Chapter 70
Carson
The moment I hear the soft scuff of Hunter’s footsteps in the hall, I sit up straighter in the nest.
Then I see them.
Willow is bundled in one of the white towels, damp hair sticking to her cheeks, skin still flushed from the bath, and of course, she’s being carried like royalty in Hunter’s arms.
Again.
Her arms are looped lazily around his neck, and even though her eyes are heavy-lidded, she’s definitely awake.
“Hunter,” she murmurs, “I can walk.”
He doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t even blink. “I know.”
She huffs. “You always do this.”
“Because I want to.”
I grin and lean back against the pillows, stretching my arms behind my head. “Peaches, you should just accept it. He’s going to carry you every chance he gets. Trip over a sock, he’ll have you in a fireman’s hold before you hit the floor.”
Willow shifts her head enough to shoot me a look. It’s half fond, half I will throw something at you.
“Can’t tell if I’m lucky or losing control of my limbs permanently.”
“You’re not losing control,” I say, eyes raking over her slowly as Hunter lowers her into the nest. “You’re being spoiled. We just happen to enjoy doing it.”
She sinks into the blankets, still warm and damp, the towel sliding just enough to expose the top of one shoulder, Hunter’s mark showing faintly where skin meets soft cotton.
And fuck, if that doesn’t do something to me.
I pull the edge of the towel back into place, not because I want to cover her, but because I want to be the one to unwrap her again later.
Graham shifts behind me, brushing past to grab a fresh blanket as Hunter settles beside her, every part of him tuned to her comfort.
Willow lets out a small breath, her fingers curling in the blanket. “You all treat me as if I’m made of glass.”
“Nah,” I say, brushing her damp hair off her cheek. “Glass shatters. You just melt.”
Her lips twitch.
The scent of rosewater, omega, and us teases my senses—a blend that’s slowly filling every corner of her nest. I love it. I can’t wait for the whole house to be infused with Willow.
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just lies there, nestled between all three of us, eyes open but distant. Her body’s here, but her thoughts are drifting somewhere else.
I don’t like that. Not when she just gave us so much. I shift closer and nudge her foot under the blanket with mine.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She blinks and looks at me.
“Where’d you go just now?”
Her gaze flicks to the ceiling, then back to me. “Nowhere. Just…tired.”
“Tired’s fair,” I say. “But you’re lying.”
That earns me a look.
I drop the teasing for a beat.
“You gave us a lot today,” I murmur. “Your trust by coming here. That whole bath thing with Hunter that I’m trying really hard not to be jealous of.”
That gets the ghost of a smile out of her. She tucks her chin, attempting to hide it.
I reach over and brush my thumb gently beneath her eye. “You don’t have to say anything, Willow. But if something is bothering you, let it sit here with us, yeah? Don’t carry it alone.”
Her throat works around whatever she isn’t saying.
Then, finally: “It just… it felt good. But it also scared me how much I needed it. I don’t want to need anyone that badly. Breaking—again—it would kill me.”
I nod slowly, not looking away. “Yeah. I get that.”
Hunter pulls her gently into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Forever, princess. That’s a promise that won’t be broken.”
Graham shifts behind me, his arm reaching over to rub her side. “Do you really think someone with control issues like mine would ever let you go?”
She huffs out a laugh—soft and emotional. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, trying to bite it back.
“You can need us,” I say quietly. “Needing someone doesn’t make you weak. It just means you stopped pretending you didn’t want to be held anymore.”
Willow’s eyes flutter shut. She exhales slowly.
And this time, when she breathes in, it sounds easier.
Later that night
The kitchen smells akin to heaven. And maybe a little spice.
There’s cumin in the air, a hint of charred tortilla, something spicy I probably overdid, and a whole lot of me trying not to look like I’m trying too hard.
Because I am.
Graham leans against the island, arms crossed, watching me, and waiting for something to catch fire. “You sure you don’t need the fire extinguisher handy, Gordon?”
I flip a tortilla with a little more aggression than necessary. “I know how to cook.”
“Grilled cheese doesn’t count,” Hunter says flatly from the corner, where he’s dicing tomatoes with unnecessary precision.
Willow’s sitting on the counter—our counter—hair up in a loose knot, one of Graham’s shirts on again because apparently we’ve collectively lost the ability to protect our clothing from her nesting habits.
Her legs swing just enough to make the hem ride high on her thighs, and I have to refocus hard on the stove.
She smirks, sipping from a glass of water. “Wait. Carson’s really the one cooking?” she asks, clearly teasing me, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“Carson is making tacos,” I correct.
Hunter lifts an eyebrow. “Because that’s all we had in the fridge or because—”
“Because tacos,” I cut in, “were the first food she ever moaned over in front of me.”
The room goes still for exactly half a second.
Then Graham coughs a laugh into his fist. “You’re shameless.”
Willow snorts, covering her mouth. “That wasn’t a sexy moan. That was a ‘this is really good cheese’ kind of moan.”
“And yet,” I say, turning with the pan in hand, “it lives in my head. Rent-free.”
Hunter mutters something that sounds suspiciously similar to “simp,” but I ignore him and plate the food with extra flair, sliding it across the counter to Willow with a bow so dramatic it makes her roll her eyes.
But she takes the plate.
Takes a bite.
And then—there it is. That soft, involuntary sound she makes when something just hits.
I straighten up, smug as hell.
Graham groans. “Don’t encourage him.”
Too late. She finishes it off with a few more moans, each one enough to make me want to either drop to one knee and propose or drop to both knees and worship her.
She licks her fingers, slowly, unaware we’re all watching. Statues. Every last one of us.
Then she glances up, catching us mid-stare. Her cheeks flush pink as she blinks at us. “What? You asked for that.”
Hunter breaks the spell first, grabbing a taco as if it personally offended him. “I’m not sitting here while you two eye-fuck over carnitas.” He takes an aggressively large bite of his taco, and I almost laugh.
“You say that,” I mutter, “but you’re still chewing. Which means you like it.”
“I enjoy food, Carson. Not your domestic mating dance.”
“Looks like you now have something to be jealous of,” I reply.
Willow snorts into her plate.
Graham raises a brow at me, reaching for a taco of his own. “When did you learn how to cook something other than grilled cheese?”
“I didn’t. I YouTubed this. For her.” I glance at Willow. “And if she makes that sound again, I’m learning crème br?lée next.”
Willow sets her taco down slowly, eyes dancing. “So…my moans are your incentive?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “They’re spiritual. Motivational. Arguably therapeutic.”
“You’re a menace,” she says, but her cheeks are pink again, and she doesn’t stop smiling.
The laughter fades slowly into the comfortable clatter of plates and forks. For a minute, it’s just that—normal. Easy. Familiar.
Then Willow looks up. Her voice is quieter. Slower.
“What if…” She pauses. Clears her throat. “What if I really do want Finn and Landon in the pack?”
Silence falls.
I set my taco down gently, glancing at the guys. We talked about this possibility. Guess the elephant is finally in the room with us.
Hunter’s jaw ticks. Graham doesn’t blink.
But none of us speak. Not at first.
Willow looks between us, her expression careful. Guarded. “Would that change things?”