Chapter 53
Willow
The knock is soft. Two quick taps. Not enough to draw attention.
I glance up from the couch, Carson’s flannel swallowing my hands, sleeves hanging past my fingers.
Graham’s in the kitchen, cast iron in hand, moving with the ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Hunter’s crouched by the window, tightening the new alarm, jaw set in concentration. Carson hums barefoot, pouring water into a French press, suspiciously domestic.
None of them seems to notice.
I slip off the couch, bare feet whispering against the floor as I edge to the door. Crack it open.
No one’s there.
Just a box. Medium-sized. Wrapped in brown kraft paper, tied with twine—something out of another century.
No return address.
Only my name. Willow—inked in a script I don’t recognize. But it snags in my chest, sharp, tugging at something buried. Not familiar, not exactly. More the echo of recognition, déjà vu dragging nails across my ribs.
It’s not familiar in the way handwriting should be—it’s familiar in the way he is. Something made just for me.
I swallow hard and shut the door with a quiet click.
Back on the couch, I settle cross-legged and stare at the parcel in my lap for a few seconds too long. The twine feels soft from handling, the knot tight but not impossible. My fingers tremble as I loosen it and peel the paper back.
Inside is a collage—layered and chaotic, but deliberate.
Photographs.
Some of me.
Some of the city.
One is from inside the roller rink—me lacing up my skates with a distracted frown. Another shows me laughing with Daisy, the image blurred at the edges but vibrant in the center, as if he only cared about catching the emotion.
Beneath those are sketches. Messy. Beautiful. His hand traced my cheekbones in charcoal. Captured the tilt of my head, the way my lips part when I laugh, the fall of my hair over my shoulder.
It’s intimate in a way that makes my breath hitch.
Pressed flowers lie between the photos—crushed pink roses, dried violets. My fingers tremble as I touch them, delicate and curling with age.
Then I see the journal page. Torn at the edges. The ink slightly smudged, giving away the fact that maybe his hand shook as he wrote.
I don’t know the handwriting. But I know him.
This is Finn.
There’s no signature. No explanation. Just raw, splintered emotion written in ink that makes my stomach clench.
I don’t know if you’ll read this. I’m not even sure if I should have sent it. But I needed to.
I watched them last night. The way they cared for you. The way they held you as though you were fragile and precious and breakable in the best way.
You are.
I’m not angry. Not with them. Not even with you.
I just—
I want to be one of them.
I want to be close enough to see the way your eyes flutter shut when someone touches you like they know what you need.
I want to know what makes you purr.
You don’t have to come now. But when you do? I’ll be here.
I’ll always be here.
My chest squeezes.
The collage. The flowers. The words.
It’s…a declaration. A quiet, obsessive, reverent plea to be seen. To be chosen.
My fingers curl around the edges of the paper, attempting to fold the moment small enough to hide in my pocket. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring. My thoughts are a mess, a kaleidoscope of heat and confusion.
A plate clinks on the kitchen counter, dragging me back to the present. I’m sure all three of them were watching me open the package. They’re three of the most observant men I’ve ever met.
I slide the box onto the coffee table just as Carson wanders in, two mugs in hand.
He pauses, tilting his head at me. “You okay, peaches?”
I offer a smile. Tight. Not quite a lie. “Yeah.”
Carson nods toward the box without looking directly at it. “From him?”
I don’t answer right away. My fingers still ache from holding the paper too tightly.
“Yeah,” I say finally.
He sets one of the mugs in front of me. It’s hot chocolate, not the coffee he was making. Then he lowers himself onto the couch beside me, careful, like he doesn’t want to spook me.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks, not pushing. Just there.
I shake my head, but then lean into him anyway. His arm goes around me without hesitation.
“He’s…obsessed,” I murmur. “But it doesn’t feel scary. Not with him.”
Carson hums low in his chest. “That’s the part that is scary.”
I close my eyes, the scent of cocoa from my cup and Carson’s musk wrapping around me and making me feel safe. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to know right now.” His voice is warm, steady. “You just have to breathe.”
And so I do.
But even as I sip the hot chocolate and feel Carson’s thumb stroke slow circles against my shoulder, my gaze drifts back to the box. To the message tucked inside it.
To the man who watches me from across the street—and makes me feel like I’m his whole world.
I’m not sure Graham or Hunter would welcome him into…whatever this is. A pack? I think that’s where we are.
After last night—that was not a one-night stand. I’d kinda have to have my head buried in the sand to pretend otherwise. And I want it to be more. I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with all three of them.
Finn complicates things.
I’m not a cheater. Hell, Landon kissing another girl nearly destroyed me.
I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. My heart still remembers the way it cracked open that night, the way everything inside me screamed that something had been stolen.
So I won’t do that to them—to my pack. If anything happens with Finn, it won’t be a secret.
All three of them will know. They’ll be part of that choice.
They’ll have to be…accepting.
I snort under my breath. Right. Accepting.
These are the same three alphas who were literally hired to keep him away from me.
Sure, Carson has softened a little. Okay—a lot. But Carson’s always been the most easygoing of the three. He’s the charming one, the playful one, the one who made me breakfast after he wrecked me in the best way possible.
But Graham? Hunter?
That’s going to be a battle.
Because I know what they see when they look at Finn. A risk. A threat. An obsession that doesn’t play by their rules. They haven’t looked him in the eyes the way I have. Haven’t seen the vulnerability hiding beneath the sharp edges. The ache behind his cocky grin.
Maybe I’m delusional. But there’s something real in Finn’s obsession. Something raw. As if he was born to watch me. As if I was carved out of the dark for him to find.
The idea should scare me. But it doesn’t.
It makes my skin flush and my heart beat faster. It makes me want things I probably shouldn’t.
Still, I won’t chase that without my pack behind me.
Because I think that’s what they are now—mine. My thoughts are still spinning when I hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen.
Hunter is first, a towel slung over one shoulder. His eyes move from Carson to the package on the table and then to me. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t hesitate. He just moves.
In one smooth motion, he plucks me from Carson’s side, settling me across his thighs as he sinks into the corner of the couch.
His arms wrap around me, grounding me, possessive but comforting.
His musk fills my lungs—sweet and protective, full of unspoken things I don’t think I’m ready to hear just yet.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my temple.
I nod, but it’s a small thing. A little lie. Or maybe just a complicated truth I haven’t unraveled yet.
Then Graham steps into the room.
He’s wiping his hands with deliberate focus, giving me a second to speak before he fills the silence himself. But I don’t say anything. Not yet.
So he walks forward, his gaze flicking to the box on the table. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t hover. Just reaches out and lifts the lid.
The moment his eyes land on what’s inside—the photos, the sketches, the journal page neatly folded—his entire posture shifts. His jaw tightens. His shoulders square. And that sharp, assessing look slides into place.
“From him?” he asks, even though it’s not really a question.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Graham’s eyes lift to mine, unreadable for a breath.
“What’s it say?” he asks, calm and controlled.
I twist slightly in Hunter’s lap, watching Graham as he pulls out the journal page. He reads it without a word. Without so much as a twitch.
But when he’s done, he slides it back into the box, replaces the lid, and looks me straight in the eye.
“That doesn’t scare you?” he asks.
I hesitate. Then shake my head. “No.”
Hunter’s grip around me tightens just enough to make me feel it. And Graham gives one short nod. He looks at me, his jaw working as he holds back a hell of a lot more than words.
Hunter’s grip on me doesn’t loosen, and Graham’s still standing, his hands clenched into loose fists at his sides. The tension in the room shifts, simmering under the surface, a slow-building storm.
“He’s still a threat,” Graham says finally.
“To who?” I snap. “To you?” I throw my hands up. “Because he’s not a threat to me.”
Hunter’s breath flares behind me. “You don’t know that.”
“I do know.” I push up slightly, enough to turn and face him better. “I read the file, remember? And I’ve been around him. And you weren’t there when he—when I went with him. You didn’t see how he looks at me.”
Graham scoffs. “How he sees you? Willow, he’s a stalker. He probably sees you more than you think.”
My chest tightens, and my eyes instinctively lift to the window. He’s right. Of course he’s right.
Finn has an apartment across the street. A whole damn apartment, just so he can watch me. And I’ve left the blinds open. I haven’t even tried to block his view. Haven’t told any of them, even though the note he sent made it perfectly clear—he can see everything. Every moment. Every touch.
Graham follows my gaze, his head turning as he zeroes in on the building across the way. He doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to. The sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides? That says enough.
Then he moves.
He stalks across the room, stopping at the window. He glares across the street, his whole posture stiff.
“You quit,” I say, reminding him—grasping for something solid to hold on to in the middle of the chaos.
He turns back to me slowly, like he can’t believe I just said that.
One eyebrow arches. His voice is low and lethal. “Did we? Or are we just refusing payment?”
My breath catches, and something twists inside me.
“You’re not our job anymore,” he adds, his tone gentler now. “You never were, not really. We fell for you the second you refused to get into your town car and tried to walk over six miles home, in heels.”
He doesn’t move toward me or invade my space. He just looks at me—steady and unshaken, daring me to challenge him again. And I want to. God, I want to. But deep down, I know the truth.
They didn’t quit protecting me. They just stopped getting paid for it.
A tense silence settles over the room.
I expect Carson to crack a joke. To defuse the bomb Graham just dropped with a wink or some well-placed innuendo. But when he speaks, his voice is quieter. Calmer.
Sincere.
“He’s not wrong, peaches.”
I blink over at him.
He’s leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, fingers laced together, telling me this is more than just another conversation to him.
“When I offered to help you see Finn,” he says, eyes locked on mine, “I didn’t need to ask for permission from them. But I wasn’t hiding it either. They knew I offered.”
My gaze cuts to Graham. To Hunter. Neither of them looks shocked. Not even a little. My stomach dips.
“You knew?” I ask, incredulous.
Graham doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
Hunter’s mouth is tight, his hands on my thighs, but he nods once. “We figured if anyone could manage it without things spiraling, it’d be Carson.”
“And you just…what? Let it happen? Encouraged it?”
Carson shifts then, sitting back in his seat, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, ignoring the landmine I’ve just stepped on.
“Let’s be real, peaches,” he says with a half-smile. “You don’t let an omega like you do anything. You make your own decisions. Always have. At least if we went along with it, I could keep you safe.”
That pulls me up short. Because it’s true.
I look at them—at all three of them—and suddenly, I feel how much has shifted. How much has been slipping through my fingers while I’ve been so wrapped up in surviving.
Carson knew I would find a way to see Finn again, and he offered to help. And Graham and Hunter didn’t stop him. That should make me angry, but it doesn’t, not fully anyway.
“You think I don’t know how much you’ve all sacrificed?” I say quietly. “That I haven’t noticed the way things have changed?”
None of them speak.
So I keep going. “You gave up a paycheck. Gave up control.” I shake my head a little. “You gave me space. Even when you didn’t want to.”
He smiles faintly. “What can I say? We’re suckers for a strong-willed omega.”
A flicker of warmth threads through the tension, enough to take the edge off, for now. But I know this conversation isn’t over. Not even close.
Because Finn’s still across the street. And the question isn’t whether I’ll see him again. It’s what happens after I do.