Page 119 of Knot Their Safe Haven

"How is it worse?" He studies his creation with genuine confusion. "It has character now."

"It has trauma. Your bat needs therapy."

I can't help the chuckle that escapes. For twins who share everything, our artistic abilities diverged somewhere around kindergarten. My pumpkin displays a decent wolf howling at the moon. His looks like roadkill got ambitious.

"Not everyone can be Michelangelo with a carving knife," Damon grumbles, but he's smiling as he watches our omega lose herself to giggles.

She's beautiful like this—relaxed, unguarded, not the Rebel Queen or the Haven founder or anyone except Velvet, slightly wine-drunk and covered in pumpkin guts. Orange pulp decorates her white blouse where she got enthusiastic with scooping. Seeds stick to her fingers despite multiple napkin attacks. There's a smear of something on her cheek that I desperately want to lick off.

"Show off your masterpiece," I encourage, needing distraction from thoughts that'll get me in trouble.

She turns her pumpkin with ceremony. It's a phoenix, wings spread in flight, detailed enough that you can see individual feathers. The craftsmanship is borderline professional.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Foster home number seven. Mrs. Chen believed idle hands were the devil's playground, so every October we carved approximately three thousand pumpkins for various church fundraisers." She traces one wing with obvious pride. "I got competitive about it."

"Of course you did," Damon and I say in unison.

"What? I have a healthy sense of competition."

"You have an unhealthy need to be excellent at everything," I correct.

"That's what makes her perfect for us," Damon adds, reaching over to tuck silver hair behind her ear. "We also have unhealthy needs for excellence."

"Among other unhealthy needs," she mutters into her wine glass.

"Such as?"

Her eyes dart between us, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that absolutely isn't calculated to drive us insane except it absolutely is.

"Probably shouldn't discuss those in public."

"This isn't public," I point out, gesturing to our private pavilion. "Alessandro made sure we'd have complete privacy for exactly this reason."

"So we could discuss unhealthy needs?"

"So we could do whatever came naturally without witnesses."

The temperature shifts, sexual tension crackling between us like static before storms. Velvet sets down her wine glass with careful precision, and I recognize the look in her eyes—evaluation, consideration, decision.

"Tell me what you like about me."

The question catches us both off-guard.

"What?"

"You heard me. What specifically do you like? Because twenty years with men who could never articulate it beyond vague assertions has left me curious what actual attraction sounds like."

Damon and I exchange looks—one of those twin communications that happens without words. He nods slightly. My turn first.

"Your competence," I start, watching her eyebrows rise. "The way you run meetings like a general planning campaigns. How you can eviscerate someone with words sharper than any knife.Your laugh when you're genuinely amused versus the polite one you use for strangers."

"The way you smell at different times of day," Damon continues seamlessly. "Coffee and determination in the morning. Wine and rebellion by evening. Right now you smell like autumn and want and something uniquely you that makes our brains stop working."

"Your silver hair catching sunlight. The way you bite your lip when thinking. How you pretend not to need anyone while desperately craving connection."

"Your legs in those stockings that should be illegal. The sounds you make when you eat something you love. How you kiss like you're trying to steal souls."