Chapter 62 #2
He closes his eyes at the contact. So I keep going—another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth. Then his other cheek.
“Please?” I whisper.
His hands settle on my waist, reluctant, but loosening. “In and out. You text the second you arrive, and the second you’re on your way back.”
I grin, triumphant. “Deal.”
And then, because I can, I kiss him properly—slow and deep and smug as hell. When I finally pull back, he’s glaring at me like I just cheated at a game he didn’t know we were playing.
“Manipulative omega,” he mutters.
I wink. “You love it, Alpha.”
He sighs, already reaching for his phone. “You better be back in ten.”
“I’ll be back in eight.” I flash him a grin as I grab my purse and head for the door.
As I exit my apartment building, the evening air hums against my skin—thick with heat, heavy with the low golden light of a summer sun on its descent.
I cross the street without checking Finn’s window. I already know it's dark. I noticed before I left. My gaze drifted there automatically—out of habit, curiosity… maybe hope. But the curtains were pulled. The lights were off. No sign of him.
Still, something in my pulse doesn’t settle.
The produce store is just a block away. Familiar. Comforting. The door creaks open, and a wash of cool air spills across my skin as the little bell above the entrance jingles.
I inhale. Lemons. Crushed mint. And something earthy beneath it all.
I head for the back. I know exactly what I’m after. Graham’s dinner is nearly done—whatever it is, it smells like heaven—and all we’re missing is the rosemary.
Being out alone feels good. A breath of space. Not that I don’t enjoy the guys’ constant presence. I do.
But I wasn’t lying when I told him that I lived alone for years. And I miss this part. A little freedom. The quiet.
My fingers skim over a bundle of herbs on display.
And then I feel him.
Before I hear him. Before I see him. Every part of me knows he’s there.
“I’ve missed this,” Finn’s voice murmurs behind me. “Watching you when they aren’t around.”
It’s low and smooth and filled with something that makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise. I don’t spin around. I just swallow, slow and tight, before turning.
And there he is.
Black shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, ink peeking out from under the collar. His dark lashes seem darker up close, under the fluorescent lights. He looks tired and alive all at once.
And he’s close. So close the air between us feels pulled thin.
“Finn,” I breathe.
He tilts his head, his eyes flicking down, then up—slowly.
“You smell like them,” he murmurs.
My breath catches. He steps forward—not touching, but surrounding. Caging me in with heat and intensity, that look in his eyes tells me he already knows what I’m going to say before I say it.
I take a half step back and bump against the cool steel of the upright freezer. He doesn’t move.
His fingers trail over my cheek, then down my throat, tugging my t-shirt down slightly. They pause just above the fresh mark on my neck. His eyes lock onto it.
“What’s this?”
I swallow. Why do I feel like I betrayed him?
“Little fire, which one did this?”
“Hunter.”
I hate that I answer him. Hate that I care what he thinks.
He presses his lips together, then nods once. “This doesn’t change anything between us, you know. You’re still meant to be with me.”
A shiver dances down my spine—and it isn’t from aversion.
“If he hurts you like Landon did, I won’t be as forgiving,” he adds. “There are ways of making alphas disappear. And I’d do that for you.”
“He won’t hurt me.”
How insane is it that I’m trying to convince my stalker that the man I’m in love with won’t hurt me? I must be just as crazy as Finn. Maybe we’re two of a kind. Maybe that’s why I crave him.
“Good.”
A couple walks past, pretending they don’t see me pinned to the freezer. That’s New York for you—people mind their own business.
I take a slow, steady breath. My chest brushes his as I inhale.
“I told Graham I’d only be eight minutes.”
“Then you’d better hurry, little fire. Wouldn’t want you to lose the freedom you’re finally earning.”
He steps back. And part of me hates that he does. Part of me doesn’t want him to let me walk away. But he’s right. Graham would let the apartment burn to the ground before letting me stay gone too long.
I push away from the cooler and turn.
“Wait,” he calls.
I pause, hesitating only a second before I glance back over my shoulder.
He’s already raised his camera.
But he doesn’t snap the picture. Not yet.
“Smile, little fire. You’ll see me soon.”
I close the door gently behind me, letting the quiet settle around me as I press the paper bag to my chest. The rosemary’s scent wafts up—sharp and clean—and I try to focus on that instead of the lingering chill of the freezer aisle.
Instead of the image of Finn’s camera aimed at my face and the possessive glint in his eyes when he saw the mark on my neck.
But I’m not shaking.
That has to count for something, right?
I toe off my shoes, heading toward the kitchen, acting normal. Like I didn’t just get cornered by a man who makes my heart flutter and twist in equal measure.
Graham is at the stove, his broad back to me. The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up, revealing strong forearms, and the oven’s gentle heat gives the kitchen a golden glow.
“I’ve got it,” I call softly, holding up the bag.
He turns immediately—eyes sweeping over me, assessing. Not suspicious. Just thorough. It's his nature.
“You’re back in one piece,” he says, relief threading through his voice even though it’s understated.
I smile, trying to keep it easy. “Told you. I’ve survived a lot worse than the produce store.”
He meets me halfway, reaching for the bag—but as his fingers brush mine, I see the shift.
His nostrils flare.
He stills.
His eyes lift to mine.
There’s no anger there.
Just a sudden, quiet intensity.
“Willow…” he says, low. “He was there.”
I hesitate. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I wait for the edge—expecting the firm line of his jaw to harden, his protective instinct to rise the way it always does.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, Graham exhales slowly. He sets the bag on the counter, then steps close again, brushing his knuckles down my arm.
“Are you okay?”
His voice is rough, but the question is real.
I nod. “He didn’t do anything. Just talked. And took a photo.”
Graham’s mouth tightens for a beat. I see the war in his eyes, the part of him that wants to burn down the world for me… and the part of him that’s trying to let me breathe.
He looks at me for a long moment—reading everything I’m not saying.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he admits, his voice raw now, softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Like you’re a thing he already owns.”
“I’m not,” I say immediately. “But I think you’re going soft, alpha.”
Graham narrows his eyes, as if I’ve just challenged his entire existence. “You tell Carson, and I’ll make him do dishes for a month.”
I let out a quiet laugh and step closer, nudging his arm with mine. “I knew it. You’re getting soft. I’ve ruined you.”
“You’ve unhinged me,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. Just that deep, low rumble I’ve started to recognize as affection—his own brand of it, anyway.
I rest my elbow on the counter and lean into his space a little more. “So I guess that makes us even.”
He arches a brow. “Even?”
I nod solemnly. “You unhinged me first. Somewhere between drilling locks on my windows and refusing to let me self-destruct, I think I started…caring. And liking the protection you gave.”
His hand stills on the spoon he’s using to stir the pan, and he glances at me. “Yeah?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His mouth quirks. “Never.”
But his eyes soften, just a little.
“Dinner smells amazing,” I say, changing the subject before things get too heavy. “You’re really determined to win me over with domesticity, huh?”
“It’s not about winning,” he replies, turning back to the stove. “It’s about showing up.”
That steals the breath from my lungs for a second. Because I know he means it. He is showing up. For me. In the smallest, most consistent ways.
I rest my chin on my hand and watch him work, the tension in the room diffusing into something quieter, gentler.
Safe.
“I still might tell Carson,” I murmur, just to stir the pot.
“Do it,” he says without looking at me. “Then watch how fast he throws me under the bus to keep his own title of favorite.”
I laugh again, and it feels good.
The front door opens with a bang, sounding as if someone forgot it has hinges, and I don’t need to look to know who it is.
“Peaches! Your favorite omega whisperer has arrived—with snacks and surprises,” Carson calls, his voice filling the apartment before he is even fully inside.
Graham exhales through his nose, barely containing a smile. “Subtle as ever.”
I grin as Carson strides in with a paper bag tucked under one arm and a small package in the other. His hair’s wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the evening chill of summer moving into fall. He kicks the door shut with his heel and makes a beeline for me.
“For you,” he says with dramatic flair, placing a soft bundle in my hands. He tilts my chin up to his and presses his lips to mine before I get a peek inside.
When he stands straight again, I pull apart the tissue to find the most ridiculously soft pair of fuzzy socks I’ve ever seen. Omega-coded, for sure—pale pink with little stars and moons embroidered along the cuffs. My heart does something stupid in my chest.
“They reminded me of you,” he says, a little softer now, and then adds, “Fierce, fiery, and cold-footed at night.”
I laugh. “You just want me to keep my toes off your legs.”
“That too,” he smirks.
Then he turns and, without hesitation, leans in to kiss Graham. Nothing drawn out, just a firm press of lips to say hello. Graham kisses him back just as naturally, one hand slipping around his waist in quiet acknowledgment.