Page 87 of Knot Their Safe Haven
And I've been waiting my whole life to prove it.
NEW MORNING RITUALS
~VELVET~
The plum dress slides over my skin like water—soft jersey that forgives every angle while clinging to curves that survived near-death. No underwear because the fabric is thick enough to preserve modesty, and frankly, after last night's sexual tension marathon, I need easy access to cool air.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror shows a woman caught between worlds. Silver hair still tousled from sleep, falling in waves that refuse discipline. Eyes heavy-lidded despite ten hours of the deepest sleep I've had in years. The dress hits mid-thigh, casual enough for breakfast but expensive enough to remind anyone watching that I might be recovering, but I haven't surrendered style.
Bare feet on heated floors, I follow my nose like a cartoon character floating toward pie. Coffee—proper coffee, not the hospital swill or my own desperate attempts—mingles with something sweet. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Fresh bread.
My stomach clenches, reminding me that dinner was twelve hours ago and my body needs fuel to continue this whole 'being alive' situation.
The stairs are works of art, floating slabs of wood and steel that shouldn't support weight but do. Each step draws me deeper into the coffee-perfumed haze. My brain is still offline, processing power dedicated entirely to 'find food' and 'don't fall.'
Papers shuffle somewhere ahead. The sound of civilization—newspaper, probably, though who reads physical papers anymore besides people with too much money and fetishes for tradition?
I round the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Not because of the space—though it's spectacular, all marble and chrome and windows revealing mountains dressed in morning mist. Not because of the spread on the island that looks like a hotel's attempt at 'continental breakfast' if the hotel cost four figures a night.
Because of the scent.
Leather and storm clouds intensified by proximity, wrapping around me more thoroughly than any blanket. My feet move without consultation with my brain, carrying me toward the source like a moth to extremely expensive flame.
Someone's sitting at the breakfast table, newspaper spread before them, coffee cup creating rings on wood that probably costs more than cars. They're wearing charcoal cashmere that my fingers itch to touch, their hair catching morning light like polished obsidian.
"Good morning, Velvet."
I ignore the greeting entirely, my sleep-drunk brain fixated on one truth: this person smells like safety and I need to be closer immediately.
Without ceremony or permission, I climb into their lap.
Alessandro—because my nose recognizes him even if my eyes haven't fully focused—adjusts seamlessly, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other maintains his grip on theFinancial Times. His thighs are solid beneath me, his chest the perfect pillow for my heavy head.
A whistle cuts through the morning quiet.
"Well, that's adorable and slightly nauseating." Female voice, amused rather than angry.
"Don't be jealous," Alessandro responds, his chest rumbling with the words against my cheek. "She's just tired."
"Tired. Right. Nothing to do with you two being scent matched and her basically bathing in your pheromones right now."
Their conversation becomes background noise as I burrow deeper into Alessandro's warmth. His hand finds my back, stroking spine to shoulder blade in rhythms that should be clinical but feel like poetry. Each pass loosens muscles I didn't know were tense, unravels knots that have lived in my body so long I'd named them.
Time goes liquid. Voices drift over me—Alessandro's deep rumble, the female's lighter tones, occasional laughter that sounds surprised, like people remembering joy exists.
"—obviously imprinted?—"
"—never seen anything like?—"
"—should probably wake?—"
"—let her sleep?—"
The hand on my back never stops moving. Fingertips trace patterns that might be letters or might be abstract art. My breathing syncs with his, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. This is what drowning should have felt like—peaceful surrender instead of burning lungs.
Consciousness returns in pieces. First, the awareness that I'm drooling slightly on very expensive cashmere. Second, that I'm sitting on someone's lap in broad daylight like a house cat who's forgotten dignity exists. Third, that multiple people are definitely watching this happen.
