Page 39 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

PUMPKIN SPICE AND PROMISES

~ALESSANDRO~

T he town square erupts in autumn glory—hay bales stacked into makeshift seating, corn stalks tied to every lamp post, and pumpkins in sizes ranging from adorable to agricultural miracle.

Orange and gold bunting stretches between Victorian storefronts while vendors hawk apple cider and kettle corn.

The air tastes like cinnamon and possibility.

Velvet bounces on her toes beside me, hands clasped like a child discovering Christmas exists.

"Alessandro! Look at the decorations! And the little scarecrows! Is that a pumpkin carved to look like a cat?"

Her excitement is infectious. She's transformed from the woman who verbally eviscerated Francois this morning into someone discovering joy in miniature moments.

The outfit helps—orange skirt that flares when she spins, white blouse with an orange bow at her throat that makes her look like autumn's ambassador.

Her silver hair falls in waves past her shoulders, held back by a brown velvet bow that matches her nude lipstick.

The stockings are my favorite part—sheer with tiny pumpkins climbing up her legs, disappearing under the skirt that hits mid-thigh. Platform boots in burnt orange bring her close to my height, though I still have three inches on her.

"You're staring," she observes, catching me admiring how morning light catches in her hair.

"You're worth staring at."

"Smooth talker." But she's smiling, fingers finding mine. "You clean up nice yourself, Mr. Devereaux."

The brown turtleneck was Dante's idea—something about complementary color theory I'd tuned out.

But paired with beige trousers and the Hermès belt Damon insisted on, I'll admit the effect works.

My hair's slicked back in a way that feels pretentious but photographs well, and the gold-rimmed glasses I don't need for vision complete the aesthetic.

"We look like we escaped from a Ralph Lauren advertisement," she observes.

"Expensive and slightly pretentious?"

"Gorgeous and completely out of place at a small-town festival."

Which is precisely the point. Every phone in visual range is aimed our direction, some subtle, most not. By noon, #RebelQueenFallFestival will be trending, and Francois will be choking on his croissant.

"Hungry?" I guide her toward the corner diner, weaving through crowds that part unconsciously for us.

"Starving. Emotional confrontations before breakfast should be illegal."

The diner is authentic Americana—red vinyl booths, checkerboard floors, and a jukebox that probably still plays actual records. The hostess, barely eighteen and clearly overwhelmed by the festival crowd, nearly drops her menus when we approach.

"Table for two, please," I request. "Somewhere with a view if possible."

Her eyes dart between us—recognition flickering. The Rebel Queen is famous enough, but add my face from business magazines and we become a story.

"Would you prefer the private dining room? It's quieter, but still has windows to the square."

"Perfect."

She leads us through the main diner, conversations stopping like dominoes falling. Whispers rise in our wake—is that, couldn't be, definitely is, oh my god—while phones appear with practiced casualness.

The private room is exactly right—windows on two walls providing views while maintaining distance from the most aggressive gawkers. Velvet slides into the booth with practiced grace, and I follow on the same side rather than across.

"Cozy," she observes as my thigh presses against hers.

"Strategic positioning."

"For what?"

"Optimal feeding angles."

She laughs, head dropping to my shoulder for a moment. "You're ridiculous."

The waitress appears—different from the hostess, older and more composed despite the way her eyes widen at our proximity.

"Coffee to start?"

"Please," we say in unison, then Velvet continues, "And can we see the entire menu? I want to try everything."

"Everything?"

"It's my first small-town festival." She practically vibrates with enthusiasm. "I want the full experience. Pancakes with real maple syrup. Eggs from chickens with names. Bacon from pigs who lived their best lives."

The waitress smiles, charmed. "Our farmer's breakfast has all that plus homemade biscuits and gravy."

"Two of those," I decide. "And fresh orange juice."

"Apple cider," Velvet corrects. "It's October."

"Apple cider," I amend, and the waitress disappears with a knowing smile.

"This place is perfect," Velvet sighs, gazing out at vendors setting up displays. "I always wanted to do this—visit some tiny town during peak fall, take ridiculous photos, eat too much pie."

"Why didn't you?"

"With who? Knox would have called it frivolous. Malcolm would have analyzed the nutritional content of everything. Adyani..." She trails off. "Adyani might have enjoyed it, but from Dubai, not in person."

"And now?"

"Now I have a pack that plans surprise festival visits and wears color coordination like it's our job." She turns those dark eyes on me. "Speaking of the pack, I love the glass house."

"Good, because it's yours."

"It's the twins' family place."

"Which they're giving to you. Us. The pack." I trace patterns on her hand where it rests on the table. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"

"No! I love it. The windows, the mountains, the absolute impracticality of heating that much glass." Her smile dims slightly. "But I'll have to go back to the city eventually. The Haven?—"

"Why?"

"Because I can't run a revolution from a mountain cottage."

"Says who?" I lean back, pulling her against my side. "The cottage is forty minutes from the city center. Twenty by helicopter. Your staff is completely capable of handling daily operations. You could work remotely, commute when needed, and actually have somewhere safe to retreat to."

"Helicopter?" Her voice rises an octave. "Who has a helicopter?"

"We have three. The company has seven, but those are for business."

She gapes at me. "Casual helicopter ownership. Of course."

"You had a Dubai princess in love with you and she never offered helicopter transport?"

Pink floods her cheeks. "Not... specifically."

"Don't tell Alexis or you'll be helicoptered everywhere. She just got her license and she's insufferable about it."

"Alexis can fly helicopters?"

"Alexis can do anything she decides to learn. It's actually annoying."

"Speaking of our terrifying female Alpha—" She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Is she actually royalty?"

The smile escapes before I can stop it.

"Alessandro!"

"She's heir to a banking dynasty that's technically nobility. Swiss aristocracy, though they prefer 'banking royalty' these days."

"And nobody told me?"

"Alexis doesn't advertise it. Says hereditary wealth is boring compared to earned fortunes." I shrug. "Plus everyone assumes the twins are the ones with royal connections."

"Because they act like the world exists for their entertainment?"

"Exactly."

Our food arrives in waves—platters that could feed small armies. Pancakes thick as phone books, eggs so orange they look fake, bacon that actually smells like smoke instead of sadness. Velvet makes sounds that belong in different contexts as she tastes everything.

"Oh god, real butter. When did I last have real butter?"

I spread jam on a biscuit, holding it to her lips. "Open."

"I can feed myself."

"But where's the fun in that?"

She accepts the bite, eyes rolling back dramatically. "That's inappropriate for public consumption."

"Wait until you try the gravy."

We work through breakfast with me feeding her every third bite, watching her fight between independence and enjoyment. By the time plates are cleared, she's practically purring, leaning into me with contentment that makes my chest tight.

"Dessert?" I ask against her hair.

"I'm so full I might explode." She stretches, the movement pressing her chest against the white blouse in ways that test my control. "But what did you have in mind?"

"Something that might not be on the menu."

Her eyes darken, catching the implication immediately. "Oh? And what makes you think I'd be interested in... off-menu options?"

My hand finds her thigh under the table, fingertips tracing patterns on those ridiculous pumpkin stockings. "Call it hopeful speculation."

She shifts, thighs pressing together, and I catch the subtle change in her scent—interest blooming into want.

The waitress reappears with timing that suggests she's been watching. "Dessert menu?"

"Please," I respond without breaking eye contact with Velvet. "We'll call when we're ready to order."

Pink stains the waitress's cheeks as she processes the weight beneath those words. "Of course."

She flees with admirable speed.

"You're making it obvious," Velvet whispers, though her hand covers mine on her thigh, preventing retreat.

"If I wanted obvious, I'd already be under this table."

"Alessandro—"

I lean in until my lips brush her ear, voice dropping to frequencies only she can hear.

"So are you going to let your Alpha do some exploring?" I let the syllables curl around her like smoke, savoring the way her breath stuttered, then hitched, then went shallow and quick beneath my palm.

Her grip on my hand spasmed, not in panic or refusal but in a wordless plea for more, her pulse singing against my thumb.

The air between us charged, an electric field of anticipation where the ambient aroma of coffee and maple syrup could barely keep pace with the sharp, honeyed spike of her want.

Anyone who passed our door—even the inattentive, the old, the jaded—would know exactly what was happening, what was about to happen, what had already happened in the way her pupils eclipsed the brown of her irises, in the way she couldn’t keep from shifting to let my touch press deeper.