Page 10 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

THE WEIGHT OF THE MORNING AFTER

~VELVET~

T he marks on my neck looked like a constellation of shame in the harsh bathroom light.

I traced them with trembling fingers, each purple bloom a testament to last night's weakness. Or was it his? The distinction hardly mattered anymore when we'd been playing this game for so long that the rules had blurred beyond recognition.

Would it be sick to admit I secretly enjoy it despite the obvious repercussions?

My reflection stared back—hair a mess of purple curls with silver threads I'd stopped bothering to hide, eyes shadowed with exhaustion despite sleeping for twelve fucking hours.

Twelve hours.

Fucking hell, I normally lucky to get six.

The water ran cold against my palms as I splashed my face, trying to wash away the lingering haze of wine and sleeping pills. The combination Malcolm had warned me against countless times, yet here I was, mixing them like a cocktail of self-destruction because what else did I have?

The irony wasn't lost on me that the very man who prescribed those pills was the one who couldn't resist taking advantage when they pulled me under.

No—that wasn't fair.

We both knew what this was.

Had known for years now, this careful dance of violation and consent, need and denial. He wasn't taking advantage any more than I was by leaving my door unlocked, by mixing substances that guaranteed I'd be pliant, by pretending I didn't wake sometimes when his hands were on me.

I’ve never told him no, because deep down, this was the few moments of escape I got from him.

Between Alpha and Omega…

Which probably made it seem as if my sex life was no different to the Sahara Dessert.

Then you’d wonder why an Omega like me rather drink wine all day than deal with her depressive thoughts revolving around her lack of dick when she’s constantly in contact with Alphas who want her but afraid to commit to her.

But touch and taunt her is all fine and dandy…right?

Gosh, when had it started?

Two years ago? Three? Heck, with how long we’ve known each other it could be even longer.

The memories blurred together like watercolors in rain.

I remembered the first time I'd woken to find the sheets changed, my body sore in that satisfying way that spoke of proper fucking rather than my own desperate fingers.

The scent of eucalyptus and mint lingering on my skin like a confession.

I'd known immediately—Malcolm was the only one with that particular combination of medical precision and desperate need.

Knox would have left bruises.

Adyani would have left poetry.

Malcolm left me clean sheets and the ghost of orgasms that actually satisfied.

I leaned against the bathroom counter, studying the love bites that trailed down my neck and disappeared beneath my robe.

My fingers found the tender spots on my hips where his hands had gripped too tight, the slight soreness between my legs that spoke of more than fingers this time.

He'd fucked me properly last night, probably couldn't help himself after watching me fail to find satisfaction alone.

She knew he liked to watch her.

The surveillance thing was just a precaution.

At least at first with all the death threats and countless attempts to shut the Haven down, but the years went by, and the lines began to blur with him enjoying watching me more through that little hidden lens, as if I was doing something life changing than sipping on endless glasses of wine and fucking unsatisfied self with my fingers until their prune and aching.

The thought should have disgusted me or send me into a raging fit straight to his office, demanding explanations, or hell, threatening exposure because why would an Alpha want to fuck me asleep but not commit to me when I’m awake.

Instead, I felt that familiar cocktail of relief and shame that had become my morning after routine.

Relief because my body wasn't screaming with need for once.

Shame because this was what we'd been reduced to—stolen moments in the darkness, pleasure taken and given while I pretended to sleep.

Sometimes I wondered if he knew that I knew.

If he'd noticed the way I'd started taking the pills earlier on nights when the ache became unbearable. The way I'd switched to prettier nightgowns, silk that slipped aside easier than cotton. The way I'd stopped double-locking my door.

We were all such fucking cowards.

The phone rang, shrill and demanding, dragging me from my spiral of self-recrimination.

I stumbled toward it, noting the way the room tilted slightly—residual effects from last night's pharmaceutical cocktail, probably.

My hand closed around the device just as another wave of dizziness hit, forcing me to grip the dresser for support.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Morclair?" My secretary's voice was carefully professional, but I could hear the underlying concern. "I wanted to confirm you're still planning to attend the 2 PM meeting regarding the policy updates for the Haven expansion?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to focus through the fog.

Policy meeting. Right. The boring bureaucratic bullshit that came with changing the world.

"Yes, why?"

"Well, ma'am..." She hesitated, and my stomach dropped. "It's currently 2:17."

My eyes snapped to the clock on my nightstand, the digital display mocking me with its afternoon timestamp.

"Shit." The word escaped before I could stop it, professional composure crumbling. "I?—"

"I've already informed them you're stuck in traffic due to an accident on the highway," she interrupted smoothly. "Gave them specific timestamps and everything. You should have approximately twenty minutes before your arrival would seem suspicious."

God bless efficient secretaries who could lie with more skill than politicians.

"Thank you, Marina. I'll be there."

I hung up and flew toward the shower, shedding the cotton gown Malcolm had dressed me in—and wasn't that a mindfuck, knowing his hands had been all over me, cleaning and caring for me even after using me. The water scalded my sensitive skin, but I didn't have time for gentle.

I had twenty minutes to transform from well-fucked mess to professional revolutionary.

The marks on my neck posed a problem.

Cover-up helped, but anyone who looked too close would see the telltale bruising.

I selected a high-collared blouse in deep purple—my signature color that also happened to hide sins effectively.

My hands shook as I applied makeup, trying to disguise the evidence of my twelve-hour pharmaceutical coma.

What would they think if they knew?

The Omega leaders who looked to me for strength, for guidance, for proof that we could exist without Alpha ownership.

Would they still follow someone who let herself be fucked unconscious by an Alpha who didn't even have the courage to claim her properly?

Would they understand the desperate need that drove me to this arrangement, or would they see it as the ultimate betrayal of everything we fought for?

The true irony of it all…

I was halfway out the door when I spotted them—a stack of papers that hadn't been there last night. My eyes rolled automatically, already knowing what I'd find.

More threats.

Another onslaught of attempts at intimidation from Alphas who thought they could break me with fear.

But the photograph that slipped from between the pages made me freeze.

Malcolm.

Clear as day despite the grainy quality, his face caught in profile as he entered my apartment door.

The timestamp showed 2:26 AM—prime fucking hours, apparently. Someone had been watching…which meant someone knew.

A laugh bubbled up from my chest, harsh and bitter.

I lifted the photo, studying Malcolm's face—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched at his sides like he was fighting himself even as he crossed my threshold.

"What are you going to do?" I asked the empty apartment, my voice dripping sarcasm. "Expose us? Please fucking do."

The laughter came harder now, edged with something that might have been hysteria or might have been exhaustion.

I could already see the headlines: 'Aging Omega Rebel Secretly Fucking Respected Doctor Alpha.'

The scandal of it all.

The mockery that would follow.

"Everyone will mock me as the old omega hen who couldn't dare score Dr. Malcolm with all his credentials and awards.

" The words tasted like poison on my tongue, but I forced them out anyway, needing to voice the fear that lived in my bones.

"Past my prime, taking whatever scraps I can get in the darkness. "

The sadness that welled up was expected, but the depth of it still surprised me.

This was my reality—pushing forty, unclaimed, so desperate for touch that I'd created this elaborate charade where I could pretend it wasn't my choice.

Where I could have what I needed without admitting I needed it.

I tucked the photograph into my purse with the rest of the threats. Evidence for my security team to analyze, though we all knew nothing would come of it. These cowards never followed through, too afraid of what I might do in retaliation.

They didn't understand that they couldn't break something already broken.

The drive to the meeting was a blur of traffic and self-loathing.

I touched up my makeup at red lights, practiced my confident smile in the rearview mirror, because it was time for me to portray the “Rebel Queen’ they’ve gotten so used to than this insecure troubled Omega on a biological ticking clock.

By the time I arrived at the conference center, I was armored in designer clothing and professional competence.

"Ms. Morclair!" The security team's relief was palpable as I strode through the doors. "We were worried the traffic?—"

"Was absolutely horrific," I confirmed smoothly, signing the late arrival log with a flourish. "I trust Marina updated everyone?"

"Of course, ma'am. They're in Conference Room B."