Chapter 28
Willow
A soft purr rumbles from Hunter as he kneels in front of me, carefully unstrapping my knee pads. The sound hums through my body, settling deep in my bones, sending a slow, lazy warmth curling low in my stomach. It’s soothing. Comforting. Possessive.
He shifts my yoga shorts higher, fingers grazing the tender skin just above my knee where a bruise is already blooming. His touch is gentle—too gentle for someone who looks built to break bones without trying.
“You’re hurt, princess,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard, eyes locked on the stark contrast of his dark hand against my pale thigh. It’s balance. Perfect. And my pulse stutters at the sight of it.
His purr rolls on, low and warm, wrapping around me, pulling me in. It makes me want to lean closer, erase the space between us, give in to the pull I shouldn’t want.
The sound cuts off.
Hunter’s body tenses beneath my hands, his fingers twitching against my skin before going still. The shift in the air is instantaneous. A sharp edge slices through the warm, intimate moment, replacing it with something colder.
Then I hear it, the unmistakable glide of wheels on the floor.
Landon.
His scent reaches me before I even see him. Fresh laundry and cedar, clean and crisp and painfully familiar. A scent I once associated with comfort now feels like an unwanted intrusion.
My stomach tightens as Hunter growls, deep and feral, the sound vibrating through his chest and into me through his fingers. A second later, he’s moving, shifting so that his broad body is between me and Landon.
A wall. A shield.
Before I can even process it, Carson and Graham are there too, a solid formation of muscle and silent, unyielding fury. I barely catch a glimpse of Landon’s face through the gaps between their shoulders, but I can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves.
“No,” Hunter bites out, his voice vibrating with a warning. “Back. Off.”
Landon doesn’t.
“You can’t keep me away from her,” he growls, his skates stopping just short of the line they’ve drawn.
“No?” Graham steps forward, tilting his head slightly, gray eyes flashing. “Try us.”
The air crackles.
Landon’s jaw ticks, his fists clenching at his sides, but he doesn’t move. Hunter shifts slightly, his stance widening, his scent thickening, wrapping around me. Carson’s lip curls just slightly, the challenge written all over his face.
And fuck, why is this hot?
Not the fight. Not Landon standing his ground. The guys.
Their growls. Their protection. The way they’re willing to go toe-to-toe with my scent match without hesitation.
I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t want this. But I do. My body reacts before I can stop it, warmth licking up my spine, my breath catching as I shift on the bench.
Hunter growls again, and I swear it’s lower now, darker.
My pulse skitters.
Landon’s gaze flickers past them, locking on me, his eyes searching. “Willow—”
Hunter moves an inch closer, shoulders squared, muscles coiled tight. “Not. Another. Step.”
Another layer of tension thickens between them, the rink silent except for the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
Landon doesn't rise to the bait. His jaw tightens, but his eyes stay on me, softer than I expect.
"I'm not here to fight," he says, ignoring the other three completely. “I’m here for you.”
Hunter shifts even closer at those words, his stance going dangerous.
But Landon still doesn’t acknowledge them. Just me.
“I know nationals are coming up,” he continues, quieter now, gentler. “And I know how much it means to you. That’s why I took this job.”
Carson scoffs beside me. "Bullshit."
Landon finally glances at him, but barely.
His focus is right back on me. “Think whatever you want. But I’ve been watching your games, Willow.
Studying film, breaking down plays, seeing what’s working and what’s not.
” His lips press together for a second, frustration flickering over his face. “I want to help you win.”
Something painful lodges itself in my chest. Because Landon isn’t just here for some half-assed attempt to grovel. He’s here because he actually knows what’s important to me.
I don’t know much about his past, just that he played hockey, some roller derby, and that he’s stupidly good at golf; I learned that the one time I let Chad and Lilah drag me to a course.
Maybe he really does know what he’s talking about.
Hunter doesn’t move, muscles wired tight, a predator seconds from pouncing. Graham’s jaw is stone, but that vein at his temple throbs, screaming restraint. Carson’s fingers flex, twitchy, restless—he’s one heartbeat away from throwing me over his shoulder and marching out.
They’re all on edge, seconds from snapping. And it only lights me up more. Heat claws through me, low, deep, impossible to ignore.
I catch the exact moment my perfume rips through them.
Graham’s jaw grinds down, brutal, unyielding.
Carson’s spine stiffens, his smirk gone, replaced by something hungrier, darker.
Hunter’s nostrils flare, fists curling, breath dragging slow and deliberate—because if he doesn’t, he’ll cave and carry me out caveman-style.
Their control just makes me hotter. My thighs squeeze together, desperate, but it’s not enough.
Then Landon inhales. Deep. His gaze locks on me, and I watch it wreck him. His lips part, chest jerks sharp, body locking up as though my scent punched the air out of his lungs.
Because now he knows for sure I haven’t just been sitting around mourning him.
I’ve moved on.
Maybe not completely, maybe not in the ways that he thinks I have, but I can’t hide what my body is saying right now. Not from him. Not from them. It’s all on display, and I really regret not wearing blockers.
Not wearing them was my only way to be defiant this morning. A way to say, fuck you, you can smell me, but you can’t touch me. Well, that move is backfiring because I am pretty sure I’d let them touch me if they tried.
Obviously, the peaches and cream blooming around us tells Landon exactly that, too. He knows, it’s written all over his face.
Pain.
Regret.
Jealousy.
The truth of it makes something tighten in my chest. I blink the moisture out of my eyes. Then I swallow, trying to get my body under control, trying to focus on what the hell I’m supposed to say to him right now.
I should tell them to back off.
Should tell Landon to leave. But instead, I just stare at him. Because I don’t hate him the way I did when he first showed up. No, I think I still love him, even after everything that’s happened.
And that’s almost worse. I inhale slowly, pulse hammering in my throat. “Give us a minute.”
Silence.
Three sets of eyes snap to mine—disbelief, irritation, and a territorial fury they’re barely keeping on a leash. I blink slow, refusing to back down. Yeah, I might want them to bend me over and fuck me until I forget my own name, but that doesn’t mean they own me.
Hunter’s lips flatten, jaw ticking hard. Not impressed.
Carson exhales through his nose, eyes flashing, but there’s a spark of tease there too—daring me to keep pushing.
Graham is last. Always last. Always the hardest to win over. His nostrils flare, his jaw locking so tight I wonder if his teeth will shatter. The silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, until finally—finally—he gives me the barest nod.
One nod. That’s all it takes.
A command rolls off him, silent but sharp, when he reaches out and taps Hunter and Carson on the arm. They don’t argue. Don’t like it, not one bit. But they listen.
Still, when they back off, it’s only a few steps. Just enough to be out of earshot—but not far enough for Landon to forget they’re there.
A warning. They’re not going anywhere.
I drag my focus back to him, breathing through the tension coiled in my chest. Behind him, the rink buzzes with shouts and laughter, wheels clashing against the floor, air whistling with movement.
But here, between us? Silence.
The kind that presses down. The kind that feels like the whole damn world is holding its breath, waiting—will I walk away, or let him finally say whatever he’s been holding onto?
Landon exhales slow. His gaze traces over my face, steady, deliberate, as if he’s burning me into memory. As if he knows this might be the last time he gets to see me at all.
And fuck, that hurts.
But he doesn’t let it show, not in a way that begs. Not in a way that pleads. Instead, he smiles. Soft. Resigned.
“I can tell,” he says, voice steady, but there’s something raw just beneath it. Something breaking.
My stomach tightens. “Tell what?”
His lips twitch at my half-hearted deflection. We both know what he means.
“That you moved on for real,” he answers simply. No accusation. No bitterness. Just… acceptance. And it guts me.
I don’t correct him. I should.
I should tell him that my heart is a mess of contradictions, that I don’t know how to feel, that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. But I don’t. Because he’s giving me an out. A clean break. Even if it’s tearing him apart.
He rubs the back of his neck, breath slipping out rough, like it’s been trapped in his ribs for days. Maybe longer.
“Good,” he says. “You deserve that.”
I stare at him. His voice doesn’t waver. Not once. The regret is there—thick, heavy—but he’s already making peace with it.
“I never wanted to hurt you, Willow.” His head shakes, a sad smile barely there, gone as quick as it comes. “But I did. And now I don’t get to ask you for anything. Not after everything.”
My chest tightens, sharp and unrelenting.
“I’m happy for you,” he adds, voice softer, the words rough-edged, torn from someplace that hurts. “Really.”
My throat closes up. He tilts his head slightly, studying me, something almost wistful in his expression.
“I just…” His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t reach for me. “I had to come. I needed to see you with my own eyes to know that you were okay after…” he clears his throat, then continues, “after the bond broke.”
My lips twist, and I chew on the inside of my cheek as sadness washes over me. That explains him coming to New York and trying to talk to me, but it doesn’t explain him volunteering to help coach us for Nationals.
“And this?” I gesture around us at the roller rink.
“Derby means a lot to you. If I can help bring you happiness in any way, I want to do it.”
“You could leave…” I don’t mean it. Not really. It’s stupid, but I’m pretty sure my heart froze at even the suggestion that he walks away now.
He nods slowly and glances away. “Yeah.”
My stomach drops, but the only indication is the curling of my fingers into my palms.
“Or I could stay and help you win Nationals. You have natural talent, and with my help your team will be even better than it is now. Which is pretty amazing. Honestly, you could probably win without my help.”
My eyes drop to his skates. We could. But there are things we could each work on, too. “Coach Crusher seems to think we need you.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and squeezes the back of his neck. “I’m not so sure about that. I think she was going to kick me out when I first approached her.”
I cross my arms, holding myself together. “What happens after Nationals?”
Landon laughs under his breath, the sound low, bitter. He shakes his head, eyes soft in a way that cuts. “I was never staying forever, Willow.”
My stomach tightens. His words settle over me.
I drop my arms, trying to act unaffected. “So what? You just showed up to remind me you exist and then bail?”
His lips pull into a half-smile, but it’s not smug. It’s sad.
“I came because I wanted to see you,” he admits, almost hesitantly.
“And because—” He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling.
“Because if I could help you win Nationals, then maybe…I could make up for something. Even if it’s small.
But you made it clear that I did too much damage…
and I don’t want to cause you more pain. ”
Something catches in my throat. I should be furious. I should tell him to go to hell. But I don’t. Because that’s not what this is. His regret is real.
His love—whether it matters or not anymore—is real, too.
“Winning Nationals isn’t going to erase the past,” I tell him.
His gaze flickers over my face, and for a split second, I think he might break. That his mask might slip completely.
“I know,” he says. “But maybe it can fix some of what I broke.”
Something warm and treacherous slides through my chest. Before I can make sense of it, Landon shifts. His hands bury in his pockets, his jaw tight, fighting to stay composed.
“I meant what I said,” he goes on. “I’m happy for you. And if they make you happy—” his chin jerks toward the three furious alphas hovering just out of earshot, “—then I won’t get in the way. I can walk right now, if that’s what you want.”
I swallow hard, nails biting into my palms.
“Stay,” I hear myself say. “Help us get to Nationals.”
Landon freezes. The words hit him, knock the ground out from under him. His blue eyes lock on mine, disbelief sparking before something heavier, harder to name, takes its place.
I can’t believe I just said that. I don’t take it back.
He wets his lips, gaze flicking to my bodyguards, bracing for impact, waiting for them to storm over and drag him out. Honestly? They might. But right now, this is mine to decide.
“I thought you didn’t want me here,” he says.
I hold his stare. No wavering. No overthinking.
“I don’t know what I want.” The honesty burns on my tongue. “But I do know you’re good at this.” I motion toward the rink. I saw it today, even in the short time he’s been here. “And I know you want to help.”
Landon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Then, slow, careful, he nods.
“Okay,” he murmurs, testing the word, tasting it.
The tension snaps behind me, sharp and vicious, a live wire sparking. Graham’s growl rumbles across the space, low and dangerous. Apparently, they were close enough to hear every damn word.
Hunter mutters, low and lethal, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Carson blows out a sharp breath, then forces a laugh—caught between pissed and impressed.
Landon’s jaw locks, but he doesn’t so much as glance their way. His eyes stay on me.
I’m the only thing that matters.
I’m the one who just shifted the ground under all of us.
And maybe I really did. But fuck if I know what that means.