Chapter 9
Finn
Four days.
She hasn’t left her apartment in four days.
I pace the length of my newly-obtained apartment, flicking the curtain open just enough to scan the street below. Nothing. No familiar flash of pink hair, no sign of her. She hasn’t even been walking around her apartment across the street.
I know her schedule. Her routines. I know the way she craves movement, the way she burns restless energy walking through the city. She doesn’t sit still. She doesn’t hide.
And yet, for four days, she’s been a ghost.
Something is wrong.
I rake a hand through my hair, breathing through the irritation buzzing beneath my skin. Patience, Finn. Patience. I tell myself it’s nothing, that she’s fine. That she’s simply recovering from the game, from whatever minor inconvenience has kept her inside. But I don’t believe that.
Not when I’ve seen the men guarding her. Besides the three in her apartment, there are more around her building.
I’ve tracked their movements, watched them trade shifts outside, covering the entrances like she’s some high-profile asset instead of my Willow. Mine.
The first day, I waited. The second day, I started watching the exits more closely. By the third, I was trailing one of them when he left for coffee, just to see where he went, if he reported back to someone, if he was hiding something from me.
And today, I’m done waiting.
I move to my desk, flipping through the pictures I printed last night. A habit, one that usually soothes me, lets me see her the way I see her, not the way the world does.
But tonight, the images just make my blood burn.
Because they’re old. Because they’re not her now.
Because I don’t know what’s happening to her.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I pick up one of the more recent shots, the one from that night at Poor Choices, from before she disappeared. Her lips parted, her pulse hammering in her throat, her pupils wide and dark as she looked at me.
She felt it. She knows what we are.
So why is she hiding? I exhale sharply, shoving the pictures back into their folder. Enough. But the thought won’t stop churning.
She’s not alone in there. Those alphas, they’re in her space. Too close. Watching her sleep. Maybe touching her when she’s too weak to fight them off.
The burn in my chest spikes, sharp and acidic. Mine.
I slide my jacket on, pocket my knife—just in case—and step into the night.
It’s time to get answers.
Getting inside is easy.
Too easy.
The men guarding her are good, but they aren’t watching for someone with my patience.
They watch the doors, the street, the obvious entry points.
They don’t think about shadows, about someone already inside before they even know they’ve been breached.
It helps that the guys watching the doors aren’t one of the three.
Those three are perceptive, but I watched them all pile into a car earlier, called away by something more important than Willow.
There’s nothing more important than her; they should already know that.
I slip through the alley, past the service entrance where deliveries come in for the small shop in the lobby. A worker buzzes in with a load of supplies, and I step in behind him, moving as though I belong. No one questions confidence. No one notices a ghost.
I take the stairs, moving slow, silent. The guards are stationed on her floor. One in the hallway, another nearby. Good. That means they assume no one’s inside.
Idiots.
I wait, pressing myself into the shadowed corner of the stairwell. The second one steps out, walking toward the elevator, probably to check the perimeter. He doesn’t even glance my way.
Perfect.
I slip into the hall, past the first guard’s blind spot, my breath steady, my movements practiced. I don’t run. I don’t rush. I move like I belong.
And then I’m inside with a quick picking of her lock.
Her apartment is dark. Still. The air is warm, carrying the fading scent of something sweet. Peaches and cream.
I inhale, slow and deep, letting it settle inside me. Willow.
She’s here.
I move through the space, my movements silent. The living room is untouched, a throw blanket draped over the couch, an empty water bottle on the coffee table. But I don’t care about any of that.
I follow the sound of her breathing.
Her bedroom door is cracked open.
I step inside.
Willow sleeps, curled on her side, tangled in her sheets. Her hair spills across the pillow in messy waves, strands falling across her face. Her lips are slightly parted, her brows furrowed, caught in a dream. She looks soft, fragile in a way the world never gets to see her.
She’s perfect.
But her hair is wrong.
A flicker of heat coils low in my gut. Has one of them touched her? Brushed these strands back? Laid hands where they don’t belong?
I step closer, kneeling beside the bed. My fingers ghost over the strands before gently smoothing them back, adjusting them until they fall just right. My thumb grazes her temple, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, memorizing the warmth of her skin.
She sighs in her sleep, shifting slightly into my touch. I still. Waiting, watching. But she doesn’t wake.
Good.
I reach for my camera, angle it just right, and snap a photo.
One. Two. Three.
The sound is quiet, but she stirs again, and I retreat, setting the camera down long enough to pull something from my pocket.
A small, glossy photograph.
I want her to see it. The way she looked at me that night at Poor Choices—eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide, breath caught in her throat. The moment she knew what we were.
I lay it carefully on her nightstand, positioned so she’ll see it the second she wakes up.
A reminder.
A gift.
A promise.
Then I slip back into the shadows, leaving her apartment exactly as I found it.
Except for the picture.
And the certainty that I was here.