Page 84 of Knot Their Safe Haven

I follow the scent deeper into the cottage, past Alessandro's office where lamplight still burns, past the kitchen where last night's wine glasses await washing, past the living room where someone—Alessandro, obviously—has folded a throw blanket with military precision.

The master suite door appears like inevitability.

My hand finds the brushed steel handle, turning with the kind of silence that costs extra. The door opens on hinges that whisper rather than speak, revealing her.

Velvet Morclair sleeps like someone who's forgotten danger exists.

The silk pajama set—champagne colored, LaPerla unless I miss my guess—has betrayed her in sleep. The top has ridden up to expose a strip of pale stomach, soft despite the recent trauma. The bottoms sit low on hips that speak of childbirth never acknowledged, of a body that's housed life and revolution in equal measure. Silver hair fans across pillows like spilled mercury, catching the first hints of sunrise through those endless windows.

Her lips—still stained faintly red from last night's lipstick—part slightly with each breath. The sound she makes isn't quite a snore, more like a contented hum, as if even unconscious she's arguing with the universe about something.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, cataloguing every detail while maintaining distance. My scent is controlled, pulled tight against my skin through years of practice. The last thingour new omega needs is to wake to a strange Alpha female hovering over her bed like some fairytale villain.

Though the idea has merit for future pranks.

She shifts, the blanket sliding further down to pool at her hips. No defensive positioning, no curled protection of vulnerable spots. This is a woman who's decided—consciously or not—that she's safe here. That whatever comes through that door won't hurt her.

The trust in that unconscious sprawl hits harder than any declaration could.

Ten minutes pass.

Fifteen.

I memorize the rhythm of her breathing, the way morning light plays across her skin, the small scar on her shoulder that speaks of violence survived. She's beautiful in the way of things that refuse to break—not perfect, but perfected by endurance.

Alessandro chose well.

We all did, really, when we agreed to his seventeen-year obsession. But watching her now, peace painted across features that probably haven't relaxed in decades, I understand the obsession better. This isn't just about pheromones and compatibility. It's about finding someone worth the effort of existing.

I close the door with the same silence that opened it, sealing her back into sleep's protection.

Alessandro's office door is cracked, lamplight spilling into the hallway like an invitation to argue. I knock once—sharp, declarative—and his voice carries exhausted amusement.

"Enter, Alexis."

He's buried in paperwork, suit jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that speak of gym time between board meetings. His hair—usually perfect—sticks up at angles thatsuggest repeated hand-running. The coffee cup at his elbow has been empty long enough to grow cold.

"You look like shit," I inform him, dropping into the leather chair across from his desk.

"Charming as always."

"I live to serve. When's the last time you slept?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Then Monday."

"Alessandro."

"I'm fine." He waves dismissively, attention returning to whatever document has him frowning. "Did you check on our omega?"

"From the doorway."

"You could have entered."

"And be like her pervy Alpha stalker?" I examine my nails—perfect as always, though the burgundy polish chips at one edge. "Who, by the way, tried to infiltrate our system at three-seventeen this morning."