Page 17 of Knot Their Safe Haven

I howled at the loss, at the emptiness, at the way the world seemed to collapse in on itself. I pounded the mattress, clawed at my own skin, frantic for a release that would not come.

That was when Malcolm appeared.

Always the observer, always the analyst. He didn't belong here, not really, but dreams are not bound by propriety or sense. He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating mix of compassion and clinical detachment.

"You're making it worse for yourself,"he said, voice soft but unyielding."You know how this ends."

"Fuck you," I spat, more angry at my own frailty than at him.

He only smiled, that gentle, maddening smile.

"You can't run from it, Velvet. Sooner or later, you'll have to let yourself have what you want. What you need."

His words echoed in the darkness, and with them came the return of sensation—the ghost of Adyani's hands, the memory of Knox's body, the promise of something more than just torment. I felt myself splitting in two, then three, then so many pieces I could not count them all. I was surrounded, invaded, claimed by all these shifting, warring forces: the old love, the old hate, the old need.

Somewhere in the maelstrom, I managed to scream.

It was not a word, not even a sound, but a pure vocalization of hunger and defiance and absolute surrender.

The world shattered with me.

I came awake with a start, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around my waist and thighs. My mouth was open, my throat raw—had I really screamed?I couldn't tell. The room was still, the only noise the frantic thud of my own heart.

I covered my face with both hands, shaking, and tried to slow my breathing. It took minutes before I trusted my own body again, before I could uncurl from my fetal position and force myself upright. My nightgown clung to me, soaked andtransparent, the thin silk hiding nothing. My nipples were still hard, aching, and between my legs I was a mess, sticky and slick, the evidence of my need staining the sheets.

The world spun violently, and I had to grip the sheets to keep from toppling over. My hair hung in damp tendrils around my face, and I could taste salt on my lips—tears or perspiration, I couldn't tell.

"Fuck," I breathed, the word barely a whisper in the darkness of my bedroom.

Every inch of me throbbed with unfulfilled need. My nipples were still hard, almost painful against the wet silk. Between my legs, I was drenched—not just with sweat but with the slick evidence of my body's desperate arousal. The sheets beneath me were ruined, and I could smell myself in the air—wine-dark desire mixed with frustration so acute it was almost pain.

I tried to stand, to make it to the bathroom where I could splash cold water on my face and pretend this was just another night. But my legs trembled too badly, and the room tilted dangerously when I moved. The wine from earlier combined with the intensity of the dream had left me dizzy and disoriented.

"Goddamn it," I muttered, collapsing back against the pillows.

My body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for attention. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made things worse. The slight pressure sent sparks shooting through my core, reminding me of how empty I was, how much I needed...

No. I wouldn't think about what I needed.

What I wanted.

What my traitorous body craved with every fiber of its being.

But as I lay there, trembling and desperate, I couldn't stop the images from flooding back.

Adyani's voice shifting from male to female, that fundamental change that should have altered everything but somehow only made me want her more. Knox's possessive hands, claiming what he'd never fully claimed in twenty years of this dance. Malcolm's gentle touch turned hungry, the medical observer becoming something darker, something that matched the need in my own soul.

My hand moved without conscious thought, sliding down my sweat-slicked stomach. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to resist, but what was the point? I was already damned, already broken by want.

What was one more failure in a lifetime of them?

My fingers found the soaked silk of my panties, and I whimpered at the first brush of contact.

So sensitive, ready, and fucking desperate for something…anything…to ease this torment.

I pushed the fabric aside, gasping as cool air hit overheated flesh. The first touch of my fingers against my clit sent shockwaves through my system, and I had to bite my lip harder to keep from crying out. My other hand found my breast, squeezing roughly through the nightgown, trying to recreate the phantom touches from my dream.

But it wasn't enough…