Chapter 16 Finn
Finn
She’s mine.
My fingers tighten around her wrist as I guide her through the club, slipping seamlessly between bodies that don’t even notice us.
I can barely hear the music anymore over the blood roaring in my ears.
Two weeks. Two weeks of being forced to watch from the shadows, two weeks of being kept away, blocked out.
And at States? Those alphas—her bodyguards—they kept her from me.
I exhale through my nose, forcing down the urge to pull her closer, to take. I want to feel the heat of her body, to remind myself that she’s real. Not just the girl I watch through my lens, the one I dream of—she is real. And she’s mine.
I don’t stop moving until we reach a hallway near the back of the club, dimly lit, secluded. I finally release her, but only enough to press her against the wall, my hands framing each side of her face, trapping her without touching her.
Her breath is fast and uneven. But she’s not screaming. Not fighting.
My eyes rake over her, taking in every detail. The flushed pink of her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips, the way her chest rises and falls too fast, like she can’t quite catch her breath.
“You let them keep you from me,” I accuse her.
Her jaw tightens. “Finn—”
“You didn’t even look for me.” My throat is as dry as sandpaper. “Two weeks, Willow.”
Something flickers across her face—guilt. I drink it in.
“You don’t own me,” she says, but there’s no heat behind it.
I lean in, my nose skimming her temple, breathing her in. My stomach clenches.
Mine. She’s mine.
“You sure about that?” I murmur.
She shivers. I feel it. I like it.
My hands slide to her waist, thumbs pressing into her ribs. I love feeling the way her breath stutters. She’s warm. Soft. Perfect.
“They kept you from me,” I repeat. “And you let them.”
Her hands press against my chest, and for a second, I think she’s going to push me away. But she doesn’t. She just holds me there.
I look down at her, searching for something: fear, anger, rejection. But what I find almost destroys me. She’s looking at me, really seeing me. Her eyes weigh my words.
For a heartbeat, I swear she feels it too.
It’s a crack. A tiny one. But I wedge myself inside, unwilling to let it close.
“Finn,” she exhales, my name nothing more than a whisper.
I brush my lips over her jaw, the barest graze of skin, testing, teasing. She doesn’t pull away. My heart slams against my ribs.
She’s letting me touch her. She’s letting me be close. But I want more. I always want more.
I tip my head lower, ghosting my lips over hers. It’s not a kiss. Not yet.
“You missed me,” I breathe, needing to hear it. Needing to know.
Her hands fist in my shirt. Her pulse pounds beneath my fingertips on her throat. She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t say no. But she doesn’t say stop.
I press my lips to hers, soft and slow, and she doesn’t fight me.
The moment she lets go, I can feel it. The way she sighs against my mouth, the way she tilts her chin just a fraction, leaning into me.
She likes this.
She likes me.
The realization sends something electric through my veins, making my grip tighten and my entire body ache. I could kiss her forever. But I don’t get the chance. A distant noise; someone moving too close, voices filtering into the hallway. The guys.
I rip myself away before they find me with her, before they can tear this moment apart. My chest heaves as I take a step back. She mirrors everything in me—swollen lips, wide eyes, pupils blown. Beautiful.
My fingers twitch, and before I can stop myself, I lift my camera, snapping a picture. This moment. This is proof.
She gasps, blinking up at me. “Finn—”
I love my name on her lips, every syllable a prayer, a promise. If only I had more time.
I tuck the camera away, grinning at her, knowing she won’t forget this. Neither will I.
“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”