Page 103 of Knot Their Safe Haven

But it's the synchronization that stops breathing altogether.

Every step mirrors the other, every gesture coordinated without consultation. The way Dante adjusts his cufflink matched by Damon smoothing his tie. How they both check phones simultaneously then pocket them with identical motions. Two bodies operating with one consciousness, or at least practiced enough to fake it.

Everyone in visual range has stopped to stare.

The businessman fumbling with his rental car keys. The young omega with her parents, mouth hanging open. Even the security guard abandons his post to track their movement.

Because they're not walking toward the car or the building or some general destination.

They're walking directly to me.

Both sets of hazel eyes—gold-flecked brown that shifts green in sunlight—locked on my face like homing missiles. The intensity makes heat flood my cheeks, and I know I'm blushing before they've even reached us.

"Buonasera, Velvet.”

They speak in perfect unison, flanking me with precision that feels choreographed. Before I can respond—before I can even process that they're here, real, mine—they lean in from either side.

Two pairs of lips press against my cheeks simultaneously. Warm, firm, lingering just long enough to be more than greeting but less than scandal. My skin burns where they touch, and I catch their scents—Dante smells like leather and gunpowder with traces of espresso. Damon is almost identical, but where Dante has gunpowder, Damon carries cordite. Subtle difference unless you're paying attention, which my omega brain apparently is.

"Dante," the one on my right says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "And this is where I'm supposed to be formal and respectful, but?—"

He cups my face with one large hand and kisses me properly.

Not a polite pressing of lips. Not a careful introduction.

Dante Corleone kisses like he's been starving for decades and I'm a feast he's finally allowed to taste. His tongue sweeps into my mouth with confidence that should be illegal, one hand tangling in my silver hair while the other finds my waist. He tastes like expensive whiskey and promises, like danger wearing Armani, like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.

My heart hammers against ribs that suddenly feel too small. Every nerve ending lights up as he explores my mouth with thorough dedication, swallowing the small sound I make when his teeth catch my bottom lip.

He pulls back, and I'm gasping, but there's no time to recover because Damon's already there.

Where Dante conquered, Damon seduces. His kiss starts gentle, almost questioning, then deepens when I respond. His hand cradles the back of my neck, thumb stroking that sensitive spot behind my ear while he shows me exactly how different identical twins can be. He tastes darker—espresso without cream, whiskey neat, something that might be chocolate or might be sin.

When he finally releases me, I'm completely gone. Face burning, lips swollen, brain offline except for the part screaming about being kissed senseless in public by twins who look like mob princes.

"Bienvenue dans notre monde, belle rebelle," they say together, switching to French with accents that suggest expensive education.

Welcome to our world, beautiful rebel.

Each takes one of my hands, and I'm grateful for the support because my knees are considering resignation.

"Was the ride smooth with that speed demon?" Dante asks, nodding toward Alexis.

"Stop being show-offs and get in the damn car," she huffs, but there's amusement beneath the irritation.

"Someone's jealous," Damon observes, not releasing my hand as we move toward the Bentley.

"Someone's about to be walking back to the cottage," she threatens.

They laugh—rich sound in stereo—while maneuvering me into the backseat with practiced ease. I end up between them, because of course I do, their bodies bracketing mine in the leather interior that smells like money and now, them.

Alexis slides behind the wheel, adjusting mirrors with sharp movements that suggest she's not actually annoyed, just processing.

"Why the performance?" she asks as we pull away from curious stares and probably phone cameras. "You could have just said hello like normal humans."

"Is that your normal greeting?" I manage, still tasting them both on my lips. "Not complaining, just... preparing myself."

They laugh again, and Damon's hand finds mine where it rests on burgundy leather.