Page 30 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

THE FEMALE ALPHA'S VIGIL

~ALEXIS~

T he glass house breathes with morning—condensation fogging windows where cool mountain air meets interior warmth.

Five-forty-three AM according to my Patek Philippe, though my body clock knew the time before I checked. Years of international markets trained me to function without sleep, to find clarity in the liminal hours when the world pretends to rest.

My bare feet make no sound on heated floors as I navigate the cottage's geometry. The architects who designed this place understood privacy and exhibitionism in equal measure—walls of transparency where nature deserves witness, solid barriers where humans need shelter.

Very Swiss in its precision, very Italian in its drama.

Wet forest fills my lungs with each breath.

Pine and moss, rain-soaked earth and that particular sweetness of autumn decay.

The mountains here smell different from home—cleaner, younger, less burdened by centuries of human ambition.

But underneath the environmental perfume, another scent winds through the cottage like silk thread.

Velvet.

Black orchids in full nocturnal bloom, but morning has shifted the notes.

Where night brings out the cinnamon and amber, dawn reveals vanilla and something indefinable—like confidence given olfactory form.

It saturates every molecule of air, marking this space as definitively hers despite less than twenty-four hours of occupation.

I follow the scent deeper into the cottage, past Alessandro's office where lamplight still burns, past the kitchen where last night's wine glasses await washing, past the living room where someone— Alessandro, obviously —has folded a throw blanket with military precision.

The master suite door appears like inevitability.

My hand finds the brushed steel handle, turning with the kind of silence that costs extra. The door opens on hinges that whisper rather than speak, revealing her.

Velvet Morclair sleeps like someone who's forgotten danger exists.

The silk pajama set—champagne colored, LaPerla unless I miss my guess—has betrayed her in sleep.

The top has ridden up to expose a strip of pale stomach, soft despite the recent trauma.

The bottoms sit low on hips that speak of childbirth never acknowledged, of a body that's housed life and revolution in equal measure.

Silver hair fans across pillows like spilled mercury, catching the first hints of sunrise through those endless windows.

Her lips— still stained faintly red from last night's lipstick —part slightly with each breath. The sound she makes isn't quite a snore, more like a contented hum, as if even unconscious she's arguing with the universe about something.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, cataloguing every detail while maintaining distance. My scent is controlled, pulled tight against my skin through years of practice. The last thing our new omega needs is to wake to a strange Alpha female hovering over her bed like some fairytale villain.

Though the idea has merit for future pranks.

She shifts, the blanket sliding further down to pool at her hips. No defensive positioning, no curled protection of vulnerable spots. This is a woman who's decided—consciously or not—that she's safe here. That whatever comes through that door won't hurt her.

The trust in that unconscious sprawl hits harder than any declaration could.

Ten minutes pass.

Fifteen.

I memorize the rhythm of her breathing, the way morning light plays across her skin, the small scar on her shoulder that speaks of violence survived. She's beautiful in the way of things that refuse to break—not perfect, but perfected by endurance.

Alessandro chose well.

We all did, really, when we agreed to his seventeen-year obsession.

But watching her now, peace painted across features that probably haven't relaxed in decades, I understand the obsession better.

This isn't just about pheromones and compatibility.

It's about finding someone worth the effort of existing.

I close the door with the same silence that opened it, sealing her back into sleep's protection.

Alessandro's office door is cracked, lamplight spilling into the hallway like an invitation to argue. I knock once— sharp, declarative —and his voice carries exhausted amusement.

"Enter, Alexis."

He's buried in paperwork, suit jacket abandoned, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that speak of gym time between board meetings. His hair—usually perfect—sticks up at angles that suggest repeated hand-running. The coffee cup at his elbow has been empty long enough to grow cold.

"You look like shit," I inform him, dropping into the leather chair across from his desk.

"Charming as always."

"I live to serve. When's the last time you slept?"

"What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Then Monday."

"Alessandro."

"I'm fine." He waves dismissively, attention returning to whatever document has him frowning. "Did you check on our omega?"

"From the doorway."

"You could have entered."

"And be like her pervy Alpha stalker?" I examine my nails—perfect as always, though the burgundy polish chips at one edge. "Who, by the way, tried to infiltrate our system at three-seventeen this morning."

His head snaps up, green eyes suddenly sharp despite the exhaustion.

"Explain."

"Someone attempted to hack the cottage's security system.

Very sophisticated for about thirty seconds, then amateur hour when they hit my secondary protocols.

" I smile, remembering the moment their code hit my trap.

"Dr. Malcolm Hayes, according to the IP trace.

Trying to access the medical bay's cameras. "

"And?"

"All taken care of. He got a lovely virus that's currently eating his hard drive while sending me copies of everything." I inspect my other hand. "The twins are doing some additional digging, just for fun."

Alessandro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"That's probably not good."

"For the doctor and the royal princess? No, probably not." I laugh, imagining Dante and Damon's particular brand of investigation. "But highly entertaining for us."

"You shouldn't antagonize royalty, Alexis."

"Please. I'm an heir to the Rosenberg fortune. I could buy myself a small country if I wanted to play princess." I wink. "But I'm being good. Mostly. Relatively speaking."

"You're horrible."

"I'm protective. There's a difference."

"How's the threat tracking?"

"Seventeen credible threats against Velvet since the news broke about her claiming.

Three against the Haven. Two against you specifically.

" I pull out my phone, scrolling through data that would terrify anyone with sense.

"All handled or being handled. The beauty of having Corleone connections—people reconsider their life choices very quickly. "

"Seventeen threats in less than a day."

"She's famous. Infamous. Whatever. The Rebel Queen getting claimed is like royal wedding news for the omega rights movement. Everyone has opinions."

"And Knox?"

"Being surprisingly quiet. Though he did hire a private investigator to find this location." I smile at Alessandro's alarm. "Relax. The PI he hired is actually one of ours. We're sending him on a lovely tour of rural Montana."

Alessandro shakes his head but can't hide the smile. "When did you arrange that?"

"Three months ago. I've had plants in position since you first mentioned her name with that disgusting lovesick expression."

"I don't get lovesick."

"You literally have a folder labeled 'VM Future' with seventeen years of planning documents."

"That's strategic preparation."

"That's obsession wearing a Princeton education."

He throws a pen at me. I catch it without looking.

"Go rest," he says, returning to his papers. "You've been traveling for nineteen hours."

"Rest is for the weak. I need to check the camera angles for optimal coverage when I beat your ass later."

He groans. "She kissed me first."

"You provoked her." I stand, smoothing my jeans that cost more than most people's rent. "You've been provoking her since you were eighteen and desperate for tutor attention."

"I wasn't desperate."

"You conjugated irregular verbs incorrectly on purpose just to make her lean closer to correct your pronunciation."

"How do you?—"

"Seventeen. Years. Of. Planning. Documents." I head for the door. "Including journal entries that would make a romance novelist blush."

"Goodnight, Alexis."

"Goodnight, you lovesick fool."

The hallway is lighter now, sunrise painting the walls gold.

I detour past Velvet's room once more, pressing my ear to the door. Still sleeping, breathing deep and even. The sound satisfies something primitive in my brain—pack safe, omega protected, all right with the world.

My designated room is in the guest wing, though 'guest' undersells the luxury.

The twins don't do anything halfway—the space is larger than most Manhattan apartments, with its own bathroom that features a rain shower that could drown a small village.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause.

Blonde hair that took years to grow out from the military cut my father demanded.

Cheekbones that photograph well but look harsh in person.

Body that's caught between—curves where an Alpha shouldn't have them, muscle where a woman supposedly shouldn't want them.

Neither masculine enough for Alexander, nor feminine enough for Alexis.

Forever caught in the middle, playing dress-up depending on the day's requirements.

Will Velvet accept this?

The question has haunted me since Alessandro first proposed bringing her into our pack. Omegas typically want clear hierarchies, defined roles. Alpha male, beta if necessary, omega female. Simple. Clean. Biological imperatives satisfied without confusion.

But I'm confusion personified. A female Alpha who can knot, who produces pheromones that make other Alphas submit, who exists in defiance of everything society says is possible. Even other female Alphas— rare as we are —don't quite know what to do with me.

"Stop it," I tell my reflection.

The doubt is pointless. Velvet will accept or she won't. I'll continue existing either way, building empires and destroying competitors and protecting my pack with ruthless efficiency.

But watching her sleep, seeing that peace, that trust—I want to be part of what gives her that. Want to be someone she turns to not just for protection but for understanding. Another woman who gets what it's like to exist outside expectations.

I wash my face, change into sleep clothes that cost absurd amounts for glorified pajamas, and collapse onto the bed.

Tomorrow— today, technically —I meet her properly. Not as Alexander, the face I wear for board meetings and hostile takeovers. Not even fully as Alexis, the woman I am in private.

But as myself.

Whatever that means.

The Noctuary Pack doesn't do cowards.

I've hostile-take overed Fortune 500 companies. Destroyed men who thought a female Alpha was an oxymoron. Built an empire while everyone watched for me to fail.

I refuse to be scared of one silver-haired omega who sleeps like safety is real.

"She'll be our omega," I whisper to the sunrise bleeding through windows. "And I'll stand beside her when the world comes calling. Let them see what female power really looks like."

The vow settles in my chest like armor.

By the time sleep finally claims me, I'm smiling.

The Rebel Queen has no idea what she's started by saying yes to Alessandro.

But she's about to find out that behind every dangerous man is an even more dangerous woman.

And I've been waiting my whole life to prove it.