Page 35 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

SPEED AND SURRENDER

~ALEXIS~

"ALEXIS!"

Her voice cracks on my name, but underneath the terror, I catch something else—exhilaration. The same rush I chase every time I push machines past their intended limits, every time I dance along the knife's edge between control and chaos.

I correct the slide with practiced ease, tires smoking as we rocket down the straightaway at speeds that would terrify insurance companies. The track stretches before us—a private circuit forty minutes from the cottage that the twins rent when they need to blow off steam legally.

"That's going to give your omega a heart attack!" Velvet gasps as we cross the finish line, her chest heaving beneath burgundy silk and leather.

"Probably." I can't suppress the giggle as I bring us to a slightly less dramatic stop in the pit area. "But you did say you wanted something exhilarating."

She groans, hand pressed to her chest where her heart is undoubtedly attempting escape. "Clearly you're one of those psychopaths who gets high on roller coasters that drop from the stratosphere."

"Guilty. I'm a complete sucker for speed and deadly chaos." I cut the engine, sudden silence ringing in our ears. "The closer to death, the more alive I feel. It's probably a psychological issue I should address."

"You're insane." But she's smiling as she says it, silver hair wild from the wind through the barely-cracked windows. "In a good way. A terrifying, probably-need-therapy, definitely-going-to-kill-me way."

"Want to take a break? Or try something else?"

She considers, those dark eyes studying the track through the windshield. "I wouldn't mind trying, but I've never driven a sports car before."

"You drive though?"

"Oh, that's—" She pauses, and I watch calculation flicker across her features. "You checked, didn't you? Whether I have a license, vehicle registrations, that kind of thing?"

"Standard background investigation when Alessandro mentioned your name three years ago." No point lying about it. "But you're right—no vehicle registered to you. Your driver's license is current but shows minimal usage. I assumed you didn't drive."

Her smirk carries secrets. "I don't drive in public.

The media would spin it as the Haven finally running out of money, or me being too proud to accept help, or whatever narrative damages donations that week.

" She shrugs, leather jacket creaking. "Stupid mentality, but it forced the habit.

Always had drivers unless I absolutely couldn't be seen. "

"Which was when?"

"Knox's gym at 4 AM. Medical appointments Malcolm didn't know about.

The occasional midnight grocery run when insomnia won.

" Her voice carries no emotion, just facts about a life lived in careful shadows.

"Here, surveillance is sport. Other countries don't dissect every omega's movement looking for weakness. "

The casual acceptance of that level of scrutiny makes my chest tight. I've hidden my gender, but never my whole existence.

"Speaking of surveillance—you okay with Knox finding us?"

She turns those sharp eyes on me, and I see the moment understanding clicks. "You let him find us."

No point denying it. "Guilty."

"Why?"

"Because I genuinely believe that man loves you.

" I unbuckle my seatbelt, turning to face her fully.

"But his pack? The doctor who violates you while you're unconscious?

The princess who sends gifts instead of presence?

They love the idea of you. Knox might love you properly, but he's shackled to cowards. "

Her frown deepens, processing implications, but I'm already opening my door.

"Come on. Your turn to drive. Let's see what you've got."

We switch places, Velvet sliding behind the wheel with movements that suggest more familiarity than expected. I buckle in, noting how she adjusts mirrors and seat position with efficiency that speaks of muscle memory.

"Quick rundown—paddle shifters here, launch control this button, traction management here but honestly just leave it off because where's the fun in computers keeping you safe?"

She nods, hands gripping the wheel with proper form that definitely didn't come from casual driving. "Ready?"

"Of course. Just try not to go too slow, we're not on a parade rou?—"

She slams the accelerator.

The McLaren launches like God kicked it in the ass—zero to sixty in 2.3 seconds, my skull pressed into the headrest while my stomach relocates to my spine.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT!"

But Velvet's laughing—actually laughing as she powers through the first turn at speeds I hadn't attempted, apexing with precision that speaks of serious training.

She's not just driving; she's conducting a symphony of controlled violence, four-wheel drifts through corners I'd taken cautiously, straightaway speeds that have the engine singing notes Ferrari engineers weep over.

She takes the chicane at velocities that shouldn't be possible, tires screaming their protests while staying exactly on the edge of adhesion.

My hands grip the door handle hard enough to leave impressions in leather while she giggles—fucking giggles—through a drift that would make Formula One drivers applaud.

The finish line approaches at speeds that blur scenery into abstract art. She crosses it and immediately throws us into a skidding stop that has me seeing my life flash before my eyes—hostile takeovers, board meetings, that unfortunate experiment with bangs in college.

When physics finally allows normal breathing, I'm pressed against the seat, chest heaving, staring at this silver-haired omega who just demolished my track record by seventeen seconds.

"Did you have fun?" She's grinning like a teenager who just discovered orgasms, pure joy radiating from every pore.

"I went to heaven, came back, and found the love of my life."

Her laugh fills the car as she unbuckles. "Come on, I'm hungry. Let's eat."

She's out and walking toward the track's service building before I remember how legs work.

I catch up as she's pulling off the racing gloves someone thoughtfully left in the car.

"How the fuck did you learn to drive like that?"

"Arcade racing games." She says it casually, like that explains everything.

"During my teen foster years, I was obsessed.

Spent every quarter I could earn or steal playing whatever racing game I could find.

It was release without destruction—all that rage and frustration channeled into perfect lap times instead of violence. "

"And that translated to real cars?"

"Physics is physics. Apex theory doesn't change between pixels and pavement. Weight transfer, momentum management, threshold braking—it all applies." She leans against the McLaren, and something about her casual confidence in leather and silk breaks my control entirely.

I pin her against six hundred thousand dollars of Italian engineering, hands braced on either side of her shoulders. We're close enough that I can count individual silver strands, see the flutter of pulse at her throat.

"What? Turned on by my spee?—"

I kiss her before she can finish, swallowing her surprise with hunger that's been building since breakfast. She tastes like adrenaline and lemonade, her mouth opening immediately under mine. My tongue finds hers, and the sound she makes— half gasp, half moan —shoots straight to my core.

Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer while I press her harder against the car.

The kiss turns filthy fast—teeth and tongues and the kind of desperate want that would scandalize anyone watching. She bites my bottom lip, and I growl into her mouth, Alpha instincts roaring at this omega who drives like she's invincible and kisses like she's trying to steal souls.

There was nothing sweet or measured about the way Velvet responded.

She bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, teeth scraping over delicate skin in that perfect knife's-edge between pain and want.

My Alpha instincts surged, the predator in me rising to the challenge; if she wanted a fight, she'd get one.

But then she slipped her tongue into my mouth with a soft, hungry whimper that dissolved whatever plans I had to assert dominance.

We were equals, sparring on a battlefield built from need and unspoken dare.

I pressed her back against the McLaren, pinning her to the curve of carbon fiber, hands caging either side of her face.

Through the thin dress shirt, I could feel her heartbeat—erratic, feverish, a staccato rivaling the engine we'd just tortured around the circuit.

She raked her nails down my forearms, dragging me impossibly closer, gasping into the kiss like we'd run two marathons instead of two laps.

"You're out of control," she whispered, breaking free just long enough to pant the accusation against my jaw.

"Only because you make me," I countered, barely coherent as I nipped her earlobe.

Her scent was different up close—intoxicating, dark, and layered with the chemical tang of adrenaline and the phantom heat of smoldering tires.

I wanted to drown in it, to memorize every note until it haunted my sleep.

She twisted in my grip, flipping the dynamic so that I was the one pressed between her body and the car.

Her hands mapped over my chest, nails testing the tensile strength of my shirt until she found my sidearm, holstered beneath my jacket.

She didn't flinch, just curled her fingers around the grip and leaned in, lips brushing over mine in a slow, deliberate pass designed to torment.

"Is this loaded?" she murmured, eyes alight with the same thrill she'd shown barreling through hairpin turns at 120 mph.

"Always," I replied, and this time her grin went wolfish—dangerous, dazzling, a challenge and a promise all at once.