Chapter 48
Willow
I knew, right?
Some part of me knew that the attraction between me and my bodyguards was more than lust. But hearing Carson say it out loud? That changes everything. Especially after everything we’ve been through.
Hunter kissing me at the rink wasn’t just him protecting me from Landon—it meant something. I felt it in the way his hands shook just slightly, the way his lips lingered on mine.
And Graham…Graham kissed me like a man losing control of himself, and then pulled away like it broke him.
Of course he did. I’ve been around him long enough to understand that control is his armor.
Kissing the omega he’s supposed to protect?
That probably tops his list of bad ideas, even if he wants it just as badly as I do.
And Carson is right, there’s something about Finn.
It’s not pity. It’s deeper than that. There’s a part of me that aches to see him smile, to feel that soft, almost reverent way he looks at me.
As though I’m his entire sky. If letting him take all the pictures he wants makes him happy, I think I’d let him.
That’s such a small thing to give. Just time. Just…being seen.
The real question is—can I trust this?
This slowly-growing happiness.
I jumped headfirst into a bond with Landon, and it almost destroyed me. So how do I trust them not to break me too?
My stomach twists with nervous energy, and my scent reflects it—sharp, uncertain. But then Carson’s spiked hot cocoa and marshmallow musk fills the space, rich and warm. My omega instincts respond instantly, humming in my bones..
Maybe I’m already past the point of no return. Because even if I can’t trust them…if they left now, they’d still take pieces of me with them.
“I think I’m falling for you, too,” I say after a long silence.
Saying it out loud makes my breath catch. Shit. It’s real now.
I try to shake off the tension coiling in my body and glance up at him, attempting to lighten the mood. “What kind of sharing are we talking about, though?”
Carson’s grin is slow, wicked, and so confident. “Well, Graham was mine first,” he says with a wink.
I flush so hard I feel it all the way to my toes.
I knew that was the nature of their relationship. I’d guessed it. Felt it. But still—hearing it confirmed? Not something you can just ask about in casual conversation with your bodyguards.
We’re walking slowly, Carson letting me set the pace, our shoulders brushing every few steps, but I’m not really in the moment. I’m somewhere else. A memory slides into place, uninvited but persistent.
I can see them—Carson, Graham, and Hunter—leaning against the rail at the rink weeks ago. The light had slanted through the upper windows, catching Carson’s grin as he said something cocky, head tilted, knowing it would get under Graham’s skin.
And it did.
Graham didn’t even glance at him. Just reached out absently and curled his fingers around Carson’s wrist, that grounding touch so casual that it made my stomach flip.
It was a natural movement, something done so frequently there wasn’t even a thought.
As if Carson was his, and Graham didn’t need to prove it with words.
Hunter was watching them both, a small smile cracking across his face. The kind of smile you give the people who make you feel whole.
They didn’t see me standing there, sweaty and breathless after practice, pretending to scroll on my phone while secretly devouring that entire moment with my eyes.
They weren’t bodyguards that day. They weren’t a security team hired to protect me.
They were a pack.
A real one. And I wanted that—God, I wanted that so badly it made my chest ache. Not just the safety, the protection. I wanted the warmth. The easiness. The belonging.
“Peaches?” Carson’s voice pulls me back, soft but close.
I blink and realize we’re standing in front of my apartment building. My hand is resting on the cool metal of the door without even realizing I’d reached for it.
I turn my head, looking up at him. His brow is furrowed like he’s been watching me drift and wasn’t sure if he should pull me back.
“You okay?” he asks, quiet now, just for me.
I nod. Swallow. “Just thinking.”
He searches my face for a beat. “Good things?”
I shrug. “Better than bad.”
A soft smile plays at his lips, but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he opens the door for me, and as I step inside, I can still feel the echo of that memory clinging to my skin.
I used to think I could never belong anywhere.
Now I’m not so sure. Maybe you don’t need a scent match to be happy; maybe you can be happy with a pack you choose for yourself.
The door swings shut behind us, and I know something’s off.
Not with Carson—he’s still humming under his breath, acting as if the walk and ice cream detour wasn’t a calculated rescue mission. As if he didn’t just drag me out of a spiral and coax a smile out of me with sugar and mischief.
The shift is in the kitchen.
Hunter’s propped against the island, arms crossed, forearms flexed tight. Controlled, but not casual. Not really.
Graham’s at the stove, fiddling with the oven dial even though dinner was finished hours ago. His sleeves are still rolled to his elbows, a faint smear of flour marking his wrist—proof he’s been finding busywork just to keep out of his own head.
They don’t look at me when I walk in.
Which is a choice, I guess.
Carson breezes in behind me, grabbing a glass from the cupboard without asking. “Home sweet home,” he says, acting as if he hasn’t already clocked every tense line in the room. “Miss anything, boys?”
Hunter doesn’t answer.
Graham exhales slowly, finally turning toward the fridge. “Glad to see she’s still breathing.”
The heat in my chest isn’t anger. Not exactly. Frustration, maybe, twisted with the ache of disappointment. He’s going to pretend none of it happened earlier. I can feel it. And I hate it.
“Barely,” Carson says, grin sharp before he tosses me a wink, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Stirring the pot. “She had a few close calls with that mint chip, but I kept her safe.”
Hunter’s eyes cut to me, lingering on my mouth, memory burning there. The last time he kissed me and the question hanging between us—if it’ll happen again.
Graham finally looks at me, too. Not quite meeting my eyes, but close enough that I catch the flicker of guilt before he masks it.
“So,” I say, pretending my heart isn’t thudding in my chest. “Is this the part where we go back to pretending everything’s normal?”
Hunter clears his throat. Graham says nothing.
“Because if we’re playing that game, I didn’t get kissed and dismissed earlier. And I definitely didn’t feel like a misbehaving kid sent to her room while the grown-ups had Important Alpha Feelings.”
Graham tenses, and Hunter’s jaw ticks. Carson, still calm, just takes a sip of water, watching a drama unfold, and loving every second.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Graham says finally. “But I realize now—I made it worse.”
“You did,” I say quietly.
Hunter steps closer, arms still crossed, his eyes flicking to Carson. “Is that your way of fixing things now? Ice cream?”
Carson grins, cocky as ever. “Fixing things? Nah. I just gave her ice cream and reminded her how it feels to be wanted, because she deserves to be happy at all times. I didn’t fix anything.”
Hunter arches a brow, staring him down.
“He’s right, but he did help me,” I say. “Carson helped because he listened. Because he didn’t treat me with kid gloves as if I couldn’t handle what I was feeling. And he didn’t make me feel bad about my feelings.”
“And what are you feeling?” Graham asks. His expression isn’t cold anymore; it’s raw and open.
“Like I’m already in too deep,” I admit. “And trying to figure out if it’s safe to stop treading water. If anyone will be there to save me if I do.”
That quiets them. Even Carson doesn’t have a comeback for that one.
The silence stretches until Graham finally speaks again. “Then maybe we should stop making you feel like you’re drowning.”
He walks toward me—slow, deliberate—and then does something unexpected.
He pulls out the chair at the table and nods to it.
Not a command. Just a quiet gesture, the beginning of an apology.
I blink at him, then sit. He kneels in front of me, slow and steady, his broad hands moving to unlace my shoe.
He tugs it off gently, and my whole body tingles as his fingers brush the sole of my foot.
It’s such a simple thing, but it sends heat curling low in my stomach.
Hunter drops into the seat to our left, his eyes sharp and unreadable as he watches, while Carson sits down next to me on my right.
Graham lifts his gaze to mine, and there’s fire burning in the depths of his eyes. His jaw flexes once, controlled and tight.
“Willow,” he says. “I don’t do soft things. I do demanding. I do bondage. I give commands—and I expect them to be followed.”
My breath catches. I scoff, trying to play it off, but the blush is already creeping across my cheeks.
He’s not talking about protection. This isn’t about being my bodyguard.
He’s talking about sex. About destroying whatever vanilla ideas I had left about it.
It isn’t as if I’m inexperienced in that area, but I’m positive I’ve never been with anyone with his tastes.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Carson pipes up, far too casual for the fire crackling under the surface. “He does great aftercare.”
Graham doesn’t move. He’s still on his knees in front of me, but nothing about his posture feels submissive. If anything, the air tightens with everything he’s not holding back anymore.
His fingers stay wrapped around my ankle, his grip firm but careful.
“Once I’ve been with someone,” he continues, “they’re mine.”
My pulse skips.
Graham’s gaze locks onto mine, unwavering. “If we take this step, Willow...I won’t let you go. You’ll be pack. Ours.”
Pack.
The word slams into me—equal parts desire and terror crashing in my chest.
Part of me wants that so badly it aches. I want a place to belong. People who look at me like I’m theirs. Without thinking I’m a problem to solve or a body to protect—but someone they need.
But another part of me?
A colder, smaller part?
That part remembers the way it feels to be claimed... and then abandoned.
My chest squeezes tight, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I won’t let you bite me.”
Graham’s eyes flick down to my throat, his eyes tracing where my old mark sits, faded but not forgotten. His jaw clenches.
“Not yet,” he says. “But eventually.”
And fuck—his words make my thighs press together.
He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t plead. The way he says it sounds as though he is stating a future that just hasn’t caught up to us yet.
My breath catches. His fingers are still wrapped around my ankle, but now his other hand moves—up, slow, skimming over my calf, my knee. Not sexual. Not quite. Just…grounding.
Carson stays silent beside me, but I can feel his presence. He’s letting this happen. Maybe because he wants it too. Maybe because they’ve already talked about it.
Hunter’s still watching. I don’t dare meet his gaze.
I look back at Graham.
“I don’t want to belong to someone,” I whisper.
He tilts his head. “Then don’t belong to someone,” he says. “Belong with us.”
My heart’s a wildfire in my chest.
Because fuck. I think I already do.