Page 8 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)
THE COWARD'S CLAIM
~MALCOM~
T he monitors cast their cold blue glow across my office, each screen a window into her private torment.
I told myself it was for her safety— the cameras, the surveillance, the constant watching .
That's what I'd convinced myself when I'd installed them three years ago, after that Alpha had tried to break into the Haven.
Protection. Security. All the noble reasons a Doctor Alpha tells himself when he crosses lines that shouldn't be crossed.
But watching Velvet writhe in her silk sheets, her fingers working desperately between her thighs, I couldn't pretend anymore. This wasn't about protection. This was about need.
Mine. Hers. Ours.
"Fuck," I breathed, my hand gripping the edge of my desk until my knuckles went white.
She'd taken the sleeping pills twenty minutes ago—I'd watched her stumble to the bathroom, shake out two of the little blue capsules I'd prescribed, then wash them down with the remnants of her wine. The same wine I'd told her a hundred times not to mix with sedatives.
Same warnings she ignored because what else did she have to help her sleep?
Not us because we’re not official.
Fifteen fucking years of this dance, and here I sat in my office at 2 AM, watching the woman I loved destroy herself one night at a time because none of us had the courage to push past her walls.
On the screen, she'd finally found release—unsatisfying, I could tell by the way her body shuddered and then went still, no real relaxation in her muscles. Just emptiness. The kind of orgasm that left you more frustrated than before, more aware of what you were missing.
I knew that feeling intimately. Knew it every time I touched myself thinking of her, every time I came with her name on my lips and her scent only in memory.
She curled onto her side, and even through the camera, I could see the tears sliding down her cheeks. My chest tightened, that familiar ache that came from watching her suffer and knowing I was part of the cause.
The sleeping pills would take effect soon. Pull her under into that deep, dreamless sleep she craved. The kind where she didn't have to feel the emptiness, didn't have to acknowledge what her body needed.
What we all needed.
I pushed back from my desk, a decision made before my rational mind could stop me. This was wrong —I knew it was wrong. But watching her break apart night after night was killing something inside me, and I couldn't do it anymore.
The walk to her suite took five minutes. Five agonizingly long minutes where I could have turned back, should have chosen to be the ethical man I pretended to be.
Instead, I punched in her entry code— she'd given it to me years ago "for emergencies" —and pressed my thumb to the scanner.
The lock disengaged with a soft click that sounded like thunder in the quiet hallway.
She let me have this access. Let all of us have it, actually. Knox had his codes, Adyani had hers before she'd left for Dubai. We could come and go as we pleased, and yet we rarely did.
Respecting boundaries that kept us all miserable.
Until I'm doing stupid shit like stalking the Omega I'm obsessed with at the wee hours of the night to sustain this "respectable" distance that does nothing but make us all suffer.
Her apartment smelled like her— black orchids and spiced wine, with that underlying sweetness that was purely Velvet . I moved through the familiar space, noting the changes since my last visit. New curtains, darker than before. Another empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter.
The hallway to her bedroom was lined with photographs, and I paused despite myself.
Here we were at Knox's gym opening twenty years ago, her smile bright and genuine before she'd learned to armor herself.
There was the beach trip to Morocco eight years back, Adyani's arm around her waist, both of them laughing at something off-camera.
A candid shot from last year's medical conference, where she'd been my "plus one"—the quotation marks had been her addition to the invitation.
We looked happy in these frozen moments.
Like a real pack.
If only.
Her bedroom door was cracked open, and I could hear her restless movements, the whisper of silk against skin. I pushed it open slowly, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.
She was ethereal in her misery.
Purple curls spread across the pillow like spilled wine, silver and white roots showing at her temples where the dye had faded.
The silk nightgown had ridden up to her waist, exposing the generous curves that haunted my dreams. Her breasts strained against the delicate fabric, nipples still hard from her earlier activities.
My cock throbbed painfully in my slacks, and I bit back a groan. This was such a bad idea. Such a monumentally stupid, unethical, dangerous idea.
But I was already moving toward the bed, already justifying what I was about to do.
She needed this. Needed touch, needed release, needed to feel wanted even if she couldn't consciously accept it.
And I needed to give it to her, needed to provide what her body craved even if she'd never let me when awake.
We were all cowards in this dance, but maybe in the darkness, in the space between sleep and waking, we could be honest.
I slipped off my shoes, shed my lab coat— always wearing the damn thing like armor, even at 2 AM —and carefully eased onto the bed behind her. The mattress dipped under my weight, and she stirred, a soft whimper escaping her lips.
"Shh," I whispered, pulling her back against my chest. "It's just me."
She inhaled deeply, her body recognizing my scent even in sleep—eucalyptus and mint from the medical bay, clean linen from my obsessive need for order. The tension bled out of her muscles as she settled against me, and something inside my chest cracked.
"Mal?" Her voice was thick with sleep and pills, barely conscious.
"I'm here," I murmured against her hair, breathing in her scent like a drowning man. "I've got you."
She made a sound that might have been my name or might have been nothing, burrowing back against me. The movement pressed her ass against my erection, and I had to bite my lip hard to stay quiet.
Another whimper, this one distinctly sad, and my heart clenched. Even in sleep, drugged, she was hurting. Needing. Empty in ways that went beyond the physical.
My hand moved without conscious thought, sliding over her hip, fingers tracing the curve of her waist. She was so soft, warm, and so fucking perfect I could barely breathe.
"What do you need?" I whispered, knowing she couldn't really answer, knowing I was asking myself as much as her.
She shifted restlessly, thighs pressing together, and I could smell her arousal—thick and sweet and calling to every Alpha instinct I possessed.
Who am I kidding? I know what she needs. So desperately in the depths of this lonely night.
My hand moved lower, gathering the silk of her nightgown, pushing it up slowly.
This was wrong. This was so fucking wrong. But ? —
"Please," she mumbled, still mostly asleep, and that single word shattered my last restraint.
Fuck...is she even aware it's me?
Deep down, I know that doesn't matter to me. Not with how horny I'm currently aiming to please her. To make those whimpers of sadness morph into sounds of pleasure.
My fingers found the edge of her panties, already soaked through.
The first brush of contact made her moan, a sound that went straight to my cock.
I traced her through the fabric, feeling the heat of her, the wetness that had nothing to do with her earlier solo activities and everything to do with proximity to an Alpha.
To me.
"Is this what you want?" I asked, needing some kind of permission even if it was given in dreams. "These fingers?"
She moaned again, hips shifting to press against my hand.
In sleep, without her walls and careful control, her body was honest. Desperate. Needy in ways she'd never let herself be while conscious.
I pushed her panties aside, my fingers finding slick, swollen flesh. She was drenched, pussy clenching around nothing, empty and aching. The first touch of my finger to her clit made her whole body jerk, a gasp escaping her lips.
"Mal..." Definitely my name this time, breathy and wanting.
"I'm here," I promised, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves with the same precision I used in surgery. "I've got you, love. Let me take care of you, hmm?"
She was so responsive, even dulled by sleep and pills.
Every touch drew out another moan, another shift of her hips seeking more. I'd imagined this so many times—touching her, tasting her, learning exactly how to take her apart.
But the reality was so much better than any fantasy.
I slipped one finger inside her, and fuck, she was tight.
Hot and wet and perfect, her inner walls clenching around the intrusion like they were trying to pull me deeper. She moaned, louder this time, and I pressed my lips to her neck to muffle my own response.
"That's it," I whispered against her skin, starting a slow rhythm. In and out, curling to find that spot that would make her see stars.
A second finger joined the first, stretching her, and she keened softly.
Her body moved with mine, unconsciously seeking the pleasure I was offering. I could feel how desperate she was, how empty she'd been, how much she needed exactly this.
My thumb found her clit, circling in time with my thrusting fingers, and her breathing changed. Faster, shallower, little whimpers escaping with each exhale. She was climbing toward release, and I was determined to give her something better than what she'd managed alone.
"Come for me," I urged, knowing she couldn't really hear me, not caring. "Let go, Velvet. Let me see you fall apart."
I pressed kisses to her neck, gentle bites that would leave marks she'd see in the morning. Evidence of this moment, of my presence, of the fact that she wasn't as alone as she believed.