Page 16 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

THE WEIGHT OF WAKING

~VELVET~

C onsciousness was a tide I couldn't control, pulling me under and spitting me out at intervals that made no sense.

Time had become meaningless—minutes could be hours, days could be seconds, and the only constant was the mechanical beeping that followed me through every layer of awareness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound should have been annoying, but it had become an anchor.

Proof that I was still here, still fighting, still stubbornly refusing to let go despite everything.

Each electronic pulse matched a heartbeat I couldn't quite feel, a rhythm that belonged to someone else's body because surely this broken thing couldn't be mine.

Voices drifted through the fog like smoke—hushed, careful, the way people spoke around the dying or the dangerous. I couldn't make out words, just tones. Concern. Frustration. And underneath it all, a tension that made even unconsciousness feel unsafe.

Sometimes there were touches. Fingers brushing hair from my forehead with a tenderness that made something deep in my chest ache.

A hand holding mine, thumb tracing circles on skin I couldn't feel.

Once—or maybe I imagined it—lips pressed to my temple, and someone whispered words in Arabic that sounded like prayer.

But the memory scattered before I could grasp it, dissolving back into the darkness that had become my world.

Other times, rougher hands checked my pulse, adjusted something that tugged at my arm, muttered curses that sounded like someone I can’t put my finger on when he was worried.

And sometimes, clinical touches that catalogued and assessed, accompanied by that particular silence another wore when he was thinking too hard.

I remember these men…just struggling to grasp their names…that’s all. Not a big deal.

The question floated through my consciousness without context. Here where? Why? What had happened that brought them together when twenty years hadn't been enough?

I tried to remember, diving deep into the murky waters of memory, but all I found were fragments.

Traffic. A text message. French words that made my heart race even now.

And then...

Emerald eyes in darkness.

The image burned bright even in unconsciousness, more real than the bed I couldn't feel or the voices I couldn't quite hear. Those eyes had been the last thing I'd seen before—before what? The memory slipped away like water through fingers I couldn't move.

Darkness claimed me again, soft and seductive, and I let it.

Fighting was exhausting when you weren't sure what you were fighting for.

The next time awareness crept in, it brought more clarity.

The beeping was still there—my electronic heartbeat, steady and somehow reassuring.

But now I could distinguish other sounds.

The whisper of climate control. Distant footsteps in a hallway.

And voices—two of them, clear enough that words started forming meaning in my drugged brain.

"—the recovery timeline is promising, but as I've mentioned, the critical factor with Omega patients isn't just physical healing."

Female voice, professional, with that particular cadence that marked years of medical training. She was standing somewhere to my left, not too close, maintaining that careful distance doctors learned to keep from patients who might not wake up.

"Stress." A male voice from my right, closer, close enough that I could almost feel the warmth of presence even through whatever drugs kept me floating. The word wasn't a question, but there was weight to it, understanding that went deeper than mere acknowledgment.

"Precisely." Papers rustled—a chart being reviewed, probably. "Omegas in particular are susceptible to decline when their emotional support systems are... insufficient. The body may heal, but without proper pack bonds, especially at her age?—"

"Her age?" The interruption was sharp, dangerous in a way that made my barely-conscious mind pay attention. "She's thirty-nine, not ninety."

"Of course, I didn't mean—" The doctor backtracked quickly, professional composure cracking slightly.

"What I meant to say is that unclaimed Omegas approaching forty have additional vulnerabilities.

Their bodies are already under biological stress from lack of bonding.

Add traumatic injury, and without a pack to provide emotional and pheromonal support. .."

She trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the recycled air. I could die. Not from the injuries, whatever they were, but from being alone. From being unclaimed. From exactly the thing I'd been dying from slowly for twenty years.

How fucking poetic.

"The two men and woman who were here earlier," the male voice said, and something about his tone made me strain to hear better, though my body remained unresponsive. "They aren't her pack?"

A pause.

Then the distinct sound of a door closing, followed by the electronic beep of a lock engaging. When the doctor spoke again, her voice was lower, more conspiratorial.

"I'm only telling you this because you clearly care about this woman—flying her from Germany during your acquisition meetings to ensure she received the best Omega specialist care. That kind of dedication deserves honesty."

Germany? Someone flew me to Germany?

"The two men and the woman—who does appear to be an Alpha in transition, quite remarkable actually—confirmed they are not her official pack.

Associated with her? Yes, clearly. It's also medically documented that she has a son, which might explain the younger Alpha who was quite. .. agitated about the situation."

Icarus. My son was here. I remember having him yes…with…

"But when I emphasized the need to confirm pack status for treatment authorization, they couldn't—or wouldn't—provide documentation."

The silence that followed felt heavy enough to drown in. My chest tightened with something that might have been rage or might have been heartbreak. Even now, even with me lying here broken enough to need specialists, they wouldn't claim me.

Wouldn't put their names on paper…wouldn't make it official…

"You're saying she won't be able to authorize treatment that could prevent paralysis or other major complications without pack confirmation?"

Paralysis?

The word echoed through my consciousness again and again. Is that why I couldn't feel properly? Why everything seemed disconnected and distant? Was I paralyzed, or was I going to be if?—

"Yes." The doctor's voice was clinical but not unkind. "As inhuman as it sounds, those are the regulations. Unmated Omegas require pack authorization for any major medical procedures. If I sign off on surgery without proper documentation, I lose my license."

Another silence, this one longer.

I could hear breathing—his, controlled but with an edge that suggested barely leashed emotion.

When he finally spoke, his voice was different. Harder.

"Are these men aware of the extent here?"

"I doubt they understand that it prevents surgical intervention," she admitted. "But the implications should be clear enough. An Omega in critical condition, and they won't formalize their relationship even for medical necessity."

They know. I mean…if I’m apparently older, aren’t they as well?

Twenty years of dancing around commitment, and even my potential paralysis wasn't enough to make them step forward.

The fury that rose in me was so intense I thought surely it would force my eyes open, make my body respond.

But I remained trapped, a consciousness screaming in a cage of meat and bone that wouldn't obey.

He took a deep breath, loud enough for me to hear, and released it slowly. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of authority that didn't ask for compliance—it simply expected it.

"Finish the paperwork."

"But Sir, it will get rejected?—"

"She's the Omega of the Noctuary Pack." The words were clear, decisive, brooking no argument. "Put her name down as my Omega. If anyone needs confirmation, they can call me directly. I'll gladly confirm."

The silence that followed was different—shocked rather than tense. When the doctor finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Sir... you're one of the founders of the Noctuary Larissa Organization."

"Yes." Simple confirmation, as if claiming a stranger as his Omega was perfectly normal for someone of his standing. "Though the creator of the organization is my pack member. She'll arrive from Thailand tomorrow to discuss any additional details you need."

"S-she?" The stutter in the doctor's voice would have made me smile if I could control my facial muscles.

"A rare female Alpha 'she.'" Amusement colored his tone now. "I know they're an anomaly just like male Omegas, but she's as commanding as they come, aside from the obvious anatomical differences."

The doctor seemed to choke on air, coughing delicately before recovering her composure.

"I'll—I'll get the paperwork processed immediately. Surgery can be scheduled within the hour to address any nerve damage from the fall."

The fall.

Memory crashed back like a wave—water, darkness, lungs burning for air they couldn't find. I'd fallen. Bomb. There had been a bomb, and I'd fallen into water, and I'd been drowning, and the last thing I'd seen?—

Emerald eyes.

Footsteps indicated the doctor leaving, the door closing with a soft click that sounded like finality. The room felt different with just him here—whoever he was. The air itself seemed charged, aware, like the moment before lightning struck.

I felt him move closer, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he sat on the edge. Bold. Intimate. The kind of casual claim to space that Knox never quite managed, that Malcolm was too proper for, that Adyani would only do after formal invitation.

"I know you can hear me."

His voice was different without the doctor present. Softer but somehow more dangerous. Like velvet wrapped around a blade.