Chapter 74 Finn
Finn
The bar is quiet in that curated way high-end hotel bars always are: dim lighting, soft jazz no one’s really listening to, and the faint clink of glass on marble. The scent of citrus and bourbon hangs in the air, mixing with the colder undertones of hotel descenter and filtered air-conditioning.
I’m tucked in the corner, far enough to blend in, close enough to feel the heat ripple across the tile when she walks in.
Willow.
Her name flares behind my eyes. She’s wrapped in a towel, still dripping from the pool, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders.
Water slides down the slope of her collarbone and disappears beneath the fold of terrycloth.
My drink stills in my hand. The ice knocks against the crystal like it’s feeling the same tremor I am.
Her friend is beside her, laughing, loud and carefree. But I don’t hear her. My ears are filled with the rush of blood and something else.
Need.
Landon’s gone. Her pack is nowhere in sight. And here she is—smiling, soft, untethered.
It’s fate. Or divine design. This moment is written in the stars.
I rise slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my sleeves. My heart is a stuttered drumbeat in my chest, my breath shallow.
Willow tosses her head back, a ribbon of laughter spilling from her lips just as I reach them.
“The sign says no wet bathing suits,” I murmur, letting my gaze trail down the curve of her shoulder, to the droplets racing over her skin, to the puddle forming at her feet. She curls her toes instinctively, her whole body suddenly aware.
I bring my eyes back to hers—blue meeting mine with the exact mix of caution and spark I crave. “But I’m glad you’re a rule breaker.”
“Finn,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper.
Her friend stills. Not with fear. With recognition. She knows who I am. Good.
I smile, slow and sure. “Miss me, little fire?”
My fingers twitch for the camera I left upstairs. A mistake. She’s radiant like this, laughter just fading, heartbeat visible in the hollow of her throat right near the three marks her pack gave her. So many things flicker across her face. Surprise. Longing. Guilt. Heat.
All of it mine.
Her towel shifts slightly, and I watch the line of her neck, the delicate pull of her skin when she swallows.
I imagine how she tastes right now—chlorine, sunscreen, salt from a margarita she probably didn’t finish, if she’s even drinking the night before nationals.
Her scent would be softened by the pool, but I bet it’s still there underneath.
Still her.
She crosses her arms, adjusting her towel around her body. “How did you know where we’re staying?”
I tilt my head, offering a small shrug, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re not hard to find.”
She blinks.
“I called in a favor,” I say lightly, my tone all warmth, but my eyes don’t waver. “It’s Nationals. There’s only a few places a team with your backing would stay. High-end. Secure. I narrowed it down.”
Her breath catches, barely, but I hear it.
“And now…” I step slightly closer, just enough for her to feel the charge ripple between us. “Here you are. Glowing. Dripping. Perfect.”
Her friend shifts, clearly about to speak, but something in Willow’s expression stops her. She’s not scared. Not exactly. She’s curious. Conflicted.
God, I want to memorize this version of her. The one caught between past and present. The one no one else gets to see.
She stares at me, chin lifted, eyes sharp and shining under the low golden lights. “That’s not really an answer,” she says, voice a little husky, a little amused. “How’d you know where we were staying?”
I give her a slow, unapologetic smile. “I already told you, little fire—I always know where you are.”
Her mouth twitches, fighting a grin. “Right,” she murmurs, dragging the word out as if it’s a secret only we’re in on. “Stalker perks.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, watching her over the rim. “Only for you.”
She leans in a little, just enough to close the space between us to something dangerous. “You know, I slipped away from the pool without them noticing,” she says, taking another step closer. “Thought maybe you’d show up.”
I freeze.
She knew I’d find her.
She wanted me to.
That knowledge unspools something in my chest I didn’t know I’d locked up. It’s expectation. It’s wild. And it’s her.
Willow fucking Delong, wet from the pool, barefoot and bold, looking at me like she’s got nothing to lose.
“Why?” I ask, barely above a whisper. “Why would you want that?”
Her teeth catch her bottom lip, just briefly. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Maybe I’m feeling a little reckless.”
She shrugs, and it nearly ends me.
“I thought about what you said. About being one step ahead. About waiting for the right moment.” She taps the bar gently with her fingers. “So maybe I wanted to see what you’d do when it finally came. Maybe I did miss you.”
I swear the floor shifts under me.
Daisy, ever the opportunist, slides off her stool. “I’m gonna—” she waves vaguely, already stepping back. “Go make sure Cheese isn’t trying to drown Knox. You two look...occupied.”
Neither of us looks away.
“How did you slip past them?”
Her smile curves, slow and smug. “I’m a roller derby omega. Not a house pet. I go where I want.”
That smile—God, it unravels something inside me. I’ve imagined her teasing, bratty, furious, sobbing—but this? This relaxed version of her, flirty and unguarded? It kills me.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but then she cocks her head and says, “Don’t worry, they’ll realize I’m missing eventually.” Her gaze drops to my mouth for a half-second. “But you’ve got a little time, stalker boy.”
My breath catches.
She’s playing. And not the kind of manipulation she used to wield—this is something different. This is reckless, impulsive, real. She’s not just humoring me. She’s seeing what happens when she lets the leash slip.
I’m wrecked.
“I didn’t bring my camera,” I say quietly. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”
Her lashes lower. “You don’t.”
My pulse kicks, wild and erratic.
I could kiss her right now. I shouldn’t, but I could. I shift closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like I’m moving through a dream and don’t want to wake it.
She doesn’t pull away. She watches me.
Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, her towel still clutched loosely around her. She smells of chlorine and citrus and, underneath it all, her scent, muted but still enough to drive me mad.
I lift my hand and brush a damp strand of hair away from her cheek. Her skin is warm, dewy. She leans into it.
God help me.
“I’ve thought about this,” I murmur. “Every day. Every night. What it would feel like if you let me touch you again.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn't have to.
I lower my mouth to hers. The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not cautious.
It’s everything I’ve been holding back. Everything I’ve buried. Every fractured piece of devotion and want and obsession poured into one reckless, aching moment.
And she kisses me back.
Hard.
Hungry.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling in the collar of my shirt as she pulls me closer. Her body presses into mine, damp towel and warm skin and all that fire coiled tight in her frame, pouring into me like gasoline.
She tastes sweet. Like defiance. Maybe she wants this as much as I do.
I could drown in her.
She’s mine.
She always has been.
And for one perfect second, I think she knows it too.
Then, a quiet presence is at our side. I feel it before I hear anything. The shift in energy. The slight change in the weight of the air.
Willow tenses just a beat before a low voice slides into the space between us.
“This doesn’t feel like the agreement we made, peaches.”
Her body stiffens.
Slowly, we pull apart. Not fast or guilty.
Carson stands beside us, calm as anything, towel slung loose over one shoulder, damp curls pushed back from his face. He doesn’t look mad.
He looks steady.
Still.
But his eyes—those crystal blue ocean-deep eyes—are locked on Willow.
Her voice is soft. Almost careful. “Carson—”
“Relax,” he says, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not mad. But you are making a puddle at your feet, and the bartender looks a little pissy.” His gaze slides between us. “Maybe take this somewhere more private? With supervision, of course.”
It takes a second for it to click. What he’s saying. What he means.
He’s really okay with this.
My fingers tighten on Willow’s arms. My cock throbs against my jeans. But I don’t move. I wait. For her.
Willow’s eyes flick to mine. Then Carson’s. Then back to mine.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
She shifts her weight—just the slightest lean into me—and I nearly come undone.
“Is that really okay?” she asks Carson, her voice quieter now, but not uncertain. There’s something dangerous in it. A challenge.
Carson’s smile turns lazy. “We said you could explore, peaches. No one’s backing out.”
Her lips part, and something wild flickers behind her eyes.
She’s going to say yes.
I know it. I feel it.
She glances down at my hand still resting on her arm. I lift it slowly, giving her space. Letting her choose.
“Not too far,” she says. “And not too long.”
My breath leaves me in a rush.
I don’t even realize I’ve stepped back until Carson shifts beside me, falling into step, acting like this isn’t the single most important moment of my life. As though he hasn’t just handed me a key to the kingdom I’ve been clawing at from the outside.
We follow her through the bar, her towel swaying, still damp. Her bare feet slap gently against the marble as she leads us to the elevator. It feels normal.
But it’s not.
It’s monumental.
Carson’s too quiet beside me, but I don’t question it. He’s watching her, too, the same way I am—only different. He knows her scent, her breath patterns, the language of her skin. I’ve studied her from a distance, painted her in private, chased the echo of her laugh across cities.
He’s lived her.
And now, he’s letting me in.
The elevator doors slide open. Willow steps in first. I follow. And Carson brings up the rear.
As the doors close, sealing us inside the glass box, Willow lifts her chin and meets my eyes, daring me to make a move.
Oh, little fire.
You have no idea what you’ve just started.
The door clicks shut behind us, soft but final. The kind of sound that closes off the world.
I stand in the center of the room, heart pounding out of my chest, while Willow steps past me and tosses her towel through the bathroom doorway. It lands with a wet slap on the tile. The faint scent of chlorine lingers on her skin, but it’s already fading beneath something warmer—her.
Carson brushes past me, his bare arm grazing mine.
His scent hits me—spiked hot cocoa and marshmallows.
Rich. Cozy. Dangerous. I’m pretty sure my cock has never been this hard.
The combination of the two of them is almost overwhelming to my senses.
How strong are their scents that even I can smell them?
I can’t smell other omegas or alphas, so smelling them and knowing without a doubt that’s what I’m smelling…it’s strange, but feels akin to an instinct I didn’t realize I had.
He drops into the oversized armchair in the corner, legs spread wide, one hand draped over the armrest, the other idly twirling the towel he just peeled from his neck.
Their room is too warm. Or maybe it’s just me. My skin buzzes. My throat is dry.
“You two smell like heaven,” I murmur.
Carson’s eyes meet mine, flaring with something unreadable, then heat. The air thickens. Now is the time to make sure he wants me too. Make sure I give him a reason to keep me around. So I can belong to something for the first time in my life.
Nerves run through me. I’m never nervous, but something about this feels life-changing. Willow leans against the dresser, arms loose at her sides, her eyes raking over both of us. She bites her bottom lip, not like she’s unsure, but as if she’s deciding how far to push.
“You can smell us?” she asks. “What do we smell like?”
I swallow. “Warm peaches and melting ice cream. With chocolate and something sweet under it all.”
She hums at that, lashes dropping briefly as if she’s tucking something away. When she looks back up, she shares a look with Carson—one I can’t decode, but I feel it settle between them.
“Betas don’t normally smell omega and alpha scents so clearly,” she says.
I don’t move. Just stare at her. At him.
“I’ve always been able to smell you,” I say softly.
Her expression shifts slightly, and I know she feels the tension that’s always been there, but now threaded through with something more. Something bigger. Something undeniable.
And I don’t want to wait.
I cross the space between us in a few careful steps, aware of everything—her breathing, the heat coming off her skin, the way her fingers curl against the edge of the dresser, bracing herself.
I lift a hand to her jaw, brushing my thumb along the edge of her cheek. “Let me kiss you.”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t move either.
I take it as permission.
The moment my mouth meets hers, the world narrows. The kiss deepens, her hands finding my shirt, curling into the fabric as I press in. I could drown in her and not care. She’s fire and lightning and the calm just before a storm. Mine. She always has been.
And I think—just for a heartbeat—she knows it too.
It’s fierce and slow, not rushed but full of everything we haven’t said. She tastes of chlorine and adrenaline, but also like defiance and temptation wrapped in summer heat. Her hands clutch my shirt, pulling me closer. And God, I go willingly. I could kiss her until the world ends.
But I don’t.
I pull back just slightly, breath brushing her lips, and glance toward the corner of the room.
Carson watches us from the armchair, still and quiet, his gaze unreadable.
“You don’t have to just sit there,” I say softly. “Come here.”
A beat passes.
Then Carson rises, slow and measured. His bare feet whisper over the carpeted floor as he approaches. His gaze flicks to Willow, who nods once, wordless but open.
Then his eyes land on me.
I expect tension. Wariness. But when he stops in front of me, he just looks at me—really looks—and then his hand slides behind my neck.
And he kisses me.
It’s different than hers, deeper, firmer, and almost exactly like he kissed me in the locker room. A test. A challenge. But there’s heat in it too. Curiosity. Want.
I lean into it, my fingers still curled loosely around Willow’s waist. Her touch moves then, trailing from my chest down, slow and unhurried. She finds the button of my jeans and pauses, her breath brushing my collarbone as she nips at my neck.
My lips part, breaking from Carson’s just enough to whisper, “Is this really happening?”
Willow hums against my neck. “It is if you want it.”
Carson’s smile is faint against my mouth, but there. “You’re already here, stalker boy. Might as well stay.”
And without any more words, I know, I belong.