Page 88 of Knot Their Safe Haven
I crack one eye open.
Alessandro's looking down at me with an expression that makes my chest tight—tender and amused and something deeper that we don't have words for yet. He's holding a book now, the newspaper abandoned, reading one-handed while the other maintains its path along my spine.
"Good morning," he says softly. "Again."
"When did I—" My voice comes out rough, gravelly with sleep. "How long was I?—"
"About an hour. You shuffled in half-asleep, claimed my lap, and passed out. We thought you were hungry, but apparently, you needed a different kind of sustenance."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I used to do this as a kid. Sometimes as a teenager with—" I stop, not wanting to mention foster families that occasionally didn't suck. "But never as an adult."
"Sleep-walking in omegas usually happens when they feel completely safe," a female voice contributes.
I turn my head to find the source—a woman leaning against the kitchen island like she owns it and everything else in a three-mile radius. Blonde hair cut in a sharp bob that probably requires weekly maintenance. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Body that can't decide if it wants to be powerful or graceful, so chose both.
This must be Alexis.
"I'm almost forty," I protest weakly.
"I'm forty-two." Her smile is sharp as her haircut. "Doesn't stop me from being an Alpha prick. These things don't fade with age, they just get more refined."
"Like wine," Alessandro agrees.
Alexis moves faster than expensive clothes should allow, smacking the back of his head with precision that speaks of practice.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"Preventative maintenance. You're getting hard with our omega in your lap."
Alessandro's face goes red so fast I worry about blood pressure. "Alexis!"
"What? She can definitely feel it. Can't you, Velvet?"
I shift slightly, confirming that yes, there's definitely something firm pressing against my thigh that isn't his phone.
"Little bit," I admit, watching his blush deepen.
"Traitor," he mutters against my hair.
"Oh no, our omega is observant. How terrible for you." Alexis moves to the stove, tying an apron over what I now realize are men's pajama pants and a worn MIT t-shirt. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"I can make something?—"
"Why would I let our omega cook when I'm perfectly capable?" She turns, hip cocked against marble, studying me with eyes that shift between blue and grey depending on the light. "Has no one ever cooked for you?"
The question hits unexpectedly. I open my mouth to protest, to list times when surely someone must have?—
Knox cooked, but only protein-focused meals designed for training optimization, never just because I might enjoy them. Malcolm ordered takeout with medical precision, calculating nutrients rather than considering cravings. Adyani sent care packages of prepared foods from Dubai, beautiful and expensive but made by strangers.
"Not really?" The admission comes out smaller than intended. "I usually buy prepared food. I cook sometimes—well, bake more than cook—but the Haven got busy and there wasn't time for recreational kitchen activities."
The look Alessandro and Alexis exchange speaks volumes in a language I don't quite understand yet. Concern mixed withdetermination mixed with something protective that makes my omega instincts purr despite my better judgment.
"Right." Alexis ties the apron with decisive movements. "Let me cook for our omega. It's what pack does."
"Pack cooks?"
"Pack provides. Pack protects. Pack ensures their omega never has to wonder when her next meal is coming or who's making it." She pulls ingredients from the fridge with efficiency that speaks of familiarity. "Preferences? Allergies? Strong feelings about eggs?"
