Page 1 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

~VELVET~

T he copper taste of blood fills my mouth, mixing with the musty scent of abandonment that clings to this warehouse like a second skin.

Dubai's heat doesn't reach this far into the industrial district—not at three in the morning, not when you're underground, not when death breathes against your neck with the sharp edge of a blade.

Funny how you notice the strangest details when you're about to die.

Like how the zip ties cutting into my wrists have left perfect indentations that will bruise purple if I live long enough for the blood to pool.

How my left eye has swollen shut from where his fist connected earlier, the socket throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

How the concrete beneath my knees has torn through my designer pants— Versace, because even facing death, I refuse to look cheap —leaving my skin raw and bleeding.

The Alpha circling me smells of expensive cologne trying to mask cheaper intentions. Tom Ford over desperation. Creed layered with cruelty. He's handsome in that manufactured way—sharp jawline, manicured beard, eyes the color of burnt amber that probably make weaker Omegas swoon.

Too bad I've never been weak.

"Last chance, Scarlett." His accent is refined, British with hints of something else. Russian, maybe. Or Georgian. Hard to tell when my ears are still ringing from the blow to my temple. "Tell me where the Omega registry is hidden. Give me the names of your Haven residents. Simple."

The blade presses harder against my throat. I feel the first kiss of steel breaking skin, a thin line of warmth trickling down to stain the collar of my blouse. My body wants to flinch, to pull away from the threat.

I don't give it the satisfaction.

"You're really going to die for a bunch of hopeless Omegas who won't even miss you when they find your body floating in the Nile?

" He leans closer, his breath hot against my face, reeking of whiskey and entitlement.

"Or should I be more creative? The Persian Gulf is closer.

International waters. No one would ever find you. "

My silence seems to infuriate him more than any words could. Good. Let him rage. Let him show his true nature—the pathetic Alpha who needs to break Omegas to feel powerful.

Forty years I've been doing this. Forty years of saving girls and boys from men exactly like him.

The warehouse echoes with our breathing—his heavy with frustration, mine controlled despite the pain radiating through every inch of my body.

Three ribs cracked, maybe broken. My right shoulder dislocated when they dragged me from the car.

Internal bleeding is likely, given the kidney shot that had me pissing blood before they tied me up.

Professional work. These aren't amateurs.

Which means someone with serious money wants my Haven gone. Wants the protection I offer stripped away. Wants those Omegas vulnerable again.

The thought should fill me with rage. Always has before. But kneeling here, inches from death, all I feel is... regret.

Not for the Havens. Not for the hundreds of Omegas I've pulled from trafficking rings, from forced marriages, from abuse so horrific it would make even hardened Alphas vomit.

Not for the fortune I've spent building safe houses across three continents.

Not for the enemies I've made or the bridges I've burned or the laws I've broken.

No. My regret is far more selfish than that.

I think of Knox, probably asleep in his apartment above the gym, that grey-silver hair spread across his pillow.

How many nights have I watched him sleep after he's thought I've left?

How many times have I almost stayed, almost let him claim me properly instead of these half-measures we've danced around for twenty years?

"You're going to give me high blood pressure, woman," he'd growled just last week, pulling me against his chest after another close call with authorities.

"You love it," I'd teased back, but we both knew the truth—he loved me. Had loved me since the day I'd walked into his gym, twenty-seven and furious at the world, demanding he teach me to fight.

And I'd loved him right back. Just never said it. Never let it be real.

Dr. Malcom crosses my mind next—brilliant, methodical Malcom who treats every Omega with dignity in his underground clinics. Who stitches my wounds without asking questions. Who looks at me with those midnight blue eyes like I'm something precious even when I'm covered in someone else's blood.

"One day, Velvet, you're going to let someone take care of you instead of everyone else."

"That day isn't today, Doctor."

"No," he'd said quietly, cleaning a gash on my arm with gentle hands. "But perhaps tomorrow?"

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Except now there might not be one.

Princess Adyani—my beautiful, fierce Adyani who gave up an entire kingdom's worth of expectations to live as her true self. The only Alpha who ever made me feel delicate, feminine, despite my walls and weapons. She sends me roses every week. White ones, because she knows red reminds me of blood.

"You are my desert rose," she whispered once in Arabic, her lips against my temple. "Beautiful and dangerous, thriving where others would perish."

I should have let her claim me then. Should have said yes to the private ceremony she offered, the protection of royal status. But I was too proud. Too afraid.

And Alessandro...

Fuck.

Alessandro Lucien Devereaux. No longer the eighteen-year-old boy I tutored in French, all gangly limbs and nervous energy. Thirty-five now, built like a weapon wrapped in Armani, with that raven hair that catches auburn in the light and those emerald eyes that see too much.

My scent match.

The universe's cruelest joke—giving me a perfect match seventeen years younger, someone I'd helped raise from boy to man, someone whose trust fund has been secretly funding my operations for a decade.

"You still wear scarlet lipstick sometimes," he'd murmured at the last gala, standing too close, smelling of amber and espresso and everything I can't have. "It drives me fucking insane, Scar."

"You're too young for me, Alessandro."

"I'm thirty-five. You're thirty-nine. That's four years, not forty."

"It's not about the number ? —"

"No," he'd said, cutting me off with that dangerous smile. "It's about the fact that you're terrified of being happy."

He was right. They all were.

The blade shifts against my throat, drawing me back to the present. To the reality that I'm going to die in a warehouse in Dubai, and none of them will know until it's too late.

Icarus— my son, even if the world doesn't know it —is on tour with his rock star friends.

He won't find out until after the concert in Tokyo, maybe Bangkok if Knox tries to keep it quiet.

I can picture him destroying whatever room he's in, that controlled fury he inherited from both his parents finally unleashed.

I should have told him I was proud of him more. Should have said 'I love you' without it being followed by logistics and strategy.

Kamari might be on her honeymoon by then, finally free of the arranged marriage that almost destroyed her. Or maybe she'll have had her first child, a little girl with her mother's fierce spirit. She'll name her something beautiful, something that means freedom.

She'll cry when she finds out. That girl who's like a daughter to me, who I saved from her family's cruelty—she'll blame herself for not being there.

Astraea will probably find out at the gym, Knox barely holding it together as he tells her. She's got that same defiant spirit I had at her age, that refusal to let the world break her.

They'll survive without me. They're all stronger than they know.

But God, I wish I'd let myself be weak just once. Let myself be claimed, protected, loved the way Omegas are supposed to be. Let myself experience what I've spent forty years ensuring others could have.

What a fucking waste.

"Any last words?" The Alpha's patience has run out. The blade is steady now, positioned perfectly to sever my carotid. Professional, like I said.

I open my eyes— when did I close them? —and meet his gaze with every ounce of defiance left in my broken body. Let him see that he hasn't won. That killing me won't give him what he wants. That the Haven will survive, the Omegas will endure, and his kind will always lose in the end.

A smirk pulls at my split lip, and I taste fresh blood.

"Va te faire foutre."

Fuck you.

The French rolls off my tongue like silk over steel, elegant even now. Even with death millimeters away.

His eyes narrow. The blade presses deeper.

And I think of scarlet lipstick, of silver-grey hair, of midnight blue eyes, of desert roses, of emerald gazes that see too much.

I think of all the love I was too frightened to accept, too proud to surrender to, too damaged to believe I deserved.

My biggest rebellion was never against society.

It was against my own heart.

The blade moves?—