Page 34 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

LEARNING TO NEST

~VELVET~

T he living room stretches before me like an advertisement for architecture magazines—vaulted ceilings with exposed beams, windows that frame mountains like living paintings, furniture that costs more than most annual salaries.

I'm curled in the corner of a leather sofa that probably required the sacrifice of very expensive cows, holding nothing, doing nothing, being nothing.

The revelation sits heavy: I don't know how to just exist.

Twenty years of running the Haven, of fighting battles, of being the Rebel Queen who never stopped moving because stillness meant acknowledging the emptiness.

Now here I am, recovered from near-death, claimed by a new pack, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself when there's no crisis demanding attention.

"You look like a lost soul who's forgotten the point of living."

Alexis appears with two glasses of lemonade—actual fresh-squeezed lemonade with mint leaves and everything, because apparently this cottage doesn't do anything halfway. She's changed into fitted jeans and a black tank top that shows arms defined by either excellent genetics or dedication to iron.

"That's exactly what I am." The admission comes out easier than expected. "I don't know how to just... rot."

She hands me the glass, condensation immediately beading on the crystal. "Rot?"

"Sit. Exist. Do nothing productive." I gesture vaguely at the space around us. "I've never had time to just be useless."

Alexis drops onto the other end of the couch with zero ceremony, spreading her legs wide and slouching into leather like she's claiming territory.

The casual masculinity of the gesture contrasts with the delicate features of her face, creating that cognitive dissonance that makes her fascinating to watch.

"That's what nests are for, obviously." She takes a sip of lemonade, ice clinking. "Safe space to shut your brain off. Read trashy billionaire romance novels with absolutely filthy sex scenes. Nap for fourteen hours. Eat snacks in bed without judgment."

I blink at her, processing this foreign concept.

"You look like I just spoke Mandarin."

"I understood the words individually."

Her eyebrow rises in that way that suggests she's recalculating something fundamental. "Why do you look like you've never nested in your life?"

The shy smile escapes before I can stop it.

"Because I haven't?"

"You mentioned that before, but I thought—" She stops mid-sentence, setting her lemonade on the coffee table with deliberate care. Her full attention shifts to me, ice-blue eyes intense. "I thought you were being dramatic with those coward losers present. Playing up the neglect for effect."

"No effect. Just truth."

She sits forward, elbows on knees, studying me like I'm a particularly complex merger proposal.

"Velvet. Have you never had a nest? Ever? In thirty-nine years of being an omega?"

"Could you define nest?" The question feels childish, but I genuinely need parameters. "Is it like an outdoor thing? Sticks and leaves? I had a tree fort once in foster home number five, but that was more about escaping than comfort."

Her eyes go wide enough that I can see white all around the irises.

"No! Jesus, no. A nest is—" She runs a hand through her blonde bob, clearly reorganizing thoughts.

"It's a space that's entirely yours. Usually a room or section of room filled with soft things—pillows, blankets, cushions.

You arrange everything exactly how you want, decorate it with things that bring comfort.

And traditionally, you'd have clothing from each pack member, so when we're apart, you're still surrounded by our scents. "

The concept settles in my chest like longing for something I didn't know existed.

"It's a safety space," she continues, voice gentling.

"Where omegas can retreat when the world gets overwhelming.

Where you can ugly cry into pillows that smell like your pack.

Where you can masturbate without shame. Where you can eat ice cream at 3 AM and no one judges. It's... it's fundamental omega care."

Masturbate, eat ice cream and just chill with no judgement…wow. Sounds like a literally dream.

"Oh."

The word comes out small, inadequate for the grief suddenly clogging my throat. Born an omega, and I'd never had what she describes. Never been offered it. Never thought to demand it when no one seemed to stress it was a big deal like she’s making.

"I brought it up once," I admit, focusing on my lemonade to avoid her eyes. "With Knox, years ago. Said something about wanting a space that was just mine."

"And?"

"He said the whole apartment was mine. Didn't understand why I'd need a designated area when I already had rooms. We were also hiding Icarus right…so that required a different space so the nanny’s could come in and out without suspicion…

hmmm." The memory stings fresh despite its age.

"Malcolm offered to help me organize a medical supply closet once.

Thought that's what I meant by wanting my own space. And Adyani..."

"Let me guess. Sent expensive pillows from Dubai but never actually helped you build anything."

"Close. Sent a meditation mat and suggested I try yoga."

"Fucking hell." Alexis looks genuinely offended on my behalf, throwing her hands in the sky. "No wonder you're anxious all the time. You've never had anywhere to let emotions out safely. Never had a proper space to just exist without performance."

She stands abruptly, energy shifting from languid to purposeful.

"We're fixing this. Today. Now."

"Fixing what?"

"Your complete lack of omega care education. But first—" She grins, and there's mischief in it that makes me nervous and intrigued in equal measure. "We're doing an activity that'll get all those bottled emotions out."

"What kind of activity?"

She presses a finger to her lips, winking.

"Surprise. But you'll need different clothes." She gestures at my plum dress. "Gorgeous, but not practical for what I have planned."

"I don't have?—"

"Check your closet. We had things delivered last night. I put them away this morning while you were drooling on Alessandro's shoulder."

The casual thoughtfulness of the gesture hits unexpectedly. "You bought me clothes?"

"We bought you clothes. Pack decision. Alessandro picked colors, I chose styles, the twins will probably buy you entirely new wardrobes when they arrive because they think shopping is a competitive sport.

" She moves closer, leaning down to press lips to my forehead in a gesture that's somehow both maternal and romantic.

"The duty of Alphas is to care for their omega.

It physically pains me that you haven't experienced that, but we're changing it. Starting now."

She pulls back, those ice-blue eyes holding mine with intensity that makes promises without words.

"Wear whatever feels right," she says, heading for the door. "But I'd love to see you in leather. Something about badass omegas in leather really does it for me."

"Alexis—"

She pauses at the doorway, looking back.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making me feel like I'm worth the effort."

Her expression softens into something genuine, dropping the teasing mask for a moment.

"You're worth everything, Velvet. We just need to convince you of that truth." She winks. "One hour. Don't be late. I have very specific plans for making you feel alive."

She disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with anticipation fizzing in my chest like champagne bubbles.

I finish my lemonade in three gulps and head to my room—my room, in this impossible glass house with people who buy me clothes and make me breakfast and want to teach me about nests.

The closet door opens to reveal organized abundance.

Everything arranged by color and function, tags still on most pieces, brands I recognize as expensive alternating with ones so exclusive I've never heard of them.

Dresses in jewel tones, jeans that will definitely make my ass look incredible, shirts ranging from casual cotton to silk that whispers against fingertips.

And in the back, leather.

Black leather pants that will fit like skin. A jacket that's somehow both tough and elegant. Even— I laugh at this —a leather skirt that's definitely too short for anyone over thirty to wear respectably.

But respectability died when I did.

What remains demands leather and whatever Alexis has planned.

I select the pants because they're practical, pair them with a burgundy silk camisole that matches nothing and everything, top it with the jacket because October in the mountains demands layers.

The mirror shows someone I don't recognize.

Silver hair against black leather. Pale skin between silk and hide. A woman who looks dangerous and expensive and like she might actually deserve a pack of criminally attractive Alphas who want to build her nests and take her on adventures.

"This is insane," I tell my reflection.

But I'm smiling.

Actually smiling at the possibility of what I’m venturing into.

At twenty-three, I thought adventure meant escaping poverty, raising Icarus successfully, maybe finding love that didn't require hiding. Life had other plans—two decades of fighting for everyone except myself, near-death by drowning, resurrection into something I'm still discovering.

Now, at thirty-nine, claimed by strangers who feel like fate, I'm finally getting the adventures I'd relegated to dreams.

The excitement in my chest is foreign—light and bubbly and free from the weight that's lived there so long I'd named it.

This is what twenty-somethings must feel like when they're getting ready for dates.

This is what I missed while I was building empires and saving others and accepting scraps disguised as love.

My phone buzzes: Five minutes - A

I grab it, noting the leather bag someone has thoughtfully left by the door—also new and hella expensive, but the perfect size for whatever we're doing.

The woman in the mirror doesn't look lost anymore.

She looks ready.

Ready for adventure.

The giddiness is almost embarrassing—thirty-nine years old and feeling like a teenager about to sneak out for the first time. But that's what this is, really. Sneaking out from the life I'd accepted as enough, into something that might be everything.

I check myself once more—leather fitting perfectly, silk providing just enough softness, boots I found that add three inches and attitude—then head downstairs.

Alessandro's in his office on a call, but he looks up as I pass. His eyes go dark, pupils dilating as he takes in the outfit.

He holds up one finger—wait—but I give him a saucy wink and blow him a kiss, shuffling away before he can distract me.

Business can wait. Adventures with dangerous female Alphas cannot.

Alexis waits by the door, keys in hand, her own leather jacket making us look like we're about to commit beautiful crimes together.

Alexis leaned against the doorframe, the early afternoon sun casting sharp angles across her sharp face, her eyes raking over me in a slow, luxurious sweep from boots to hair.

She grinned, wide and wicked, showing off a canine that gleamed in the light.

There was nothing coy about her appreciation—she drank me in, tongue caught briefly between her teeth as if she wanted to bite into the moment and leave visible marks.

“Well damn, Morclair. You clean up... sinfully well.” She gave an exaggerated whistle, actually fanned herself with the set of keys in her hand, then winked as she motioned for me to show off.

There was a performative element to it, a way she made ogling feel celebratory rather than objectifying.

I spun in place, partly to amuse her, partly because the clothes and the context made me want to strut like a catwalk model—or maybe a peacock in heat.

Alexis let out a low, appreciative growl.

“You know, if we didn’t have a schedule to keep, I’d drag you right back upstairs and wreck that outfit. But alas...” She gestured dramatically at the door, which I could now see was propped open to the driveway and the wild blue beyond. “Adventure calls.”

Her own outfit was a study in contradictions—tailored black jeans that hugged every muscle, battered engineer boots, a white T-shirt so thin the shadow of her sports bra was visible beneath, and a cropped motorcycle jacket that gave her upper body the geometry of a Greek statue.

On someone else it might have read as costume; on Alexis, it was a declaration of intent.

She looked like a genderbent James Dean, and the way she watched me made me feel like the femme fatale in a very stylish noir.

I paused, struck by the intimacy of being seen—truly seen—and desired, not as a commodity or a trophy, but as a whole person. I’d worn armor for so long I’d forgotten what it was like to be admired for the skin beneath.

She noticed my hesitation and her expression softened, just a shade. “You good?”

I nodded, determined not to ruin the moment with overthinking. “More than good. Maybe... nervous?”

Alexis’s eyes lit with a predatory playfulness. “Oh, darling. That’s when you know you’re living.” She slung an arm over my shoulder, her body heat and her scent—something clean, sharp, and faintly metallic—enveloping me instantly. “Let’s go fuck up some expectations.”

She steered me outside with a confidence that brooked no resistance, and I let myself be led, almost giddy beneath the bravado. The mountain air was cold enough to sting my cheeks, but the anticipation in my blood was hotter than the surface of the sun.

The world smelled like pine, ozone, and possibility.

I whispered, “Ready?” but it was less a question than an invocation, a way to summon the courage to leap before I looked."No idea what I'm ready for."

"Perfect answer." She opens the door to afternoon sunshine and mountain air that tastes like freedom. "Let's go make you feel something other than responsible."

I follow her out, leather creaking with movement, anticipation electric in my veins.

I’m confident that this activity would be nothing close to boring.

For the first time in years, I get to be irresponsible. Impractical. A bsolutely fucking useless except for whatever brings joy.

The thought makes me laugh as we head toward the vehicle she's chosen for this adventure, and Alexis doesn’t hesitate to offer her hand, making me reach out to hold hers as we practically skip.

It’s so girlie which has me laughing harder, and Alexis seems to join in because she’s probably haven’t allowed herself to skip.

Until me.

It’s just ignites a sense of freedom. To be claimed to a pack that feels so damn right. I haven’t even gotten to know all of them to the agree I hope to, but to be given the permission to discover who I am in this next chapter of my life brews pure happiness in the depths of my heart.

A taste of freedom.