Chapter 82 Willow
Willow
Finn finds me the second I get home with Carson and Landon, like he’s been waiting by the door for my return. He doesn’t say anything at first—just takes my hand and tugs me gently down the hall toward my room, a determined glint in his eyes and a quiet sort of glee in the curve of his mouth.
“Come on, little fire,” he murmurs. “I’ve made you a bath. And I want to draw you while you relax.”
I stumble a little, laughing as I let him pull me along. “You’re going to draw me in the bathtub?”
He looks over his shoulder at me, eyes alight with something warm and hungry, but not rushed. Patient and worshipful. “Yes,” he says simply. “You’ll look radiant in the bubbles.”
“A bubble bath?” My smile spreads before I can stop it.
“Hunter said you enjoy them,” he replies. “If that’s not true, I can correct him. Sternly. Possibly with teeth.”
I snort. “No need for bloodshed. I love them.”
“Good.” His voice lowers, eyes dragging over me slowly, already committing every detail to memory. “Then you’ll be perfect.”
When we reach my bathroom door, he pauses and opens it carefully, as if he’s unveiling a masterpiece.
Candles flicker softly on the windowsill and the bathroom counter.
My tub is full of lavender-scented bubbles, soft music drifting in from the small speaker on the shelf.
A glass of sparkling water with mint and lemon waits on the edge, along with one of the ridiculous bathrobes Graham insisted on getting monogrammed with my initials.
Finn watches me take it in, that quiet pride bleeding through his usual stillness.
“You did all this?” I ask, voice softening.
He shrugs a little, then nods. “I wanted to give you something beautiful. Something you didn’t have to earn or fight for. You deserve that.”
Emotion curls in my chest, unexpected and warm. I reach for his hand again, lacing our fingers.
“I’ll get in if you sit close. You don’t have to draw me, though.”
His smile tugs higher on one side. “I want to.”
“Then draw me,” I whisper. “But only if you sit close enough to hold my hand.”
Finn moves before I finish the sentence, dragging the cushioned bench from the corner and placing it near the tub. He sets his sketchpad and charcoal pencils beside it with care, then turns back to me and holds out his hand.
“Your throne awaits, milady.”
I giggle, toes already tingling at the thought of warm water and his steady gaze.
“Let me change,” I murmur.
“Let me help you,” he replies.
He helps me ease out of my clothes. A slow sort of strip tease that makes me hyperaware of him. Before I’m slipping into the bath with a sigh that echoes off the tile.
The moment my body sinks beneath the bubbles, my ribs give a dull protest—but it’s already better.
Finn settles beside the tub with a humble kind of grace. His sketchpad opens, pencil poised. But before he draws, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around mine.
“Relax,” he says. “Just breathe.”
So I do.
And as the candlelight flickers across the surface of the water and the gentle scrape of charcoal fills the room, I realize—I’ve never felt safer than I do with these five men.
His eyes flick up between strokes, always watching. Not just my body, but me.
The steam fogs the mirror behind him, and I let myself drift, hand still tangled in his.
I don’t know how long I stay there, only that when I finally speak, my voice is quiet but sure.
“Finn?”
He hums, never looking away.
“You know you’re part of this pack now, right?”
His pencil stops.
Then he nods once. “I knew before you did.”
The smell of garlic and roasted tomatoes hits me the second I step out of the shower from rinsing off, my hair dripping down my back. My skin is still warm from the bath Finn ran for me, and I’m soft, loose, and happy in a way I wasn’t sure was possible.
I pad barefoot toward the kitchen, drawn by the glow and the sound of low laughter.
I pause in the doorway.
Carson and Landon are shoulder-to-shoulder at the stove, moving around each other and working in sync.
Landon stirs the sauce, tasting and adjusting with a little shake of oregano, while Carson chops herbs with an exaggerated flourish, spinning the knife in his hand like some show-off culinary gymnast.
“You’re going to lose a finger,” Landon mutters, though his lips are curved.
Carson smirks. “Jealous because I make it look easy?”
“I’m jealous because I don’t want to explain to Willow why her bodyguard can’t play piano anymore. And we have to spend the night in the ER.”
Carson scoffs. “Who says I can play piano?”
I have to press a hand to my mouth to keep from giggling.
Hunter and Graham are at the counter, plating salads and arguing over the ratio of dressing to greens.
“She’s not going to notice the salad,” Graham grumbles. “You two have basically cooked a feast for a queen.”
Hunter drizzles a little more dressing anyway. “She’s our queen.”
Heat flares in my chest at that, but I stay quiet, just soaking it in—the swirl of voices, the clash of personalities, all orbiting the same sun.
Behind me, Finn appears silently, a shadow and a presence all at once, camera slung around his neck. He rests his chin on my shoulder, warm and familiar, as his arms come around my waist.
“Looks right, doesn’t it?” he murmurs.
I nod, a smile pulling at my lips. “It really does.” We watch them for a few more minutes before joining them.
When I finally step into the kitchen, four heads turn toward me. Landon brightens instantly. “Perfect timing. Taste test?”
I slide between him and Carson. Landon lifts a spoonful of sauce toward my lips, and I hum as it hits my tongue—tangy, sweet, perfect.
Carson grins triumphantly. “See? That’s the noise Landon’s been chasing all day.”
“Not denying it, but I’m pretty sure you also wanted to hear it,” Landon says, smirking. “I’ve decided we’re cooking for her forever.”
From the other side of the counter, Finn leans his hip against a stool and says softly, “I could get used to this.”
It’s the way he says it, quiet, content, talking to himself more than anyone, that makes Graham pause. He reaches across the counter, tilts Finn’s chin up with two fingers, and brushes a slow, soft kiss against his mouth.
Finn freezes, then melts. When they part, Hunter leans over and presses his own quick kiss to Finn’s jaw, grinning. “That’s for talking like you belong here. You do.”
He hums with happiness.
My heart does a ridiculous flip. I can’t stop smiling. I love this—the way they fold Finn in without hesitation, the way the edges between all of us blur and soften until I can’t tell where one connection ends and the next begins.
By the time we sit down to eat, it’s chaos in the best way.
Graham steals breadsticks off Finn’s plate.
Hunter flicks water at Carson when he makes another cocky joke about my “happy food noises.” Landon pretends to be scandalized when Knox texts me a picture of the team holding our Nationals trophy with the caption Pack Girl.
And through it all, I just…glow.
Because this is home. This is family. This is mine.