Chapter 42
Willow
My skates hang from one shoulder, the laces cutting into my palm where I grip them. Sweat clings to the back of my neck, the faint ache in my thighs reminding me of the drills Coach pushed us through. We’re getting better. I’m getting better.
The air outside the rink is crisp, brushing against my flushed skin, a reminder that the world still exists beyond four wheels and body checks.
They’re waiting for me.
Carson leans against the side of the SUV, the picture of a bodyguard on duty, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his nose, even though the sun’s behind the clouds.
Hunter stands to the side, alert in that quiet, still way he does, a predator pretending not to notice you until it’s too late. And Graham’s openly watching me.
Not just in that bodyguard way—scanning exits and gauging threats. He’s watching me as if I’m the variable he hasn’t figured out yet.
Something shifts in my chest. Again.
Because that’s all this has been lately—shifting. Tension uncoiling, needs rising, walls crumbling in ways I never thought possible. Somewhere between the first time they dragged me away from Finn and the moment I teased Carson into my bed…I started to change.
I feel different.
Lighter.
And maybe that’s messed up, considering I’m technically being held against my will.
Maybe it’s that syndrome… the one where captives fall for their captors.
I snort at the thought—at myself. Because that’s not what this is. This isn’t survival. This isn’t desperation.
This is…
“Damn,” Carson whistles, pushing off the SUV to meet me halfway. “You skate like you’ve got a pack to impress.”
His words should have every bone in my body on high alert. But they don’t; instead, I raise an eyebrow. “You offering to be impressed?”
He grins, shameless and smug. “Peaches, I’ve been impressed. I’m just wondering when you’re going to impress me in other ways.”
I roll my eyes, but the laugh escapes before I can stop it, real and unfiltered.
Right there. That’s why this isn’t Stockholm Syndrome. Because they don’t want to control me. They want to protect me. And somehow, against all odds, I want them to. Even if I don’t really need protection from anything.
Finn’s not dangerous, no matter what they think, but if it keeps them around, I can pretend.
Hunter’s eyes follow my every step as I approach. Graham’s expression is unreadable but intense, and Carson’s right beside me. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.
Not even close.
“I’m starving,” I say, pressing my hand against my growling stomach. “I think you are responsible for my safety, and feeding me is part of keeping me safe.”
Graham scoffs a laugh, and I grin. I enjoy making him laugh. He has such tight control on his emotions that seeing a glimmer of it…caused by me…it makes my whole body tingle.
Carson nudges my arm. “You heard the girl. She’s withering away.”
Hunter snorts. “She just skated ten miles and still looks like she could knock out half the team.”
“Okay, but I could pass out from hunger,” I say dramatically, throwing my head back and pressing a hand to my forehead, pretending I’m a swooning Victorian lady.
That gets the corner of Graham’s mouth to twitch. Barely. But it’s there.
He opens the passenger side back door for me and murmurs, “Get in, drama queen. We’ll feed you before you die of starvation.”
I slip inside, heart thumping a little too hard.
Carson slides in beside me, his thigh brushing mine while pretending it’s no big deal and he doesn’t notice, but I do.
I notice everything now. The way Hunter watches me through the rearview mirror.
His eyes catalog my every move as though he can read my every thought.
The way Graham keeps adjusting the air vents, as if controlling the air flow in the SUV somehow helps him control whatever else he’s feeling.
But I’m done pretending I don’t notice.
“So,” I say, glancing sideways at Carson. “You cooking?”
He scoffs. “Do I look like I cook?”
“You made grilled cheese and eggs,” I remind him.
“That was survival. What I do is order takeout.”
I laugh. He totally cooks and enjoys it.
Hunter glances over his shoulder. “We’re not letting her eat fries and milkshakes for dinner again.”
My jaw drops. “Blasphemy. I love fries and milkshakes.”
Carson raises a brow at him. “You’re just mad she didn’t share.”
Graham clears his throat. “There’s food at the apartment.”
I blink. “You went shopping? Did you cook?”
He shrugs. “Something like that.”
“You…something-like-that cooked for me?” My stomach flips with a happy buzz that maybe I shouldn’t feel, but I do.
His gaze flicks to mine, unreadable again. “Don’t get used to it.”
But I already am. That little tingle from earlier spreads, slow and sweet, curling beneath my skin.
“You’re all getting way too good at this taking-care-of-me thing,” I say softly, looking at each of them.
Carson’s mouth curves, the smirk giving way to something closer to affection. Hunter’s lips press together, fighting a smile. And Graham doesn’t say anything, but his hand flexes in his lap, and I get the feeling he wants to reach for me.
Maybe someday he will.
Back at the apartment, the door swings open and a wave of warm, buttery air hits me in the face. My stomach growls on cue.
The scent is rich—lemon, garlic, and something herby and savory that has my mouth watering before I even make it fully inside.
I toe off my shoes and step into the space, narrowing my eyes toward the kitchen where the oven light glows. Graham heads into the area and pulls something out with an oven mitt.
Which is…weird.
I’ve never seen Graham cook. He doesn’t even order food for me. That’s usually Carson’s thing. Graham handles logistics. Lockdowns. Perimeter security. Not this.
But there he is, completely unbothered, setting a cast-iron skillet on the stovetop.
“You really did cook,” I say, stepping further in. “While I was at practice?”
He glances over his shoulder, voice casual. “You needed a real meal. Carson and Hunter didn’t need help keeping an eye on you, so I slipped out real fast.”
“This was all you?” I ask, attempting to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about the man.
He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“It’s not a big deal.” He grabs a small plate, his movements efficient.
But it feels like one.
Carson drops a heavy-looking bag onto the coffee table with a groan and flops dramatically onto the couch. “G went all domestic. Don’t scare him off by making it weird.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Carson pulls out a small, carefully wrapped bundle and tosses it my way.
“What’s this?”
He grins, boyish and proud. “A little something I saw in the shop window next to the smoothie place. Figured you might appreciate it.”
I sit and start peeling the tissue paper away. Nestled inside is a heat pillow. Not just any one—one of the luxe omega-specific ones. Handmade, soft, filled with a mix of calming oils I instantly recognize: chamomile, lavender, and just the faintest hint of amber.
Pure comfort.
My throat tightens, and I have to blink a few times to clear the sudden burn in my eyes.
“This is...really thoughtful.”
Carson shrugs and shifts his weight, suddenly more interested in the remote than in my reaction. “You’ve been stressed.”
I run my fingers over the soft fabric, letting the weight of the gift settle in my lap. He didn’t have to do this. None of them have to do any of this. But they keep showing up, keep noticing things I never say out loud.
Hunter drops into the armchair with his usual quiet intensity, watching me without comment. Graham still doesn’t turn around, but his posture eases just slightly.
I hug the pillow to my chest and sink deeper into the couch beside Carson, who slings an arm across the back casually.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quiet.
“For the pillow?” he asks, not looking at me.
I nod, but my eyes flick to the kitchen. “For everything.”
Graham still doesn’t face me. But his shoulders shift, tension easing just enough to tell me my words reached him. They mattered.
It feels domestic—exactly how Carson teased earlier. And I hate how much I enjoy it. No, not hate. I crave it. Really, really crave it.
Graham plates the food with quiet precision, then places each dish on the table. He doesn’t announce dinner, doesn’t bark orders—just murmurs, “It’s ready,” and moves to the other side of the table.
None of them move until I do.
Only when I stand—setting the heat pillow gently aside—do Carson and Hunter rise too, flanking me.
Graham steps behind a chair and pulls it out for me, the gentlemanly gesture catching me completely off guard. I slide into the seat, and when he pushes it back in, his hand brushing against my back, my heart gives a ridiculous little flutter.
This feels like a date.
A very strange, completely confusing, three-on-one kind of date.
But still.
I glance down at the food and blink. He’s made lemon-garlic butter chicken, roasted vegetables with herbs, and a pile of creamy mashed potatoes that smell delicious.
“Wow,” I say, eyebrows lifting. “This looks amazing.”
Carson plops down across from me and grins. “I told you. G’s been holding out.”
Graham slides into his own seat, not rising to the bait. “Eat before it gets cold.”
I take a bite of the chicken first, and immediately, my eyes flutter shut. It’s tender, juicy, bursting with flavor. The garlic and lemon are perfectly balanced, and the butter sauce? Don't get me started.
“Oh my God,” I moan, unable to help the sound.
The fork hovers near my mouth for a second bite, but I realize too late that three sets of eyes are on me.
The air shifts.
Hunter’s grip on his glass tightens. Carson’s grin grows slow and wicked. And Graham…Graham looks as if I just made his entire fucking week, even though he’s trying to hide it behind his stoic facade.
Carson leans back in his chair, stretching one arm over the back of mine lazily. “Well. Guess G’s on kitchen duty from now on.”
I arch a brow. “Why’s that?”
“Because I need to hear that sound out of you nightly, peaches.”
I choke on my next bite and glare at him while reaching for my water.
Graham finally speaks, his voice dry. “She’s going to stop eating entirely if you keep running your mouth.”
“She didn’t sound like she wanted to stop,” Carson quips.
Hunter exhales slowly; his lips twitch as he holds back his smile. “Leave her alone. Let her enjoy the food.”
“Oh, I’m letting her enjoy it,” Carson says, winking at me. “Just enjoying the show too.”
I roll my eyes and mutter, “You’re such a menace.”
But I take another bite of chicken anyway, and yes—I make another pleased sound. Just to mess with him. And also because it’s that good.
Carson clutches his chest dramatically. “G, let’s marry her. I’m already planning the honeymoon menu.”
“Keep talking,” Graham says, “and you’ll be eating leftovers off the fire escape.”
“You mean you’d risk having peaches sneak out?” Carson asks, shooting me a wink.
I laugh, and it feels good. Easy. I belong here, in this moment, with them.