Chapter 39 Willow
Willow
I barely slept.
Not because I wasn’t exhausted…I was. But every time I closed my eyes, I felt everything pressing down on me.
The suffocating presence of them outside my door.
Not that I looked out into the hallway, I just knew they were there.
The new lock on my window. My dad—the traitor—backing them up instead of me.
They’re all treating me as if I’m fragile. Something to be locked away for my own good.
I grind my teeth, pacing my apartment for what has to be the hundredth time this morning.
And worse—he’s out there. Across the street.
Finn.
I don’t want to think about yesterday, but my body does. His hands on me. His mouth dragging over every inch of my skin. The way his eyes burned, seeing me as something holy, as his, even though I know better.
I shouldn’t feel this. Not after everything in that file. Not after what Hunter told me.
But he was forgotten. Locked away. Ignored. Left to rot, erased as though he never existed. And still—he clawed his way out of the dark. Turned himself into something. Someone.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. No. I can’t let my heart get involved here. Finn isn’t some sad, broken thing that needs my sympathy. He’s dangerous. Obsessed.
And I—I’m not supposed to want that.
But I do.
And that’s the real fucking problem.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
“Go away,” I snap before I even know who it is.
Silence.
Then—Carson’s voice, smooth and coaxing. “Not a chance, peaches.”
I groan, dragging my hands over my face before stomping over to the door. When I yank it open, Carson leans against the frame, arms crossed, lips curled into that easy smirk of his.
“You look like hell,” he says, hazel eyes sweeping over me, smug and all too knowing.
I fold my arms. “And you look too pleased with yourself. What do you want?”
He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head, lazy confidence dripping off him. “Thought I’d come check on you. Make sure you didn’t throw yourself out the window in protest.”
I glare. “Ha. Ha.”
He pushes off the doorframe, stepping into my space, owning it the way he always does. “Don’t be difficult.”
I arch a brow. “Difficult? You mean furious? Betrayed? Kidnapped?”
He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Ouch, baby. Brutal.”
I roll my eyes and stalk back inside, leaving him in the doorway. He follows, of course, shutting the door behind him as though he belongs here.
“I’m not in the mood, Carson,” I warn, dropping onto the couch. “Go away.”
He falls onto the cushion beside me, thigh brushing mine. “I could. Or I could stay here and be your favorite captor.”
I scowl. “You are my favorite captor.”
His grin spreads slow, wide, like I just handed him the best gift of his life.
I huff. “That’s not a good thing.”
“It’s not a bad thing, either.” He winks, nudging my leg with his knee. “Come on, peaches. Don’t tell me you actually prefer Gloom & Doom over me.”
I don’t answer, glaring at my hands instead.
Carson shifts beside me, watching me too closely. “Thinking about him?”
I stiffen.
His mouth twitches, the teasing still there, but tempered now. “I know you are.”
My stomach knots. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He chuckles, tilting his head. “Liar.”
I grit my teeth. “Fuck off, Carson.”
He doesn’t.
He leans in instead, dropping his voice. “You read that file. You saw everything. And yet you still want to go to him, don’t you? You like the danger?”
I should say no.
I should tell him to shut up and leave.
But my silence is answer enough.
Carson exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Jesus, peaches.”
I swallow hard, not meeting his eyes.
A beat of silence follows, then he says, “You know, I could let you see him.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Carson shrugs, all nonchalance, stretching his arm along the back of the couch giving the impression that we’re just two friends having a casual chat instead of me being a prisoner and him being my captor. “I mean, if it’s gonna happen anyway, might as well do it my way. Controlled. Safe.”
My pulse kicks up. This is a trick. It has to be a trick.
“You’d just willingly let me see the guy you all locked me up to keep me away from?”
He lifts a shoulder, casual as ever. “I like breaking the rules, peaches.” His smirk curves slow, lazy. “Like I did with you—”
Heat prickles up my spine.
Damn him.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I cross my arms, my stomach twisting. “And you’d help me see him, knowing he wants me?”
His gaze drops, dragging deliberately over my body before flicking back up to meet mine. “You’re hard to resist. I know that.”
He leans in just slightly, his voice dropping into something warm and coaxing. “So, what do you say, peaches? Want my help?”
I stare at him, waiting for the smirk, the tell that this is just another elaborate game to keep me caged, dressed up as care. A gotcha moment.
But Carson isn’t playing. There’s no mock in his eyes, no curve of his mouth that says he’s toying with me.
Not entirely, anyway.
“You’re serious?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend, laced with suspicion, but not outright disbelief. Because the truth is?
I trust Carson.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do.
He tilts his head, watching me with sharp, assessing eyes, the kind that see way too much. He doesn’t rush me. Just lets me work through the twisting mess in my head.
Finally, he shrugs, a slow smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “I mean, technically, I should be tackling you to the floor for even considering it. But if you’re gonna see him anyway… well. You could do it my way.”
I narrow my eyes. “Your way?”
His smirk deepens. “Controlled. Safe,” he repeats.
My heart pounds. He must see my hesitation, because he leans in, just close enough that his heat bleeds into mine, making my already frayed nerves snap tighter.
“You don’t have to decide now, peaches,” he murmurs, his voice coaxing, warm, like I’m something delicate he’s luring in. Like he already knows I’ll say yes. “Just think about it.”
He pushes up from the couch, stretching in that way that makes his shirt ride up, flashing the hard lines of his stomach before he turns toward the kitchen as if he’s letting me contemplate his words.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. I don’t think he’s lying to me.
I think he’s framing it just right so I won’t be mad later when I find out he never actually gave me a choice at all. But is that really any different than what I’d do in his place?
I exhale, rubbing my fingers over my temples.
Maybe I’m just as fucked up as the rest of them for even considering this.
Carson doesn’t press me for an answer. Doesn’t poke or prod like I expect him to. Instead, he just wanders into my kitchen, whistling under his breath as he starts pulling out ingredients.
Eggs. Bread. Butter. Some kind of fancy cheese he probably picked up from the expensive grocery store.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“Making you breakfast.”
He says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if it’s normal. As if he didn’t just offer to break every rule for me. He sets a pan on the stove, grabs a knife, and slices through cheese with the kind of focus that says it’s his duty to make sure I eat this morning.
“Since when do you cook?” I narrow my eyes, shifting on the couch.
Carson flashes a boyish grin but doesn’t look up from the counter. “Since always. I’m full of surprises, peaches.”
He hums while he works, moving through my kitchen as though it’s his. Every motion easy. Effortless. He belongs in this space, and I’m the bratty omega forgetting to appreciate the alpha who’s decided to provide for me.
The thought shakes me.
I fold my arms, watching him as he butters the bread, layering on the cheese. “You don’t have to do this.”
He finally looks up, his expression mock-offended. “Excuse me? Do you have any idea how tragic it would be if you skipped breakfast? That’s just irresponsible. What kind of bodyguard would I be if I let that happen?”
I snort. “One that actually listens to me, for once.”
He hums under his breath, clearly pleased with himself. He just flips the sandwich, pressing it down lightly with the spatula as the cheese melts and bubbles against the heat.
I hate how domestic this feels. How easy.
I hate that it feels good. Watching him move in my kitchen. The flex of muscle under his shirt when he reaches for a plate. The way he provides for me in a way only one other ever has.
I hate that he’s making it impossible for me to say no.
“Why are you really doing this?” I ask.
He glances at me, his grin still there, but softer now. Less teasing.
“Because,” he says, flipping the sandwich onto a plate and setting it in front of me. “You might hate me for it later, but I still want to take care of you.”
He cracks an egg into the pan, glancing up at me when I don’t move to touch the plate he just offered. “How do you like your eggs?”
I wet my lips, a smile pulling at my mouth. “Grilled cheese and eggs for breakfast?”
He chuckles. “It’s good. Protein to get you through the day, and a little carbs to give you some energy that you didn’t get from sleep. So eat up, peaches, or you’ll hurt my feelings.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want that,” I snicker, picking up the sandwich. “Over medium for the egg please.” Then I take a bite of the perfectly made sandwich, savoring the taste of the expensive cheese. “Mmm, this is good.”
“I told you it was.” He beams as if I just handed him the biggest win of his life, as if making me breakfast is somehow his greatest achievement.
He flips the egg, humming under his breath again, the soft sizzling filling the air between us.
I don’t know why this feels so nice. Maybe because everything lately has been chaos. Maybe because no one’s ever just made me breakfast—without expecting something in return. Or maybe because it’s Carson, and I can’t figure out what the hell to do with him.
“So,” I say after swallowing another bite. “Tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” he repeats, eyebrow raised.
“Yeah.” I savor another bite, letting the silence stretch just enough to make him squirm. “Why would you help me?”
“I already told you…” He cracks another egg, adjusting the flame casually, avoiding looking at me the whole time. “It keeps you safe. And it gives me control.”
“You like control?”
He shrugs, but the movement’s too casual, too easy. There’s something in the way his shoulders hitch that feels forced—maybe it’s not the control he wants. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
“I like you,” he says.
And that has my stomach dipping. Because that’s not a lie. I can see it in the way he says it, hear it in his voice, and worst of all—feel it in the way he looks at me.
And that scares me more than Finn. More than Landon being in town. More than all of it combined. Because I’m pretty sure I actually like him too.
I clear my throat, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. It’s either avoid this and keep pretending it’s nothing, or face it. I’m done running.
I take another bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly, watching Carson as he makes his eggs. His movements are so precise, making me think he’s done it a hundred times before. And maybe that’s the part that makes my stomach feel weird—the easy familiarity of it.
He isn’t supposed to make me feel like he’s home. None of them are.
But he does.
I swallow, pushing the thought aside. “So… if we do this—if you help me see Finn—what are your rules?”
Carson cracks another egg into the pan, but doesn’t answer right away. The silence makes my pulse tick up.
When he finally does speak, his voice is lighter than I expected. “Rules? Peaches, you wound me.”
I scoff, setting my sandwich down. “Oh, please. You three have more rules than a fucking fight club.”
“Fight club has, like, two rules,” he says, holding up two fingers.
“You know what I mean.”
He smirks, flipping the first egg effortlessly before grabbing another plate and sliding it on top. Then he turns toward me, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms, watching me. And I get the feeling I just walked right into something.
“What do you think the rules should be?” he asks.
I blink. “Why would I know your rules?”
“Because you’re smart, peaches. Because you’ve been testing us from the second we showed up, waiting to see how much of a leash we’ll give you.”
I press my lips together, biting the inside of my cheek. He’s not wrong. Carson grins.
So I cross my arms. “Well, for starters, I assume I don’t get to be alone with him.”
“Ding ding ding.” He taps his temple. “And here I thought you weren’t listening.”
I roll my eyes. “What else?”
“No touching.”
My stomach flips, but I keep my expression neutral. “His or mine?”
Carson’s smirk fades. “Both.”
I swallow. “That’s—”
“Non-negotiable.” His voice is serious now, no teasing lilt to it, no softness. “I mean it, Willow.”
I do my best to keep my voice even. “He won’t hurt me.”
Carson doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe not. But it isn’t up for discussion.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Neither of us blink.
Then, finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No touching. No sneaking off. No running to him the second you’re out of our sight.” His eyes flicker with something unreadable. “And no lying.”
That one hits different.
I tighten my grip around my arms. “I don’t lie.”
“Maybe not to us.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. “But to yourself?”
Heat coils low in my gut.
Carson shakes his head, pushing off the counter, before reaching for my plate to add the next egg next to my half-eaten sandwich. Then he slides it back in front of me before grabbing his own and using his fork to cut off a piece and pop it into his mouth.
One breath and the conversation shifts.