Page 12 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

GHOSTS IN THE GLASS

~VELVET~

Sweat poured down my spine, soaking through the sports bra that had seen better days, plastering purple curls to my neck in ways that would horrify my public image.

But here, in the sacred hours before dawn when the world pretended to sleep, I could be raw.

Unfiltered. Just another body pushing against its limits, trying to outrun demons that had learned to match my pace.

Fourth set. Or was it fifth?

The distinction hardly mattered when each punch felt like exorcism, each combination a prayer to gods who'd stopped listening around the time I'd turned thirty-five.

My muscles screamed in that particular way that bordered between pleasure and pain—the sweet spot Knox had taught me to find all those years ago when I'd been young and furious and convinced I could fight the entire world.

Now I'm just fighting myself.

The bag swung back toward me, and I met it with a vicious right hook that sent shockwaves up my arm.

My wraps were soaked through, probably needed changing two sets ago, but I couldn't stop. Not when the alternative was lying in those expensive sheets, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until another day of pretending I had my shit together.

I needed water before I collapsed.

I stepped back from the bag, chest heaving, and reached for my bottle.

The cool liquid was heaven against my parched throat, and I drank greedily, not caring that half of it spilled down my chin to join the sweat already coating my skin.

My reflection in the mirrored wall was a disaster—face flushed, hair a wet mess, the kind of disheveled that belonged in private moments, not public spaces.

But who's here to see at 4 AM?

That's when I saw him.

Through the glass partition that separated the Omega section from the main gym, a figure stood perfectly still.

Watching.

The emergency lighting cast shadows that obscured details, but something about the posture, the way he held himself like the world owed him explanations...

My water bottle slipped from nerveless fingers.

No. It couldn't be.

Memory crashed over me like a tide, dragging me back seventeen years to a different kind of desperation.

Twenty-three and drowning in bills, pride too stubborn to accept more of Knox's help than absolutely necessary.

The tutoring job had been a lifeline—teaching French to some rich kids whose parents thought culture could be purchased by the hour.

Alessandro Lucien Devereaux.

Even then, at eighteen, he'd been magnetic in that dangerous way that made people either want to follow him or run. Six feet of barely-contained potential wrapped in designer clothes that cost more than my rent. But it wasn't the money or the name that had unsettled me.

It was the way he looked at me.

Like I was a puzzle he'd already solved but enjoyed pretending he hadn't.

Like every conjugation I taught him was foreplay to something we both knew we'd never act on.

Those emerald eyes would track my movements with an intensity that belonged on someone decades older, someone who understood what want really meant.

" Vous êtes belle quand vous êtes en colère, " he'd said once, after I'd snapped at him for not doing his homework.

You're beautiful when you're angry.

" And you're still failing French, " I'd shot back, but my hands had trembled as I'd turned the page in his workbook.

He'd leaned back in his chair, all casual arrogance and knowing smiles.

" Maybe I like watching you try to fix me. "

That should have been my warning. The moment I walked away, found another student, another source of income.

But I'd needed the money, and honestly?

Part of me had liked the way he made me feel seen.

Not as Knox's sometime-lover or another broken Omega who was raising a kid in the shadows trying to make it in a world designed to break us.

But as something worth wanting . Something worth the kind of focused attention that made my skin prickle and my pulse race even as my mind screamed about appropriate boundaries.

The worst part was how aware he'd been of his effect.

Every "accidental" brush of fingers when I'd hand him papers. Anytime he'd switch to English just to say something inappropriately observant about the way I held myself when I was nervous. The way he'd smile when I'd flush and redirect to verb conjugations.

"One day," he'd said on our last session, the day before he'd left for university abroad, "you're going to stop running from what you want."

"And what do I want?" I'd asked, already packing my things, already fleeing.

"To be claimed by someone who sees you. Really sees you. Not the masks or the walls or the careful control. Just you."

I'd left without responding, convinced I'd never see him again. That he'd been just another rich boy playing at depth, practicing his seduction techniques on the hired help.

But now...

The figure through the glass moved slightly, and the emergency light caught his profile.

Sharp jaw, aristocratic nose, that particular way of holding his head like he was constantly calculating the best angle for the world to admire him. But bigger now. Broader. The boyish lankiness replaced by a man's frame, wrapped in a coat that probably cost more than most people's cars.

Six feet? No. Taller. Six-two, maybe six-three.

Knox's height, but carried differently. Where Knox was all obvious power, built like a brick wall that dared you to test it, this figure was deceptive elegance.

The kind of dangerous that hid behind manicured hands and perfect tailoring until you realized those hands could snap necks as easily as they signed checks.

Our eyes met through the glass, and my heart forgot its rhythm entirely.

Those eyes.

Still that impossible shade of green, like forest depths where light barely reached. But harder now. Aged by whatever seventeen years in the upper echelons of power did to a person. The boy who'd flirted with inappropriate honesty had become a man who looked like he collected secrets for sport.

And he was looking at me like I was a secret worth collecting.

"Velvet?"

I spun so fast I nearly fell, Knox's hand catching my elbow before I could embarrass myself further.

When had he gotten here? How long had I been staring at ? —

I looked back at the glass.

Empty.

Nothing but shadows and emergency lighting and my own reflection staring back at me like a ghost.

"What?" The word came out sharper than intended, my heart still racing from— from what? A hallucination? A memory made manifest by too little sleep and too much wine?

Knox frowned, that particular expression that meant he was cataloging symptoms like Malcolm would.

"That's the third time I've called your name."

Third time?

"Who's the guy in the suit?" I asked, still staring at the empty space where Alessandro— or my imagination of him —had stood.

Knox's frown deepened, confusion mixing with concern.

"What guy?"

"The one who was just—" I pointed at the glass, but the gesture felt hollow. Empty as the space itself. "There was someone there. Tall, dark hair, expensive coat. Just...watching."

Knox moved to the partition, scanning the main gym with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.

After a moment, he shook his head.

"There's no one here, V. Just us and the emergency lights."

"I swear someone was there," I insisted, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak. Desperate. The kind of thing sleep-deprived Omegas said when their minds started playing tricks.

Knox sighed, and before I could protest, his hand was on my forehead, checking for fever like I was a child. "Did you sleep last night?"

I huffed, shoving his hand away with more force than necessary. "I slept just fine. And I'm telling you, someone was standing right there."

"I can prove no one was there with the cameras," he said, that reasonable tone that made me want to hit something. Preferably him. "But I'd have to win something for being right."

The arrogance in his voice, the casual assumption that I was wrong, that I was seeing things—it lit a fire in my chest that had nothing to do with the workout.

"The only thing you'll win is this pussy," I snapped, already turning away, "so go prove someone else wrong to get something more valuable."

The words hung in the air between us, crude and harsh and everything we usually danced around.

I yanked at my gloves, needing something to do with my hands that wasn't wrapping them around his throat. Or pulling him down for a kiss. The line between violence and sex had always been thin with us.

"Repeat what you just said."

His voice had dropped an octave, that particular tone that used to make me wet before I'd learned to armor myself against it.

I pulled the wraps from my fists, noting the blood seeping through where the skin had split.

"The only thing you'll win is this pussy," I repeated without hesitation, focusing on the methodical unwrapping instead of the heat building in the space between us, "so go prove someone else wrong to get something more valuable."

"Why would I find someone else when you're right in front of me?"

The softness in his voice, the genuine confusion—it almost broke through my defenses.

Almost.

I sighed, exhaustion suddenly weighing down my bones like cement.

"Let's just drop this. It's the same conversation you don't want to have, so let's forget it."

I grabbed my bag, shouldering it with more force than necessary. The world tilted slightly… when had I eaten last …and I must have swayed because suddenly Knox's arm was around me, solid, warm, and everything I couldn't let myself lean into.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He raised his hand in front of my face, and the concern in his eyes made my chest tight.

I rolled my eyes, pushing past him toward the door.

But his hand caught my wrist, gentle but firm, the kind of hold I could break if I wanted to.

If I wanted to.

"You're not taking care of yourself lately."