Chapter 22 Willa
TWENTY-TWO
willa
I wake up to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar windows and the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside me.
For a moment, I don’t remember where I am. Then, with a delicious slide of bare thigh against mine, I do.
Charlie’s bed. His arm draped heavy and warm across my waist, his chest pressed against my back, his breath stirring the hair at my nape.
The moment is steeped in juxtaposition and questions. Should I be happy? Nervous? Embarrassed? The anxiety of not knowing what I’m supposed to feel starts to ramp up until I feel the stubble of Charlie’s cheek against my neck as he burrows deeper into the covers and me.
I close my eyes and just feel. And what I find is elation. There’s this bubbling, effervescent feeling in my chest that I can’t quite name, like champagne fizzing up and threatening to spill over.
This is not part of the fake relationship plan.
I stare at the arm wrapped around me—strong and corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, the hand splayed possessively across my stomach. Charlie’s hand. Charlie’s arm. Charlie pressed against every inch of my back, warm and solid and real.
I try to blame it on the heat spike. Try to tell myself that this feeling—this dangerous, terrifying, wonderful feeling—is just residual hormones and endorphins and the inevitable result of three Alphas taking care of me through a blip in biology.
But I’m not that good at lying to myself anymore.
My heart is tripping, stumbling, falling headfirst into wanting this for real. Wanting them for real. The fake courtship, the two-month expiration date, the careful boundaries I tried to set—they’re all dissolving like sugar in hot tea.
Not everyone is your father, I tell myself firmly. Not everyone is Felton. Maybe you can actually believe them when they say they want you.
The thought is exhilarating and frightening in equal measure.
Charlie shifts behind me, his arm tightening briefly before relaxing again, and his scent wraps around me—sage and sweetgrass, like the fields I grew up in. He’s always felt like home, a safe place to fall.
I pull a deep breath into my lungs, and the mix is intoxicating—Charlie’s earthy warmth blending with the salty bergamot and leather of Beau and the rich chocolate and spice of Jake that still cling to my skin.
The combined scents settle something deep in my Omega, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.
This is what being a pack is supposed to feel like.
This is what home is supposed to feel like.
My body recognizes it even if my mind is still catching up, my Omega purring softly in contentment at being thoroughly cared for by all three of them.
Carefully, I slip out of Charlie’s arms. He mumbles something in his sleep, reaching for me, and I freeze. But he just rolls over, his face pressed into the pillow where my head was, and settles back into sleep.
I stand there for a moment, looking down at him. At this face I’ve known my whole life. The boy who taught me to skip stones, climb trees, and stand up to bullies. The man who disappeared from my life and then came crashing back in, claiming me without hesitation.
I have to pinch myself. This can’t be real. Can it?
I grab a shirt from the floor, and my eyes roll back when I draw in the deep musk of it.
It smells of Charlie and sweat and hay. I could drown in this scent.
When I pull it on, it hangs to mid-thigh, the long sleeves swallowing my hands.
I roll them up and pad out into the hallway, my feet silent on the hardwood floor.
The house is quiet. Early morning light streams through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and honey. I wander through the familiar spaces, my fingers trailing along the walls, and I’m struck by how much has stayed the same.
The kitchen is still in the same spot, though the appliances are newer—Charlie must have remodeled after his mom passed away. A wave of regret washes over me at not being here for that. The living room still has that massive stone fireplace. The hallway still creaks in the same places.
I followed my brother and Charlie through these halls a hundred times when we were kids. Played hide-and-seek in these rooms. Sat at that kitchen table, eating his mom’s cookies while Caleb and Charlie took turns trying to steal cookie dough.
There was a room upstairs, in the back. A small one, tucked away at the end of the hall.
I remember loving it—the way the light came through the windows, the way it felt separate from the rest of the house.
My own secret space. Because of the way it sat under the roofline, it was all angles.
It always felt like a tower room, and instead of a princess, I was a knight set to defend.
My knight. My castle. My escape from a house that never felt like home and a father who never felt like family.
I find myself walking toward it, drawn by memory and the ghost of the girl I used to be. When I push open the door, I’m surprised to find it empty. No furniture, no boxes, just bare floors and walls painted a soft cream color.
But the windows are the same—large and east-facing, letting in streams of morning sunlight that pool on the floor in a splash of warmth.
I move to the closet nestled under the eaves, my heart already knowing what I’m looking for even if my mind hasn’t caught up yet. And when I crouch down and peer into the secret part of the nook near the upper hinge, I’m filled with a nostalgia so sharp it steals my breath.
I can’t believe it’s still there.
A little heart, carved carefully into the wood with my brother’s pocketknife. Inside: WJ + CH. Childish and secret and achingly sincere.
I remember when my affection became more than sisterly. I was maybe twelve, and he was probably seventeen or eighteen, and he told us about his and Caleb’s plans to go off to college when they graduated.
My heart broke into a million pieces. I ran up here, too afraid to face the possibility that he wouldn’t be here anymore. Too young to understand that we were years away from what real romantic love looked like, but my girlhood crush felt so consuming, so real.
I’d scribbled that heart like a spell, trying to will him to stay, to fall head over heels for me. A desperate child’s hope, carved into wood and infused with all the longing I didn’t know how to name.
And then they left. And I was alone in that big house with my father’s sharp words and sharper disapproval, with no brother to shield me and no Charlie to make me laugh. The loneliness had been crushing, a weight I carried for years.
A soft chuckle escapes me as I run my fingers over the carving, the wood smooth with age.
I wonder if he ever found it. Wonder if he knew that the little girl who followed him around like a shadow was already half in love with him, her Omega recognizing something in his Alpha even before either of us presented.
Wonder if he’d laugh at twelve-year-old Willa and her foolish heart.
Or if he’d understand that some part of me has been waiting in this room ever since, defending my tower, hoping my knight would come back.
I close the little door and move to the center of the room, sinking down onto the floor in one of those pools of light. The warmth soaks into my skin, and I close my eyes, tilting my face towards the sunlight streaming through the windows.
When my father’s voice got too sharp, when I needed to escape, I’d sit in this exact spot and pretend this was my room. My house. My life.
I remember the last time I came here. The week I presented as Omega. The week everything changed.
I’d cried on Mrs. Holt’s shoulder as she tried her best to comfort me, her Beta warmth doing little to soothe the overwhelming rush of newness at my designation, the sudden sharpness of scents, the terrifying awareness of my own vulnerability in a world that saw Omegas as less than.
I’d piled up blankets and pillows I’d stolen from the linen closet, and I’d curled up in the sunlight, making a nest before I understood the need or what a real Omega nest was.
And I dreamed of a life that felt less heavy.
Less hard. And far, far away from my father and his machinations when he found out what I’d presented as.
To him, I was a tool, a resource, a weak, emotional asset.
His words still echo sometimes. And the memory of what he had planned for me.
But then little girl Willa had to grow up. I never came back after that day, even though Mrs. Holt had always said I was welcome. But I couldn’t. I quickly realized that fantasy only accomplished one thing—it made a shitty life that much harder to bear. Hope hurt more than resignation.
So instead, I leaned into the wild side of my nature.
I became the girl who rode harder, fought dirtier, laughed louder than anyone expected.
I chased bulls, climbed fences, and dared anyone to tell me I couldn’t.
I wore my ferocity like armor, all bravado and sharp edges, preferring to hide in plain sight rather than in tiny rooms where my vulnerabilities could catch up to me.
It worked for a while.
If I were wild enough, reckless enough, maybe no one would see how desperately I wanted to curl up in a nest and be taken care of.
That’s the fucked-up part about being an Omega—we’re genetically wired to need care, to crave it like oxygen, and society punishes us for it.
Calls us weak for wanting what our biology demands.
I rub at the old familiar ache in my chest.
Desire and hope are funny things. Neither is easy to deny forever, no matter how hard you try.
And sitting here now, in this room full of ghosts and girlhood wishes, I can feel that soft, secret part of me stirring.
The part that wants to build a nest. The part that wants to be soft.
The part that’s tired of pretending I don’t need anyone.
The part that’s maybe, possibly, ready to stop running.
What would it be like now? To have a real nest? To build it here, in this house, with this pack?
The thought makes a sudden burst of longing bloom in my chest so intense it steals my breath.
I could see it so clearly—soft blankets in shades of blue and cream, pillows scented with pine and bergamot and chocolate, a space that’s entirely mine but also entirely theirs. A place to feel safe. To be soft. To let my guard down completely.
“There you are.”
I jump, my eyes flying open. Charlie’s standing in the doorway, wearing only sweatpants, his hair adorably mussed from sleep. He’s holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up between us.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping inside. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” I accept the mug he offers, wrapping my hands around it. The warmth seeps into my palms, and I hope the guilty flush of what I was just thinking about isn’t too bright. “Thank you. How did you know how I take it?”
“Three sugars, splash of cream.” He settles down beside me in the sunlight, close enough that our shoulders touch. “I remember.”
Of course he does. Charlie always remembered the little things.
“What are you doing up here?” he asks eventually.
I consider deflecting, making a joke, but something about this moment—the quiet morning, the sunlight, the way he’s looking at me with genuine curiosity—makes me want to be honest.
“Do you remember…?” I pause. “When we were kids, we’d come up here and play war games or hide and seek. We’d build forts…”
I trail off, suddenly embarrassed. Charlie raises his eyebrows, telling me to keep going.
“I used to come here and pretend it was mine. Pretend I lived here instead of…” I don’t want to voice the rest.
“Instead of with your father,” Charlie finishes gently.
I nod. “I’d imagine what it would be like. To have a room like this. A house like this. A family like yours.” I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Stupid, right? I was just a kid playing pretend.”
“It’s not stupid.” His voice is fierce, and when I look at him, his eyes are intense. “Willa, wanting to feel safe, wanting a place that’s yours—that’s not stupid. That’s human. That’s…”
“Omega?” I supply somewhat bitterly when he trails off.
“I was going to say normal. But yeah, Omega too.” He reaches over and takes my free hand, threading our fingers together. “You deserve every ounce of love the world has to give. Let us court you properly. Be our Omega.”
My throat tightens. “Charlie…”
“I mean it. You fucking deserve every softness and smile and comfort.” His voice roughens with emotion. “When I think about it, I get so fucking mad. Mad at myself, at your father, hell, even at Caleb for leaving you there alone when you needed someone.”
“Charlie—”
“Just be here,” he says, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to my palm. “With me. With us. The rest will figure itself out.”
He leans in, and when his lips meet mine, I breathe in his exhalation. His hand slides into my hair, cradling my head, and I taste coffee and something sweeter. The kiss turns heated, his tongue sliding against mine, a low rumble building in his chest that makes my Omega purr in response.
His other hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and I’m climbing into his lap without thinking, the scent of my slick thick between our bodies, the coffee mugs forgotten somewhere beside us.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, and I can feel the hard length of him pressing against me even through our clothes.
Charlie grips the oversized shirt I’m wearing until I’m trapped in the cage of his arms. I rise up on my knees to deepen the kiss, and I feel his Alpha surge to meet me.
“Charlie!”
We break apart, both breathing hard. Jake’s voice carries up the stairs, exasperated and loud.
“Get your asses downstairs! Breakfast is ready, and if you two don’t stop making out in that room, I’m eating all the bacon… or joining you… or both!”
Charlie drops his forehead to my shoulder with a groan. “I’m really going to kill him this time.”
I laugh, breathless and flushed, my lips still tingling. “He’s not wrong, though. We should probably…”
“Yeah.” Charlie pulls back reluctantly, his eyes still dark with want. “But we’re finishing this later.”
“Promise?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
His smile is slow and devastating. “That's a fucking promise, buttercup.” He pulls me in for one last slick-inducing kiss.
That I am definitely here for.