Page 31 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

NEW MORNING RITUALS

~VELVET~

T he plum dress slides over my skin like water—soft jersey that forgives every angle while clinging to curves that survived near-death. No underwear because the fabric is thick enough to preserve modesty, and frankly, after last night's sexual tension marathon, I need easy access to cool air.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror shows a woman caught between worlds.

Silver hair still tousled from sleep, falling in waves that refuse discipline.

Eyes heavy-lidded despite ten hours of the deepest sleep I've had in years.

The dress hits mid-thigh, casual enough for breakfast but expensive enough to remind anyone watching that I might be recovering, but I haven't surrendered style.

Bare feet on heated floors, I follow my nose like a cartoon character floating toward pie. Coffee—proper coffee, not the hospital swill or my own desperate attempts—mingles with something sweet. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Fresh bread.

My stomach clenches, reminding me that dinner was twelve hours ago and my body needs fuel to continue this whole 'being alive' situation.

The stairs are works of art, floating slabs of wood and steel that shouldn't support weight but do. Each step draws me deeper into the coffee-perfumed haze. My brain is still offline, processing power dedicated entirely to 'find food' and 'don't fall.'

Papers shuffle somewhere ahead. The sound of civilization—newspaper, probably, though who reads physical papers anymore besides people with too much money and fetishes for tradition?

I round the corner into the kitchen and freeze.

Not because of the space—though it's spectacular, all marble and chrome and windows revealing mountains dressed in morning mist. Not because of the spread on the island that looks like a hotel's attempt at 'continental breakfast' if the hotel cost four figures a night.

Because of the scent.

Leather and storm clouds intensified by proximity, wrapping around me more thoroughly than any blanket. My feet move without consultation with my brain, carrying me toward the source like a moth to extremely expensive flame.

Someone's sitting at the breakfast table, newspaper spread before them, coffee cup creating rings on wood that probably costs more than cars. They're wearing charcoal cashmere that my fingers itch to touch, their hair catching morning light like polished obsidian.

"Good morning, Velvet."

I ignore the greeting entirely, my sleep-drunk brain fixated on one truth: this person smells like safety and I need to be closer immediately.

Without ceremony or permission, I climb into their lap.

Alessandro—because my nose recognizes him even if my eyes haven't fully focused—adjusts seamlessly, one arm wrapping around my waist while the other maintains his grip on the Financial Times. His thighs are solid beneath me, his chest the perfect pillow for my heavy head.

A whistle cuts through the morning quiet.

"Well, that's adorable and slightly nauseating." Female voice, amused rather than angry.

"Don't be jealous," Alessandro responds, his chest rumbling with the words against my cheek. "She's just tired."

"Tired. Right. Nothing to do with you two being scent matched and her basically bathing in your pheromones right now."

Their conversation becomes background noise as I burrow deeper into Alessandro's warmth.

His hand finds my back, stroking spine to shoulder blade in rhythms that should be clinical but feel like poetry.

Each pass loosens muscles I didn't know were tense, unravels knots that have lived in my body so long I'd named them.

Time goes liquid. Voices drift over me—Alessandro's deep rumble, the female's lighter tones, occasional laughter that sounds surprised, like people remembering joy exists.

"—obviously imprinted?—"

"—never seen anything like?—"

"—should probably wake?—"

"—let her sleep?—"

The hand on my back never stops moving. Fingertips trace patterns that might be letters or might be abstract art. My breathing syncs with his, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. This is what drowning should have felt like—peaceful surrender instead of burning lungs.

Consciousness returns in pieces. First, the awareness that I'm drooling slightly on very expensive cashmere. Second, that I'm sitting on someone's lap in broad daylight like a house cat who's forgotten dignity exists. Third, that multiple people are definitely watching this happen.

I crack one eye open.

Alessandro's looking down at me with an expression that makes my chest tight—tender and amused and something deeper that we don't have words for yet. He's holding a book now, the newspaper abandoned, reading one-handed while the other maintains its path along my spine.

"Good morning," he says softly. "Again."

"When did I—" My voice comes out rough, gravelly with sleep. "How long was I?—"

"About an hour. You shuffled in half-asleep, claimed my lap, and passed out. We thought you were hungry, but apparently, you needed a different kind of sustenance."

Heat floods my cheeks. "I used to do this as a kid. Sometimes as a teenager with—" I stop, not wanting to mention foster families that occasionally didn't suck. "But never as an adult."

"Sleep-walking in omegas usually happens when they feel completely safe," a female voice contributes.

I turn my head to find the source—a woman leaning against the kitchen island like she owns it and everything else in a three-mile radius.

Blonde hair cut in a sharp bob that probably requires weekly maintenance.

Cheekbones that could cut glass. Body that can't decide if it wants to be powerful or graceful, so chose both.

This must be Alexis.

"I'm almost forty," I protest weakly.

"I'm forty-two." Her smile is sharp as her haircut. "Doesn't stop me from being an Alpha prick. These things don't fade with age, they just get more refined."

"Like wine," Alessandro agrees.

Alexis moves faster than expensive clothes should allow, smacking the back of his head with precision that speaks of practice.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Preventative maintenance. You're getting hard with our omega in your lap."

Alessandro's face goes red so fast I worry about blood pressure. "Alexis!"

"What? She can definitely feel it. Can't you, Velvet?"

I shift slightly, confirming that yes, there's definitely something firm pressing against my thigh that isn't his phone.

"Little bit," I admit, watching his blush deepen.

"Traitor," he mutters against my hair.

"Oh no, our omega is observant. How terrible for you." Alexis moves to the stove, tying an apron over what I now realize are men's pajama pants and a worn MIT t-shirt. "What would you like for breakfast?"

"I can make something?—"

"Why would I let our omega cook when I'm perfectly capable?" She turns, hip cocked against marble, studying me with eyes that shift between blue and grey depending on the light. "Has no one ever cooked for you?"

The question hits unexpectedly. I open my mouth to protest, to list times when surely someone must have?—

Knox cooked, but only protein-focused meals designed for training optimization, never just because I might enjoy them.

Malcolm ordered takeout with medical precision, calculating nutrients rather than considering cravings.

Adyani sent care packages of prepared foods from Dubai, beautiful and expensive but made by strangers.

"Not really?" The admission comes out smaller than intended. "I usually buy prepared food. I cook sometimes—well, bake more than cook—but the Haven got busy and there wasn't time for recreational kitchen activities."

The look Alessandro and Alexis exchange speaks volumes in a language I don't quite understand yet. Concern mixed with determination mixed with something protective that makes my omega instincts purr despite my better judgment.

"Right." Alexis ties the apron with decisive movements. "Let me cook for our omega. It's what pack does."

"Pack cooks?"

"Pack provides. Pack protects. Pack ensures their omega never has to wonder when her next meal is coming or who's making it." She pulls ingredients from the fridge with efficiency that speaks of familiarity. "Preferences? Allergies? Strong feelings about eggs?"

"I'm easy."

"Somehow I doubt that," Alessandro murmurs, his hand resuming its path along my spine.

"Rude."

"Accurate. You're the least easy person I've ever met. It's part of your charm."

"Part?"

"The rest is divided between your terrifying competence and the way you look in that dress."

"This dress is basically pajamas."

"Expensive pajamas that cling to your?—"

"Children!" Alexis interrupts, pointing a spatula at us. "I'm trying to cook here without losing my appetite. Save the foreplay for after breakfast."

"We're not?—"

"Your pheromones are writing checks your mouth is trying to cash," she observes, cracking eggs with one hand while reaching for cream with the other. "The sexual tension could be bottled and sold as an aphrodisiac."

I bury my face in Alessandro's shoulder, partly from embarrassment, mostly to breathe him in deeper.

This close, I can detect nuances—the bergamot is stronger this morning, mixing with soap that probably costs triple digits and underneath, just him.

Male and want and mine in a way that my biology recognizes even if my brain struggles with the concept.

"See? Adorable." Alexis's voice carries warmth despite the teasing. "Our omega is actually capable of being cute instead of terrifying. Who knew?"

"I'm always terrifying," I protest into cashmere.

"You're half-asleep and cuddling in my lap," Alessandro points out. "Your terrifying credentials are currently suspended."

"Mean."

"Honest. There's a difference."

The sounds of cooking fill the space—butter sizzling, eggs being whisked, coffee percolating. Domestic sounds that shouldn't feel revolutionary but do. When did I last sit in a kitchen while someone cooked just because I might be hungry? Not for a meeting, not as strategy, but simple care?

"Tell me about the others," I say, needing distraction from the emotion clogging my throat.

"The twins?" Alessandro's hand pauses mid-stroke. "They're... intense."

"That's one word for it," Alexis contributes. "Insane is another. Devoted is probably most accurate."

"Devoted to what?"

"Each other. The pack. Now you." Alessandro shifts me slightly, improving both our comfort. "They don't do anything halfway. When they commit, it's absolute."

"Sounds overwhelming."

"It can be. They're also funny, brilliant, and surprisingly gentle when it matters." His voice carries affection. "Dante handles the legitimate businesses. Damon manages the... grayer areas."

"Gray areas?"

"The family business isn't entirely above board," Alexis says, plating what smells like heaven. "Import/export covers a lot of sins."

"Organized crime?"

"Organized everything. Crime's just one revenue stream." She sets a plate before us, the omelet perfect golden brown, accompanied by fresh bread and fruit arranged like art. "The Corleones don't do anything without structure."

"And you're all fine with that?"

"Morality is subjective when you're building empires," Alessandro says quietly. "We've all done things that wouldn't survive scrutiny. The twins are just more honest about it."

I process this while stealing bites from the plate. The omelet is perfection—creamy inside, herbs I can't identify making each bite a revelation.

"You're all criminals?"

"We're all successful," Alexis corrects, joining us with her own plate. "In this economy, the distinction is academic."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's not meant to be. It's honest." She meets my eyes directly. "We're not good people, Velvet. We're effective people who've decided you're worth protecting. The methods are negotiable. The goal isn't."

"And if I object to the methods?"

"Then we adjust," Alessandro says simply. "Your comfort matters more than our convenience."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Alessandro laughs, the sound rumbling through me, and I realize I'm smiling. Actually smiling, not the practiced expression I wear for public consumption but something real and unguarded.

"I could get used to this."

"That's the plan," Alessandro murmurs, pressing lips to my temple.

"Cunning."

"Strategic. We're very good at long-term planning."

"Seventeen years of it," Alexis adds with a smirk.

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never. It's too perfect. The boy who fell for his tutor and spent nearly two decades orchestrating the perfect reunion. Romance novelists would weep."

"Stop making it sound creepy."

"Stop making it be creepy."

They bicker like siblings, comfortable and familiar, while I finish breakfast still perched on Alessandro's lap. His hand never stops moving, tracing patterns that might be possession or might be poetry.

Outside, the world continues its rotation—my Haven needs attention, three rejected Alphas are probably plotting, the media is spinning stories about who claimed the Rebel Queen.

But inside this glass house, surrounded by mountains and morning light, being fed by an Alpha female while an Alpha male holds me like I might evaporate, I forget to care about any of it.

"More coffee?" Alexis offers.

"Please."

She pours, the stream of liquid catching light, and I think: this is what peace feels like.

Dangerous thought for a dangerous woman surrounded by dangerous people.

But maybe that's exactly what makes it perfect.