Page 38 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

PUBLIC DECLARATIONS

~VELVET~

" C 'est complètement déraisonnable!"

The French explodes from my mouth as I storm into the kitchen, phone pressed to my ear while Francois—the director of one of our major funding organizations—spews his concerns about my recent media exposure.

The cottage's kitchen gleams in morning light, all marble and chrome and windows revealing mountains dressed in October gold.

"Non, Francois. The movement isn't about hiding who we are anymore." I yank open the refrigerator with enough force to rattle bottles. "If you're threatening to pull funding because I won't confirm or deny having a pack, that's your prerogative."

A pitcher of lemonade waits on the middle shelf—Alexis's creation from this morning, already becoming my new addiction. The perfect balance of tart and sweet, with fresh mint that makes each sip feel like sophistication. I pour a glass one-handed while Francois continues his tirade.

"Les photos sont partout!" he insists, and I can practically see him waving the papers.

The photos are everywhere.

Of course they are. The twins kissing me at the airport yesterday has apparently broken the internet. #RebelQueenClaimed trending worldwide. Photos from every angle of two mob princes marking their territory while I stood there looking thoroughly kissed and not remotely apologetic.

"Et alors?" I shoot back, taking a long sip of lemonade. "What I do in my personal life isn't collateral for business negotiations. If you want to threaten withdrawal over gossip?—"

"It's not gossip when there's photographic evidence of you with men young enough to be?—"

"Careful, Francois." My voice drops to dangerous registers. "Think very carefully about your next words."

He doesn't heed the warning.

"This is clearly some publicity stunt to make yourself seem attractive at forty. But it won't work long-term, and I don't want our company's assets associated with that image. The desperate aging omega clinging to?—"

An arm wraps around my waist from behind, solid and warm and smelling of leather and storm clouds. The phone disappears from my hand before I can unleash the fury building in my chest. Alessandro brings the device to speaker, setting it on the marble island.

"—understand that our shareholders have concerns about?—"

"Then sever all ties."

Alessandro's voice cuts through Francois's pompous rambling like a scalpel through tissue. I look up to find him dressed in dark jeans and a henley that makes his shoulders look broader, his green eyes focused on the phone with predatory intensity.

"Excusez-moi?" Francois chokes. "Who is—is this Mr. Devereaux?"

"Whether I'm Mr. Devereaux or not is irrelevant." Alessandro's arm tightens around me, pulling me back against his chest. "What matters is that anyone who speaks to my omega with such disrespect forfeits the privilege of her association."

"Your omega? This is highly?—"

"Let me clarify something for you, Francois.

" The way Alessandro says his name makes it sound like profanity.

"Your company posted losses for three consecutive quarters.

Your board is under investigation for embezzlement.

Your pharmaceutical subsidiary just failed FDA approval for the fourth time.

You need the Morclair Foundation more than we need you. "

I can hear Francois's sharp inhale through the speaker. Alessandro continues, relentless.

"But please, by all means, withdraw your funding. We'll ensure everyone knows why—that Francois Dubois thinks omegas over thirty-five shouldn't have romantic lives. I'm sure your shareholders will appreciate that perspective, especially the forty-three percent who are omega females."

"That's not what I?—"

"Have a pleasant day. Don't bother calling back. This number will be blocked within sixty seconds."

He ends the call with surgical precision, then picks up the phone again, fingers flying across the screen. True to his word, Francois's number joins the blocked list.

"Better?" he asks, looking down at me with concern softening those impossible eyes.

"Much better." I turn in his arms, my hands finding his chest. "Though I could have handled him."

"I know. But why should you have to?" He leans down, pressing lips to my forehead. "Good morning, by the way."

A giggle escapes—when did I become someone who giggles?—as his lips find mine properly. The kiss is gentle, tasting of coffee and intention.

"Did I wake you with my yelling?"

"No. Been up since dawn planning." His hands settle on my waist, thumbs stroking through the silk of my robe.

"Planning what?"

"Surprise. Pack field trip." His smile carries mischief. "But you won't know details until you get dressed. Think autumn in the mountains. Layers. Comfortable shoes."

"Oh?" I shape my lips around the sound, watching his eyes track the movement. "Everyone's going?"

"The twins are upstairs coordinating outfits—apparently our lack of color coordination offends them. Alexis is showering and threatening violence if they enter her room."

Excitement bubbles in my chest like champagne. "What are you wearing?"

"Black."

"Alessandro!" I roll my eyes dramatically. "Wear color for once."

"Why?"

"Because I want us to look like we stepped from a fashion magazine." I trace patterns on his chest, feeling muscles tense beneath cotton. "Want everyone staring, wondering how I collected such gorgeous Alphas."

His laugh rumbles through both our bodies. "If that's what our omega wants..."

"It is."

He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open for him. When we break apart, we're both breathing harder.

"One hour," he warns. "Be ready or I'm coming up there to hurry your gorgeous ass along."

"Mmm, promise?" I step back with deliberate slowness, letting the robe shift to reveal one shoulder. "Though you'd just get distracted by said ass."

The blush that colors his cheeks is delightful. "Don't tempt me."

"Tempting you is quickly becoming my favorite hobby."

I leave him standing in the kitchen, adjusting himself through his jeans, while I practically skip toward the stairs.

The excitement feels juvenile—thirty-nine years old and giddy about a surprise outing with my pack.

But that's the point, isn't it? Finally getting to experience things I missed while building empires and saving everyone except myself.

The bedroom has been transformed in my absence. Shopping bags line one wall—Nordstrom, Saks, boutique names I don't recognize. A note in Dante's handwriting: "Saw these and thought of you. -D&D"

Inside the first bag: cashmere in jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, deep amethyst that will complement my silver hair.

The second: jeans that definitely cost four figures, butter-soft and perfectly distressed.

The third makes me laugh—leather jackets in burgundy, forest green, and one in purple so deep it's almost black.

"Subtle," I mutter, but I'm smiling.

A knock interrupts my exploration.

"Come in."

The door opens to reveal the twins, both dressed in what can only be described as autumn pornography. Dante in rust-colored cashmere that makes his hazel eyes look like honey. Damon in forest green that emphasizes every muscle. Both in perfectly fitted dark jeans that should be illegal.

"We brought options," Dante announces, holding up more bags.

"And opinions," Damon adds, already moving to the clothes spread on my bed. "That purple leather is perfect for today."

"Where are we going?"

"Nice try," they say in unison, then Dante continues, "But Alessandro made us promise. Something about you needing to practice trusting your pack."

"Manipulative bastard."

"Brilliant bastard," Damon corrects, pulling out a cream sweater that probably costs more than most mortgage payments. "This, the purple leather, those jeans. Trust us."

"You just want me in purple."

"We want you in everything. Or nothing." Dante's smile is pure sin. "But purple will photograph well."

"Photograph?"

"Where we're going, there will be witnesses." Damon's matching smile makes my stomach flutter. "Time the world sees the Rebel Queen properly claimed."

They leave me to dress, though not before each pressing a kiss to my cheeks—synchronized as always, leaving me flushed and wondering how I survived forty years without this attention.

The outfit comes together perfectly. The cashmere sweater clings without suffocating, the purple leather adds edge while staying elegant, the jeans make my ass look incredible—not that it needs help, but appreciation for Italian denim is real.

I'm applying lipstick—burgundy to tie everything together—when Alexis appears in my doorway.

"Fuck, you look good."

She's in black jeans and a sapphire sweater that makes her eyes electric, blonde hair styled in that sharp bob that probably requires weekly maintenance.

"So do you." I cap the lipstick. "Ready for whatever nonsense the boys have planned?"

"It's actually good nonsense this time." She enters, adjusting my collar with casual intimacy. "You'll love it."

"Hints?"

"Public. Scenic. Lots of opportunities for Francois to choke on his breakfast when photos surface."

"Petty. I love it."

"That's our omega." She kisses my forehead, careful not to smudge my lipstick. "Come on. The boys are getting impatient."

We descend together to find the men waiting in the foyer, and my breath catches. Alessandro has actually worn color—deep burgundy that matches my lipstick. With his dark hair and green eyes, he looks like autumn personified.

"Better?" he asks, spreading his arms for inspection.

"Perfect."

The word comes out breathier than intended, but the smile it earns makes my knees weak.

"Ready for adventure?" Dante asks, offering his arm.

"Ready for anything," I confirm, accepting Damon's arm as well.

We exit as a unit—five people who shouldn't work together but do. The October air tastes like possibility, like freedom, like fuck you to everyone who said I was too old, too difficult, too much.

"Francois is going to hate this," I observe as we approach two vehicles—the Bentley and a Range Rover that wasn't here yesterday.

"Good," Alessandro says, opening the Bentley's door. "Allow them to all see what they missed by being cowards."

I slide into leather luxury, surrounded by my pack, heading toward whatever surprise they've orchestrated.

For the first time in twenty years, I don't need to know the destination.

I trust the journey.