Page 121 of Knot Their Safe Haven
Damon, never one to let a moment pass, leaned in until his mouth nearly brushed her ear. “But if we’re both champions, you’ll have to settle the tie,” he murmured.
She shivered, but didn’t retreat. “What if I want to be the contested ground?”
“Oh, darling,” I said, “you already are.”
We all broke then, laughter erupting between us, a tangle of nerves and joy and relief that neither of us had crossed the line too far. Velvet wiped at her eyes, trying to regain composure, but every time she glanced at Damon’s pumpkin “bat,” she lost it again.
“Imagine the headlines,” she managed between giggles. “‘Rebel Queen Found Dead, Consumed by Pumpkin Kink.’ The press would have a field day.”
“At least you’d go down in history,” Damon said, straight-faced.
“Not the first time history’s been made on that blanket,” I quipped, and this time Velvet didn’t even pretend to hide her snort.
The tension had changed—no less charged, but now braided with something more electric: the sense that we could say or do anything, and it would be met, matched, amplified. I felt lighter than I had in years, like the world had shrunk to the size of our candlelit corner, and all that mattered was how we filled it.
I reached for the wine, refilled her glass, refilled Damon’s, then set the bottle aside. “If you’re serious,” I said, “we’ll need some ground rules. No pumpkin in the eyes. No knives after the first drink. And?—”
“And a safe word,” Damon interrupted, ever the responsible twin.
“Let’s not pretend we’d ever stop if she said please,” I countered, just to watch her reaction.
Velvet pretended to be scandalized. “You two are monsters.”
“Guilty,” I agreed, already strategizing how I’d paint her with orange pulp and claim my prize.
She watched us for a long, loaded moment, spinning the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, and when she spoke, her voice had cooled, but her eyes hadn’t lost their spark.
"But," she continues with obvious regret, "since pumpkin intestines don't actually taste good and would probably cause infections in unfortunate places, I guess we should head home."
My twin and I lock eyes again. Another silent conversation, this one faster.
"What if," I say slowly, "we substitute pumpkin guts with something more... palatable?"
Her eyes widen. "Such as?"
"Whipped cream," Damon suggests with studied casualness. "Maybe some brown sugar. Cinnamon. You know, autumn flavors that actually taste good when licked off skin."
The flush that spreads down her neck disappears beneath her blouse, and I desperately want to follow its path.
"You wouldn't actually." But her voice wavers, uncertainty mixing with want.
"No one's coming here," I point out, gesturing to our isolated pavilion. "Alessandro paid for privacy until midnight. The festival's a quarter-mile away. We're surrounded by trees and absolutely no witnesses."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious," we confirm together.
She looks between us, and I can see her mind working—calculating risks versus rewards, propriety versus desire, the omega who saved thousands versus the woman who hasn't been properly touched in decades.
"This is insane."
"Sanity is overrated," Damon counters.
"We could get caught."
"By who? The pumpkins?"
"It's probably illegal."
