Page 97 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Everything arranged by color and function, tags still on most pieces, brands I recognize as expensive alternating with ones so exclusive I've never heard of them. Dresses in jewel tones, jeans that will definitely make my ass look incredible, shirts ranging from casual cotton to silk that whispers against fingertips.
And in the back, leather.
Black leather pants that will fit like skin. A jacket that's somehow both tough and elegant. Even—I laugh at this—a leather skirt that's definitely too short for anyone over thirty to wear respectably.
But respectability died when I did.
What remains demands leather and whatever Alexis has planned.
I select the pants because they're practical, pair them with a burgundy silk camisole that matches nothing and everything, top it with the jacket because October in the mountains demands layers.
The mirror shows someone I don't recognize.
Silver hair against black leather. Pale skin between silk and hide. A woman who looks dangerous and expensive and like she might actually deserve a pack of criminally attractive Alphas who want to build her nests and take her on adventures.
"This is insane," I tell my reflection.
But I'm smiling.
Actually smiling at the possibility of what I’m venturing into.
At twenty-three, I thought adventure meant escaping poverty, raising Icarus successfully, maybe finding love that didn't require hiding. Life had other plans—two decades of fighting for everyone except myself, near-death by drowning, resurrection into something I'm still discovering.
Now, at thirty-nine, claimed by strangers who feel like fate, I'm finally getting the adventures I'd relegated to dreams.
The excitement in my chest is foreign—light and bubbly and free from the weight that's lived there so long I'd named it. This is what twenty-somethings must feel like when they're getting ready for dates. This is what I missed while I was building empires and saving others and accepting scraps disguised as love.
My phone buzzes:Five minutes - A
I grab it, noting the leather bag someone has thoughtfully left by the door—also new and hella expensive, but the perfect size for whatever we're doing.
The woman in the mirror doesn't look lost anymore.
She looks ready.
Ready for adventure.
The giddiness is almost embarrassing—thirty-nine years old and feeling like a teenager about to sneak out for the first time. But that's what this is, really. Sneaking out from the life I'd accepted as enough, into something that might be everything.
I check myself once more—leather fitting perfectly, silk providing just enough softness, boots I found that add three inches and attitude—then head downstairs.
Alessandro's in his office on a call, but he looks up as I pass. His eyes go dark, pupils dilating as he takes in the outfit.
He holds up one finger—wait—but I give him a saucy wink and blow him a kiss, shuffling away before he can distract me.
Business can wait.Adventures with dangerous female Alphas cannot.
Alexis waits by the door, keys in hand, her own leather jacket making us look like we're about to commit beautiful crimes together.
Alexis leaned against the doorframe, the early afternoon sun casting sharp angles across her sharp face, her eyes raking over me in a slow, luxurious sweep from boots to hair. She grinned, wide and wicked, showing off a canine that gleamed in the light.There was nothing coy about her appreciation—she drank me in, tongue caught briefly between her teeth as if she wanted to bite into the moment and leave visible marks.
“Well damn, Morclair. You clean up... sinfully well.” She gave an exaggerated whistle, actually fanned herself with the set of keys in her hand, then winked as she motioned for me to show off. There was a performative element to it, a way she made ogling feel celebratory rather than objectifying. I spun in place, partly to amuse her, partly because the clothes and the context made me want to strut like a catwalk model—or maybe a peacock in heat. Alexis let out a low, appreciative growl.
“You know, if we didn’t have a schedule to keep, I’d drag you right back upstairs and wreck that outfit. But alas...” She gestured dramatically at the door, which I could now see was propped open to the driveway and the wild blue beyond. “Adventure calls.”
Her own outfit was a study in contradictions—tailored black jeans that hugged every muscle, battered engineer boots, a white T-shirt so thin the shadow of her sports bra was visible beneath, and a cropped motorcycle jacket that gave her upper body the geometry of a Greek statue. On someone else it might have read as costume; on Alexis, it was a declaration of intent. She looked like a genderbent James Dean, and the way she watched me made me feel like the femme fatale in a very stylish noir.
I paused, struck by the intimacy of being seen—truly seen—and desired, not as a commodity or a trophy, but as a whole person. I’d worn armor for so long I’d forgotten what it was like to be admired for the skin beneath.
