Page 14 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

THE WEIGHT OF WATER

~VELVET~

T he traffic hadn't moved in twenty-three minutes.

Late. Again.

Marina would be fielding calls, making excuses, rescheduling meetings I had no intention of attending anyway. This whole week had been nothing but dodged responsibilities and avoided confrontations, and honestly? I was running out of energy to care.

My phone screen showed seventeen missed calls. Knox had given up after Tuesday, but Malcolm was persistent—twelve attempts since Monday morning. Adyani had shifted to texts after I'd rejected three flower deliveries, each message a variation of concern wrapped in poetry I couldn't bear to read.

"Qalbi, silence is not strength. It is fear wearing the mask of control."

Delete.

"The roses will keep coming until you remember you deserve beauty."

Delete.

"I'm booking a flight. This has gone on long enough."

That one I'd actually responded to: "Don't."

One word, but it had been enough to buy me a few more days of isolation. She'd respect the boundary, for now. They all would. That was the benefit of training your lovers to accept distance—they recognized when you needed space, even if they didn't understand why.

The suite had become my fortress this week. New passcodes that no one knew. Biometric locks reprogrammed to reject the stored prints I'd given them in moments of weakness. Even the emergency override Knox had insisted on—gone.

If the building burned down, I'd burn with it rather than let any of them play savior.

Is this what a breakup feels like when you were never actually together?

The thought sat heavy in my chest, right next to the ache that had taken up permanent residence since Monday morning.

Since I'd looked Knox in the eye and seen twenty years of cowardice staring back.

I'd finally confronted the elephant in the room, and admitted out loud that I was tired of waiting for men who'd never be brave enough to claim me.

Who wants to continue being a broken record?

Explaining myself over and over against around the spiraling dance of what I need versus what I deserve — which at this point, none of them seemed like a priority to my men right now.

And that was the problem, because they were focusing on building themselves to be as close to perfection as they can achieve, but are we really waiting another twenty-years to make this official.

I’d rather die than deal with that shit.

"Ms. Morclair?" Dimitri's voice pulled me from my spiral. My driver had the patience of a saint, but even he was starting to fray around the edges. "The gridlock appears total. No signal on the radio either—can't reach dispatch to find alternate routes."

I glanced at the dashboard clock. 2:47 PM. The meeting had started seventeen minutes ago.

Good. Not like they give a damn and wonder where their fearless leader had gone.

I already had enough haters. I really didn’t care at this point if I ended up acquiring more like some sort of limited edition collectable of grudges.

"Why don't you step out and try to get signal?" I suggested, noting how the businessman next to us had already abandoned his vehicle to pace the shoulder. "Call Marina. Tell her to cancel everything for today. Cite infrastructure emergency or something equally bureaucratic."

"Are you certain you'll be alright alone?"

I almost laughed. Alone was all I'd been for days, surrounded by people who claimed to love me but wouldn't commit to me. What was a few more minutes?

"I'll manage, Dimitri. Go."

He hesitated, that paternal concern that made him excellent at his job, before nodding.

"I'll be just up ahead where those officers are gathering. Lock the doors."

As if locked doors had ever protected me from what really hurt.

The car felt smaller once he left, the tinted windows creating a fishbowl effect that made the outside world seem distant and unreal. I pulled out my phone, needing distraction from the crushing weight of my own thoughts.

Angry Birds loaded with cheerful music that felt like mockery. But there was something satisfying about flinging cartoon birds at precarious structures, watching them collapse in clouds of digital debris. Destruction I could control. Chaos I could orchestrate.

Unlike my actual life.

I was three stars deep into level 47 when the text came through.

Unknown number, but the digits made me pause. The area code was wrong, but the remaining numbers...

My birthday.

Every digit perfectly aligned to the date that marked my entrance into this unforgiving world. The coincidence was too precise to be random, too deliberate to be accident.

I shifted in my seat, leather creaking under expensive fabric as I opened the message.

"If you could start over from 17 years ago, what would you do different?"

The question hit like a physical blow, stealing air from my lungs. Seventeen years ago. When I was twenty-three and desperate and tutoring?—

No.

This had to be Malcolm, playing games through a spoofed number. Or Knox, finally growing creative in his attempts to reach me. The birthday digits were something they'd both know, both use to get my attention.

I typed back, thumb hovering over send for a moment before committing.

"If this is some sort of enjoyable prank, it's not going to lead anywhere."

The response came faster than expected.

"Not a prank. Just curious—do you have any regrets if today was your last day?"

I stared at the screen, something cold settling in my stomach. The question felt heavier than it should, weighted with meaning I couldn't quite grasp. Around me, traffic remained frozen, but the world suddenly felt like it was holding its breath.

Last day.

Did I have regrets?

I laughed, the sound bitter in the confined space. Did I have regrets? My entire life was built on regret. Regret for chances not taken, words not spoken, love not claimed. Regret for twenty years of dancing around what I wanted, what I needed, what my body screamed for in the darkness.

Why not? Why not tell this stranger—Malcolm or Knox or whoever was playing this game—the truth?

"Yeah. I have regrets."

"What's one you'd change?"

I leaned back, closing my eyes against the afternoon sun filtering through the windshield. One regret. Just one from the collection that haunted me every night, that whispered in my ear every time I woke alone, that aged me faster than time ever could.

The answer came without thought, fingers moving across the screen like confession.

"My biggest regret is assuming the men in my life would commit to me. Court me. Love me enough to make it official in the world."

I paused, throat tight with unshed tears. But I wasn't done. The words needed to be said, even if only to a stranger hiding behind birthday digits.

"And if everything went to the pits in this very moment, I'd regret not experiencing what it was like to be claimed by just one Alpha."

Send.

The weight of that admission sat heavy in the car, more real for being voiced. Even through text, even to someone who might be playing games, it felt like finally telling the truth after decades of lies.

"So to answer your question, what I'd do differently?"

I smirked, thinking of green eyes and dangerous smiles, of French conjugations that felt like foreplay, of a boy who'd looked at me like I was worth wanting without conditions.

"I would have probably said fuck professionalism and age and gave that student I was tutoring my number."

The words flew into the digital void before I could stop them. If this was Malcolm, it would hurt him to know I thought of another Alpha, thought of what might have been with someone else. But maybe that was what we needed—honesty about how badly we'd all failed each other.

The typing bubble appeared immediately, those three dots that meant someone was crafting a response. I waited, unconsciously holding my breath, for whatever game this was to reveal itself.

That's when I sneezed.

Hard and sudden, the kind that made your whole body convulse. My nose wrinkled at the strange smell that followed—acrid and wrong, like chemicals wearing the mask of sweetness. Every Omega instinct I had screamed danger, but my body felt oddly heavy, thoughts moving through molasses.

The text came through, and I had to squint to focus on the words swimming on the screen.

"Je ne t'ai jamais oubliée, Velvet."

I never forgot you, Velvet.

French. Perfect, fluent French with the kind of accent marks only someone who truly knew the language would bother with in a text.

My eyes widened as much as the growing heaviness would allow, heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too tight.

"So maybe it's about time I saved you from your misery."

"What?"

The word came out slurred, wrong. The phone slipped from nerveless fingers as a wave of dizziness crashed over me like a tide. I cursed, trying to reach for it, but my arms moved like they were underwater, heavy and uncoordinated.

Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong.

I forced my head up, vision swimming as I tried to focus on the rearview mirror. What I saw there made no sense—people running, abandoning cars, faces twisted in terror. The businessman who'd been pacing was now sprinting, his expensive suit forgotten as he fled from something I couldn't see.

My neck muscles protested as I turned, looking through the back window. Police. SWAT vehicles screeching to stops, officers in tactical gear swarming the area. And there—far enough away to be safe but close enough to see clearly—was Dimitri.

Three officers held him back as he fought against their grip, mouth moving in what looked like screams. The same words, over and over, his face red with effort.

What is he saying? What ? —

Sound returned in pieces. First, the muffled chaos of panic—screams and sirens and the crack of boots on pavement. Then, threading through it all like silk through steel, music.

"Where Have You Been" by Rihanna.