Chapter 22
Willow
I’m fine.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I lace up my skates, pretending the last few days haven’t happened. Pretending nothing has changed.
Because it hasn’t.
I’m still me. I still have a season to focus on.
And I’m still being shadowed by three overbearing alphas who don’t seem to understand the concept of personal space.
Except when I’m practically begging one of them to knot me to make me forget.
Then they know exactly what personal space is and give me plenty.
I roll my eyes at the thought. I’m done with alphas anyway, why do I care?
I don’t.
I throw myself into practice, and it is the same as always—fast, brutal, exactly what I need. The girls laugh and joke the way they always do, the world steady for them even as it shifts beneath my feet, and for the first time since this whole nightmare started, I breathe.
Until I catch movement at the edge of the rink.
Hunter.
Standing at the railing, arms crossed, watching me.
My stomach tightens. Not because he’s there—they’re always there—but because there’s something different in the way he looks at me. Like he’s feeling something he shouldn’t.
I shove the thought away and refocus, but I can feel it now. It runs through my veins with each heartbeat.
Carson leans casually next to the door, acting as if he’s got all the time in the world.
While Graham sits near the entrance to the rink, rigid and tense, ready to be at my side the second I so much as wobble on my skates.
I hate that I notice any of it. Hate that I feel it. Because this isn’t new. They’ve been this way since the moment my father hired them. But at the same time, it is new. This new awareness. And it’s all Hunter’s fault for kissing me. Not once, but twice.
Something has shifted. And I don’t know what to do with it.
Practice wraps up, and I’m peeling off my gear when I feel them at my back. I refuse to acknowledge it. Refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse skips as I turn to find all three of them watching me.
Carson’s the first to break the silence.
A smirk curves across his mouth, slow and deliberate, the kind of look that says he’s been biding his time just for this.
He shifts his weight onto one leg, arms folding across his chest with infuriating ease, eyes flicking over me in that lazy sweep that feels far too practiced.
“You should shower before you go anywhere, peaches. We wouldn’t want you attracting more admirers.”
My lips part, indignation burning through me. “I can take care of myself, Carson.”
Graham exhales harshly, already over this conversation. “Yeah?”
I scowl, tugging my sweatshirt over my head. “You all are acting like I don’t know how to exist without supervision. I lived at least the last eight years just fine.”
Hunter’s gaze flickers, and I hate that the heat in his eyes tempts me as much as it does. “We wouldn’t have to hover if you didn’t insist on making it so fucking hard.”
I blink. “Hard?”
Carson chuckles, shaking his head. “You have no idea, peaches.”
His voice drops, thick with meaning, and my body answers before my brain can catch up. There is a double meaning in that. I freeze, my fingers tightening around the hem of my sweatshirt as realization claws its way up my spine.
That should not turn me on. Fuck. I can feel my heartbeat between my legs. I’m so screwed.
Hunter’s tense, watching me with something dark simmering beneath the surface. Carson’s smiling slightly, but there’s something else there too—something hotter. And Graham’s silent, his expression unreadable, but his jaw is tight.
They want me; I know they do. They just keep ignoring their instincts.
Hunter might have walked away the other night, but all of them want me in the way alphas want omegas. There is absolutely no denying it right this second.
And my perfume is currently making it painfully obvious that I’m not opposed to the idea. I really should listen to them with the blockers. But I hate suppressing my natural scent. It’s not like the betas I’m around really care anyway.
My breath catches. My stomach flips. My body betrays me with every shaky exhale. I stumble back, needing space, air, distance; anything to break this moment.
“I need some space.”
No one moves.
Carson tilts his head, eyes dark with amusement. “You sure about that, peaches?”
Hunter’s lips press into a hard line, every muscle drawn taut, the effort to hold back written across his whole body. While Graham sees too much. He is watching every single breath I take, measuring it with his eyes. I swallow hard, the heat in the room thick enough to suffocate.
This is dangerous.
They’re dangerous.
But the most dangerous part of all?
I might just want this.
I scoop up my skates and turn on my heel, heading for the locker rooms. “You can stay out here, I’ll be back out when I’m ready.”
They stay put, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want them to follow me. The locker room is quiet, the girls having cleared out while I was distracted by my bodyguards.
The silence presses in as I head to my locker, shoving my skates inside before grabbing my shower kit.
Washing off the proof of my desire is my top priority.
I shed my clothes and peel off my socks and slip into my shower shoes, the rubber slapping softly against the tiled floor.
I hang my towel on the hook, just outside the shower.
The overhead lights hum, casting a faint glow as I step into the showers and turn the knob.
The pipes groan before warm water rushes over my skin, washing away the sweat, the tension, the lingering heat curling low in my belly.
I let my head fall back, eyes closed as I drag my fingers through my damp hair, reaching for the shampoo. The lather works through my strands, thick and fragrant, but as I scrub, a sensation prickles at the back of my neck.
A presence. Someone watching. I swallow, my heartbeat kicking up. One of them must have followed me. Of course they did. I keep my eyes closed, not ready to face whoever it is. Not ready to see what’s written on their face.
I rinse the soap from my hair, pressing my palms against the tile to steady myself before blinking my eyes open and glancing over my shoulder.
And I stop breathing.
Because it’s not Carson. Or Graham. Or Hunter.
It’s Finn.
And he’s standing in the spray with me, his clothes already soaked through, his chest rising and falling with something wild. My stomach clenches. My pulse roars.
I should scream. I should run. Do something.
Instead my lips part on a breath. On his name.
His lips curve into a slow, unnerving smile.
“Miss me, Willow?”