Chapter 56 #2
He exhales, low and shaky. “If it’s what you need. But not if it hurts you. If he’s too much.”
The words crack something open in me.
“I don’t know what I need,” I whisper.
His arms wrap around me fully then, his chin settling on my head. “That’s okay. We’ll figure that out too.”
Across the street, Finn hasn’t moved. But when Graham shifts behind me, I see it. A nod. A subtle dip of his head—not to me.
To Graham.
The smell of coffee and something sweet—caramel, maybe—pulls me out of sleep. I stretch slowly, my limbs pleasantly sore, and slide Carson’s soft T-shirt down over my thighs. It's warm beyond the covers, and the apartment is quiet in that soft, early-morning way that feels sacred.
I pad toward the kitchen, drawn by the scent—still hazy, still barefoot—until I hear it.
My name.
I freeze just outside the kitchen in the hallway, breath catching, and press my back against the wall, heart suddenly thudding. I inch closer, trying to eavesdrop.
“She was watching him again last night,” Graham says. He sounds tired. “I didn’t stop her.”
I curl my fingers into the fabric of the shirt. My shirt—no, Carson’s. Everything about this moment feels borrowed.
“It probably wouldn’t end well if you tried,” Carson says.
Graham huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”
“Do you think he can be trusted? Obsession has a really fine line, and he has a history of violence,” Hunter says.
My throat tightens. I shift my weight to my other foot, trying to stay still, trying not to creak the floor.
“Against Alpha’s who are pretty shitty if you ask me,” Carson quips.
A quiet breath escapes me, half relief, half guilt. I hadn’t expected him to defend Finn. Not out loud.
“Which means he’d probably protect her from alphas he thinks are hurting her,” Graham adds.
I press a hand to my stomach, fingers trembling. I hate that they’re talking about this. About him. About me.
“Guess it’s a good thing we’re bodyguards who are also protecting her,” Carson chuckles.
My eyes sting. I’m not sure if it’s from how hard I’m trying not to cry, or from how much they still surprise me.
“I told her we’d make it work if she wants him,” Graham says.
A soft, traitorous sound slips from my throat. Quiet. But not quiet enough. I clamp a hand over my mouth and stare at the floor, wishing it could open up and swallow me.
“Shit. You really are whipped by her if you’re willing to bring a psycho into our pack,” Hunter replies, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Fuck you,” Graham says. “I think we’re all pretty far gone for her.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pulse thudding in my ears.
Hope fills me. They’re talking about Finn, making plans to include him. They aren’t going to punish me for my curiosity. They aren’t going to leave me for it.
I curl my toes into the wood floor, breath shaky as I back away. One step. Two.
Because if I hear one more word, I might cry. And I don’t want them to see that part of me yet. Not until I figure out if I can survive being loved this much.
I close my bedroom door behind me, pressing my back to the wood and letting out a slow, trembling breath.
They’re going to let me have him—if that’s what I want.
My chest aches with something I don’t know how to name. Gratitude. Guilt. Longing. Maybe all of it, twisted up together in a knot beneath my ribs.
I walk quietly to the window.
The curtain is still open. The morning sun filters in, pale and warm, and I scan his windows across the street.
There.
He’s there.
Not standing this time, but seated. Still. Almost statuesque, except for the subtle movement of his fingers as he traces something along the edge of a sketchpad. His hair is messy. A tiredness in his shoulders that I can see from here, says maybe he didn’t sleep.
The thought twists in my chest, cold and warm all at once.
He doesn’t look up.
It feels strange to be the one watching him.
To stand behind the glass, heart thudding, hands curled into the windowsill.
I study the shape of him—the way his muscles shift beneath his shirt as he sketches, the way the light from his window dances across his face.
His lips curve with satisfaction as his pencil flies across the page, and there’s something magnetic about him, something I can’t look away from.
He’s beautiful in a way that feels...normal. Not exaggerated like an alpha or delicate like an omega. There’s nothing engineered about Finn. He’s not bred to entice. Not built to seduce.
But still—he does.
Because he’s him. And beauty, I’m realizing, doesn’t need a pheromonal blueprint. Doesn’t need rules. It’s something you feel.
And I feel him.
He moves again—this time slower—and then, almost as if he senses me, he looks up. Our eyes lock. My breath catches, and something inside of me sings.
A single moment passes. Two.
And then his mouth tilts up at the corner—just the faintest hint of a smile.
Not smug or arrogant.
Just...acknowledging.
My heart thunders in my chest. Every instinct I have says to move—to run—to slip out the fire escape if it weren’t locked still, and cross the street. To throw myself into that apartment, into those arms, into whatever it is he’s offering me.
But I don’t.
Even though Graham removed the locks from the windows. Even though I could. Instead, I stand there. Heart racing. Palms sweating. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel powerless.
Because I’m not just choosing him.
I’m choosing me.