Page 135 of Knot Their Safe Haven

I move toward it without conscious decision, my body recognizing home before my mind can process the impossibility of home existing. The first step onto the rugs makes my heels sink slightly, and I pause to slip them off, leaving the expensive leather abandoned like armor I no longer need.

The texture beneath bare feet is revelation—soft enough to comfort but substantial enough to support, warm from radiant heating beneath that someone thought to install, that someone considered necessary for comfort I'd never admitted needing.

Three more steps and I'm at the nest's edge, looking down at this space created for me, only me, specifically and deliberately me.

My knees give out—not from exhaustion but from the weight of being seen this clearly.

I sink into the cushion and it receives me like water, like clouds, like every fantasy of comfort I'd dismissed as impossible. The fabric against my skin through the dress is soft enough to make me gasp, the support beneath adjusting to cradle every curve, every angle, every place where muscle meets bone and usually aches from tension I carry like inheritance.

A sound escapes my throat that I don't recognize at first—low and rumbling and continuous in a way that vibrates through my chest, through the cushion, through air that suddenly tastes like safety.

I'm purring.

The shock of it, the recognition, makes the sound stutter but not stop. Thirty-nine years old and I can count on one hand the times I've purred. Always accidental, always brief, always suppressed before anyone could witness this most vulnerable omega expression.

But here, surrounded by evidence of being seen and chosen and valued, my body produces the sound without permission, without shame, without any ability to stop.

I let myself sink deeper into the cushion that seems designed to hold not just my body but my exhaustion, my triumph, my terror at being loved this thoroughly. The fabric releases more scent as I move—my pack's signatures layered and combineduntil I'm swimming in proof of their presence even in their absence.

Time becomes elastic, meaningless. The candles' glow through the doorway creates dancing shadows. The last of sunset bleeds purple through windows I hadn't noticed, tall and narrow and positioned to frame mountain views while maintaining privacy. Books whisper their presence from shelves, promising escape and adventure and the simple pleasure of reading without guilt.

I don't know how long I lie there, body surrendering tension I've carried so long it became part of my skeleton. My dress rides up slightly but modesty feels irrelevant in this space created for my comfort. The purring continues, rises and falls like tide, like breathing, like the sound my body makes when it finally believes it's safe.

The soft touch to my forehead is so gentle I almost think I've imagined it. But the scent—leather and storm clouds concentrated—makes my eyes flutter open to find Alessandro crouched beside the nest, his emerald gaze soft with something that makes my chest ache with its tenderness.

"Comfy?"

The question carries amusement but also genuine concern, like he needs confirmation that this impossible gift has landed correctly, been received as intended.

The smile that spreads across my face feels sleepy and genuine and probably ridiculous in its scope. "Very."

His own smile in response is rare—not the calculated expression he wears for business or the sharp grin that accompanies his wit, but something genuine and young and achingly vulnerable. Like he's been waiting his whole life to make someone this comfortable and finally succeeded.

I lift my arms toward him in the universal gesture of wanting to be held, not caring that it makes me seem needy or young orany of the things I've trained myself never to seem. He shrugs off his jacket—Armani from the cut, probably straight from some interview about his spectacular claiming of the Rebel Queen—and leans down to gather me against him.

The hug is everything—gentle and fierce, protective and vulnerable, the kind of embrace that acknowledges what we've survived to reach this moment. His arms wrap around me completely, and I burrow into his chest, breathing in his scent directly from skin warmed by emotion.

"Thank you, Alessandro."

The words are inadequate for the magnitude of this gift, this space, this declaration that I deserve comfort without condition. But they're all I have, whispered against his throat where his pulse beats steady and strong and mine.

He holds me tighter, one hand cradling the back of my head, fingers threading through silver hair that's escaped its professional confines. His breathing deepens, and I feel the moment he decides to speak, the inhale that precedes truth.

"From now on," his voice is whisper-soft but carries the weight of vow, of promise, of intention that will reshape the world to keep itself, "this will be your new safe haven. Not just from the world's noise but from your own doubts. A place where you'll always feel loved, cherished, wanted exactly as you are."

The words sink into me like heat into frozen ground, like medicine into wounds I'd forgotten were bleeding, like coming home after a lifetime of wandering.

Here in this nest that shouldn't exist, surrounded by evidence of being seen and valued and chosen, held by a man who waited seventeen years to love me properly, I finally understand what safety actually feels like.

Not the absence of danger but the presence of devotion.

Not hiding from the world but being protected while facing it.

Not being alone but being held, even when the holding happens through carefully placed rose petals and perfectly chosen books and cushions that cradle bodies convinced they didn't deserve comfort.

“Now this will be your new safe haven, an escape from all the noise and where you’ll always feel loved and cherished, my Rebel Omega.”

My safe haven.

Forevermore.

F.I.N.