reveals vanilla and something indefinable—like confidence given olfactory form. It saturates every molecule of air, marking this space as definitively hers despite less than twenty-four hours of occupation.
