Page 52 of Knot Their Safe Haven

"Are cowards who couldn't sign their names when you were dying." I didn't soften it. There was no point in prettying it up. She deserved the truth. "They spent six hours debating while you needed surgery. So I did what they wouldn't."

Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or resignation.

"Known for... six hours... they couldn't..."

"No. They couldn't. Or wouldn't. Reputation and all that. The Public eye. The distinction doesn't matter."

She turned her head away, and I saw the tear slip down her cheek before she could hide it.

Twenty years of hope, shattered by six hours of cowardice.

"Hey." I reached out, gently turning her face back to me. "You're alive. You'll walk. You'll recover completely. That's what matters now."

"You...officially claimed me."

"Yes."

I leaned back in my chair, studying her.

Even drugged, even devastated, she was trying to fight.

To establish boundaries and control. It was admirable and pointless in equal measure.

"Would you rather I'd let you potentially die paralyzed?"

She opened her mouth, closed it.

The answer was obvious, but admitting it meant accepting what I'd done.

"We'll have time to fight about autonomy and consent when you're recovered," I said, letting her off the hook temporarily. "Right now, you need to rest so we can decide what’s next."

"Next?"

"Whether you stay in Germany for recovery or come to the cottage. Or if you want to confront those cowards when they come waltzing in here knowing you’re alive and well, or whether you accept the claiming we’ve set in stone or want to fight it, though legally that's complicated now that you’ve obtained the surgery. More difficult to rectify it legally."

"Legally?"

"You're registered as pack omega to Noctuary Larissa. My pack. That's not easily undone, especially since it was medical necessity."

She was quiet for a long moment, processing.

Then:

"Seventeen years?"

I smiled, the first real smile since I'd gotten that call about the bombing.

"Seventeen years since you threw that textbook at my head for pretending not to speak French."

"You were...insufferable."

"I was eighteen and in love with my tutor. Insufferable was my only option."

Another tear slipped down her cheek, but this one felt different.

Softer, maybe. Or just tired.

"Alessandro Lucien Devereaux."