Page 24 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

WHY THE FUCK NOT?

~VELVET~

T he beeping pulls me from darkness—steady, rhythmic, but wrong somehow.

Not the sharp clinical chirp of hospital monitors but something softer, almost melodic. My eyes open to golden light that shouldn't exist in any medical facility.

Glass.

The entire ceiling above me is glass, revealing a canopy of autumn fire.

Maples bleed crimson into burnt orange oaks, their leaves trembling against a sky caught between storm and sunset.

Rain traces delicate patterns across the transparent barrier, each droplet catching the dying sun like liquid amber.

I turn my head slowly, processing this impossible room.

Three walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing mountains dressed in October's finest. Ancient pines stand sentinel among the deciduous riot, their dark green almost black in the fading light. Fog creeps through the valleys below, transforming the landscape into something from a fairy tale.

The fourth wall grounds the space—dark walnut panels and grey stone that speaks of money spent with taste.

The cottage— because this is clearly no hospital —is architectural pornography. Every line deliberate, every angle calculated to capture nature while maintaining luxury.

The bed I'm lying in costs more than most cars, Italian design with a mattress that adapts to body temperature. Medical equipment has been disguised as furniture, monitors built into sleek panels that blend with the modern aesthetic.

Rain intensifies, drumming against the glass roof in a symphony that should feel exposed but instead feels protected. The best description is like being held inside a jewel box while the world performs outside.

When did I get here?

The last few days blur together—tests, medications, specialists speaking in careful German about recovery timelines. Alessandro's presence constant, those emerald eyes tracking my every breath. But I'd been in Munich, in a private room with cream walls and a view of the city.

Not this mountain paradise.

Or architectural wet dream.

I shift, expecting the familiar tug of an IV line. Nothing. My arm moves freely, only a small bandage marking where the needle lived. The relief is immediate—no more careful movements, no more being tethered to bags of chemicals.

Sitting up takes effort but not agony. My legs respond, toes wiggling on command. The surgery worked. The simple victory of motor function makes my throat tight. I'd been so close to paralysis, to being trapped in flesh that wouldn't obey.

The pajamas are unexpected—soft plaid in navy and forest green, designer cut despite the casual pattern. They fit perfectly, like everything else in this curated space. Someone dressed me while unconscious, chose these specific clothes, transported me hours from Germany without waking me.

The thought should disturb me more than it does.

A tablet waits on the nightstand, its black surface reflecting the sunset. A yellow sticky note commands attention in precise handwriting:

"Read me when awake."

The lock screen demands a code—four digits that could be anything. But I know him, or at least I know how his mind works. The boy who used to leave French poetry in my textbooks, who memorized my coffee order after one observation. He'd choose something personal.

My birthday.

The screen unlocks immediately, revealing a single video file labeled "Pour Mon étoile."

For my star.

I tap play.

Alessandro's face fills the screen, and my breath catches.

He's sitting at my desk—my disaster of an office at the Haven, though it's been transformed. Papers organized, bottles removed, the chaos I cultivate tamed into submission. He wears a charcoal suit that probably costs more than our monthly operating budget, amber eyes serious.

"Bonsoir, ma rébellion étoile."

Good evening, my rebel star.

His French is flawless now, seventeen years of practice erasing any trace of the boy who used to stumble over subjunctive conjugations.

"If you're watching this as intended, it should be evening. The sunset from that room is particularly spectacular in October—I thought you might appreciate beauty while recovering."

Behind him, I can see my office has been commandeered.

New equipment on the desk, multiple phones, papers in languages I recognize as legal documents.

"I apologize for not being there when you wake. Your Haven required immediate attention after three attempted infiltrations in the past forty-eight hours."

My stomach clenches.

Three attacks while I've been unconscious, vulnerable.

I bet the Haven is going under with my absence…

"All unsuccessful," he continues, as if reading my mind through time and space. "The twins—Dante and Damon—have a particular talent for discouraging unwanted visitors. One gentleman is still trying to explain to police why he was found suspended from the fire escape in his underwear."

Despite everything, I snort.

The Corleone twins clearly have some inherited flair for dramatic problem-solving.

"Alexis is currently reviewing your expansion proposals.

She's made some security modifications that await your approval—nothing is being implemented without your consent.

She wanted me to tell you the medical facility integration is, and I quote, 'fucking brilliant for someone without formal architectural training. '"

He shifts, pulling something from off-screen. Multiple spreadsheets, color-coded and annotated.

"Dante has your current residents relocated to our safe house temporarily. They believe they've won a wellness retreat—spa treatments, private therapy, gourmet meals. Morale has never been higher, according to Kamari, who has appointed herself social coordinator."

Kamari.

Relief floods through me, knowing in odd times like these she does step up to try to help out at the Safe Haven with Amelia and the others.

Astraea should be on tour with her men, so even if with everything going on and being reported media wise, she’s probably across the country and wouldn’t assist.

Icarus must have also returned back now that I’m at least awake and well.

"We've also handled the government inquiries. Amazing what properly directed donations can accomplish. Your certification is not only secure but expedited for three additional locations."

He pulls out a newspaper, and my eyes widen.

The Omega Times, their sensationalist font screaming:

"REBEL QUEEN OFFICIALLY CLAIMED?"

"The news broke twelve hours ago. Someone at the hospital leaked your pack registration.

They don't know to whom, yet, but speculation runs wild.

Knox has given fourteen interviews insisting it's a misunderstanding.

Malcolm released a medical statement that manages to say nothing in three paragraphs. Adyani has been…silent."

Something flickers in his expression—satisfaction or anticipation.

"The media wants a statement, naturally. We're controlling the narrative for now, but eventually, you'll need to decide what truth to tell." He pauses, those impossible eyes holding the camera. "Which brings me to why you're here instead of Munich."

He stands, moving around my desk with predatory grace.

The camera must be propped somewhere, because it captures him fully—six feet three inches of controlled power in expensive wool.

"This cottage belongs to the twins. Built by their grandfather as a hunting lodge, though I doubt he envisioned bulletproof glass and military-grade security. You're safe here. Free to recover without cameras or questions or three Alphas who couldn't sign their names when it mattered."

The bitterness in his voice surprises me.

He's been so controlled and careful. But discussing them— or particularly their cowardice —cracks his polish.

"When you're strong enough, when you're ready, there's a deck that overlooks the valley. I'll be there to ask you properly, face to face, if you want to try this. Us. The pack that's already half in love with you despite meeting you once."

He returns to the chair, leaning forward like he's about to share a secret.

"But I need you to understand something, Velvet. Tu es le personnage principal de cette nouvelle aventure. Je veux que chaque instant soit exaltant pour toi."

You're the main character of this new adventure. I want every moment to be exhilarating for you.

"No more accepting scraps. No more waiting for others to decide your worth. From now on, every step is yours to take."

Having him reinforce this makes my heart swell and my eyes water only instantly.

To be offered this level of empowerment and taste of independence in your own life at such a age.

It never should have even reached this far because she knew better.

Understood she deserved so much more.

But I guess fear really stopped her from trying harder for herself.

The fear of being truly alone in this world…

He reaches for something else—a medical file.

"Dr. Weiss cleared you for normal activity. The nerve repair was successful. Physical therapy will help with strength, but structurally, you're healed. You're whole."

Whole.

The word sits heavy in my chest.

When did I last feel whole?

"There's something else," he continues, and his expression shifts to something I can't read.

"In your bloodwork, they found something interesting.

Your hormone levels are stabilizing. Not to normal Omega levels—you'll never be twenty again—but to something sustainable.

Dr. Weiss thinks with proper pack bonds, you could have years.

Decades, easily with continued good health and regimen. "

Decades.

Not six months. No more death sentence.

Time…to actually live life the way I’ve yearned for…with a pack.

"I know you, Velvet. You're probably already planning to run, to insist you don't need this, don't need us.

But before you do, remember something." He leans closer to the camera.

"You asked once if I'd be dangerous when I was older. The answer is yes. Dangerous enough to take what I want and fight for what matters. And I’ve finally reached that level of power and security to do exactly that. All in all, what matters is you."

He switches to French again, voice dropping to intimate registers.

"Ma belle rebelle, ma étoile qui refuse de s'éteindre. à demain."

My beautiful rebel, my star who refuses to be extinguished. See you soon.

The video ends.

I sit in the gathering darkness, tablet heavy in my hands.

Outside, the rain has intensified, turning the windows into waterfalls. The mountains have disappeared into grey nothing, leaving this room floating in space like a ship in a storm.

He's given me everything— safety, time, choice. Handled my Haven, my residents, the media, the government.

All while I slept, trusting strangers with my life's work.

And when I’m ready to walk onto that deck, he'll ask if I want to try.

The answer terrifies me.

I swing my legs over the bed's edge, testing. No dizziness, no weakness. My body obeys, muscles remembering their purpose.

The bathroom door is solid walnut, a relief after so much transparency.

I handle necessities efficiently, then face the mirror.

The purple is gone.

Silver threads through what remains, creating something between moonlight and shadow. The color should age me but instead adds gravitas, like I've finally grown into myself. Dark circles rim my eyes, exhaustion carved into the corners, but beneath it all?—

Satisfaction.

The woman in the mirror has survived.

Not just the bomb, the water, the surgery. But twenty years of slowly dying from want.

She's thin, sharp-angled where softness used to live, but there's steel in her spine that wasn't there before.

I trace the silver strands, remembering how I used to dye them religiously. Hide the evidence of time passing, of biological clocks ticking toward midnight. Now they catch the bathroom light like threads of starlight, beautiful in their honesty.

Movement catches my eye—fabric hanging on the door's back.

The dress is perfection in burgundy silk, the color of wine aged in shadow. Bias-cut to forgive and celebrate in equal measure, with rouching that creates architecture where nature has grown lazy.

It's sexy without trying, elegant without apology, exactly what I'd choose if I had unlimited resources and a body twenty years younger.

Another sticky note in that same precise hand:

"And if you're feeling frisky enough, I'm confident this matches your preferences."

I laugh, the sound bouncing off marble and glass like escaped birds.

He's right.

The dress whispers money, power, and so many possibilities.

The moment I ignited this, I'll stand on that deck in this dress that fits like destiny, and Alessandro Lucien Devereaux will ask if I want to rewrite twenty years of disappointment.

The smart answer is no.

Too much history, damage, and risk involved to play this unpredictable game with my life.

But I'm thirty-nine years old, almost on the verge of death, recently resurrected into a newfound life, and entirely out of smart answers.

I study my reflection—silver hair catching light like spun moonbeams, eyes that have seen too much but still want more, a face that shows every battle but won't admit defeat.

The dress hangs there like a question.

Or a dare…

Like the first move in a game I've been afraid to play.

"You know what?" I tell the woman in the mirror, reaching for silk that probably costs more than most mortgages. "Why the fuck not. Let's try it."

I have nothing else to lose.