Page 99 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Her smirk carries secrets. "I don't drive in public. The media would spin it as the Haven finally running out of money, or me being too proud to accept help, or whatever narrative damages donations that week." She shrugs, leather jacket creaking."Stupid mentality, but it forced the habit. Always had drivers unless I absolutely couldn't be seen."
"Which was when?"
"Knox's gym at 4 AM. Medical appointments Malcolm didn't know about. The occasional midnight grocery run when insomnia won." Her voice carries no emotion, just facts about a life lived in careful shadows. "Here, surveillance is sport. Other countries don't dissect every omega's movement looking for weakness."
The casual acceptance of that level of scrutiny makes my chest tight. I've hidden my gender, but never my whole existence.
"Speaking of surveillance—you okay with Knox finding us?"
She turns those sharp eyes on me, and I see the moment understanding clicks. "You let him find us."
No point denying it. "Guilty."
"Why?"
"Because I genuinely believe that man loves you." I unbuckle my seatbelt, turning to face her fully. "But his pack? The doctor who violates you while you're unconscious? The princess who sends gifts instead of presence? They love the idea of you. Knox might love you properly, but he's shackled to cowards."
Her frown deepens, processing implications, but I'm already opening my door.
"Come on. Your turn to drive. Let's see what you've got."
We switch places, Velvet sliding behind the wheel with movements that suggest more familiarity than expected. I buckle in, noting how she adjusts mirrors and seat position with efficiency that speaks of muscle memory.
"Quick rundown—paddle shifters here, launch control this button, traction management here but honestly just leave it off because where's the fun in computers keeping you safe?"
She nods, hands gripping the wheel with proper form that definitely didn't come from casual driving. "Ready?"
"Of course. Just try not to go too slow, we're not on a parade rou?—"
She slams the accelerator.
The McLaren launches like God kicked it in the ass—zero to sixty in 2.3 seconds, my skull pressed into the headrest while my stomach relocates to my spine.
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"
But Velvet's laughing—actually laughing as she powers through the first turn at speeds I hadn't attempted, apexing with precision that speaks of serious training. She's not just driving; she's conducting a symphony of controlled violence, four-wheel drifts through corners I'd taken cautiously, straightaway speeds that have the engine singing notes Ferrari engineers weep over.
She takes the chicane at velocities that shouldn't be possible, tires screaming their protests while staying exactly on the edge of adhesion. My hands grip the door handle hard enough to leave impressions in leather while she giggles—fucking giggles—through a drift that would make Formula One drivers applaud.
The finish line approaches at speeds that blur scenery into abstract art. She crosses it and immediately throws us into a skidding stop that has me seeing my life flash before my eyes—hostile takeovers, board meetings, that unfortunate experiment with bangs in college.
When physics finally allows normal breathing, I'm pressed against the seat, chest heaving, staring at this silver-haired omega who just demolished my track record by seventeen seconds.
"Did you have fun?" She's grinning like a teenager who just discovered orgasms, pure joy radiating from every pore.
"I went to heaven, came back, and found the love of my life."
Her laugh fills the car as she unbuckles. "Come on, I'm hungry. Let's eat."
She's out and walking toward the track's service building before I remember how legs work.
I catch up as she's pulling off the racing gloves someone thoughtfully left in the car.
"How the fuck did you learn to drive like that?"
"Arcade racing games." She says it casually, like that explains everything. "During my teen foster years, I was obsessed. Spent every quarter I could earn or steal playing whatever racing game I could find. It was release without destruction—all that rage and frustration channeled into perfect lap times instead of violence."
"And that translated to real cars?"
