38. Sophie
Sophie
The brightness wakes me.
Sunlight, warm and gold, presses through a gap in the curtains and falls across my face. For a moment I don’t know where I am. The bed is too big and too soft, and I’m wearing a cashmere sweater that isn’t mine.
Then it all comes back.
I love you, Sophie.
The scars. Ethan’s gentle hand on my shoulder, and this time I stayed.
I told them everything, and none of them left.
You’re safe with us, Sophie.
Then my scent slipping through the suppressants. Rain and crushed rose petals.
Welcome home, little one.
I turn my head on the pillow and a wave of emotion hits me—relief and a tenderness so fierce it tightens my throat.
There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. Beside it, two white pills and a folded piece of paper. I reach for the note.
Take both before you get out of bed. They’ll need about 20 minutes.—E
I stare at it for a while. Ethan thought about this.
Sometime while I was sleeping, he got the suppressants and wrote this note and left it where I’d see it first thing.
He thought about my scent breaking through and what that would mean for me waking up in a house with three alphas, and he made sure I’d have the option to contain it before I had to face any of them.
I put the pills on my tongue and wash them down.
I shower and change into the t-shirt and sweatpants folded on the bathroom counter.
They’re Ethan’s. I’ve seen him wear this shirt.
The sweats are too long and I have to roll them at the ankles.
By the time I go downstairs, I can feel the suppressants starting to kick in, my scent pulling back beneath my skin like a tide going out.
The kitchen smells faintly like butter and vanilla. Finn is at the stove in jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, making waffles with careful focus. There’s coffee already waiting on the counter, dark, no sugar.
He turns when he hears me, and there it is—that smile. The one that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth, the one that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room.
“Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out shy.
“Hey, Soph.” His eyes move over my face, taking me in. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah.” I sit down at the counter and wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. “I did, actually.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of them. “I’m glad.” He turns back to the stove. “Waffles will be ready in a minute. Did you take the suppressants Ethan left you?”
“I did. They’re starting to kick in.”
He nods, though we both know he can already tell.
I watch him cook. He moves around the kitchen with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times—reaching for the butter without looking, flipping the waffle iron at exactly the right moment, wiping the counter with a dish towel he keeps slung over his shoulder.
“You know,” he says, checking the waffle iron, “the first time I ever made these, I nearly burned down our apartment in college. Ethan had this ancient waffle maker he’d found at a yard sale—the cord was basically held together with tape—and I plugged it in and the whole thing started smoking.
” He grins at the memory. “Ethan came running in with a fire extinguisher. Max just stood in the doorway eating cereal and watching like it was a TV show.”
I laugh, and I watch Finn’s face light up at the sound.
“That’s such a Max thing to do,” I say. “He’s not easily fazed, is he?”
“No. Not Max. Except for things that really matter to him,” he says softly, and he looks at me.
“Finn, I—”
He waits, but the words don’t come. I don’t know how to say thank you for not leaving to the man who held my hand while I told him the worst things that ever happened to me. He just comes over and kisses my forehead. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
He pulls back and turns to the waffle iron like nothing happened.
He slides a plate in front of me and sits down across the table.
“Eat,” he says gently.
We eat in silence, morning light falling through the window in long warm stripes across the table. The waffles are extraordinary, and I realize I can’t remember the last time someone else cooked for me in their home.
I tell him they’re good and he grins, clearly pleased. We don’t talk about last night. He just keeps making waffles and I keep eating them, and for a few minutes, the world is exactly this small.
His phone buzzes from the living room. “That’s probably Max,” he says, pushing back from the table. “One minute.”
I hear him answer in the hallway. “Yeah, I saw it... No, I think we push it to Thursday. Diana’s team needs at least another day on the projections...” He pauses. “Yeah, she’s up. She’s good.” There’s a longer pause, and then he says, “I know. Me too.”
I stare at my plate and wonder which part of that conversation was about me.
I get up to clear the dishes. I’m reaching for a glass on the top shelf when his arm reaches past mine, takes it down, and sets it on the counter in front of me.
He doesn’t step back. He’s right behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his chest through my shirt. I go still. Suddenly I’m aware of everything—the warmth of him, the fact that neither of us is moving away.
If I leaned back even a fraction—
Slowly, he moves his hands to the counter, gripping the edge on either side of me. The tendons in his forearms stand out, veins running toward his wrists.
“Sophie.” His voice comes out rough, almost pained. “Tell me to step back.”
I don’t.
I close my eyes and lean into him.
He’s solid and warm behind me, and I can feel all of him—the weight of his chest and the hard line of him against my lower back. My mind goes blank. My fingers find the edge of the counter beside his and hold on.
A sound escapes him, low and involuntary, the first crack in his restraint.
“Finn.”
He drops his head and I feel his nose press into my hair, breathing in. “I can still smell you,” he says against the top of my head. “Just barely. The suppressants—they haven’t fully—”
“I can smell you too.” I tip my head to the side, toward his neck, breathing him in. “Like sun-warmed skin,” I say, almost to myself. “Like happiness. Just like that night we met.”
His breath catches and his hands tighten on the counter, the knuckles going white.
“I really want to kiss you,” he says.
His breath brushes over the back of my neck, and every muscle in my body seems to notice.
His hands are still locked around the edge of the counter, forearms drawn tight like the only thing keeping him from touching me is his own grip. When he speaks, his voice is more unsteady than I’ve ever heard it.
“But I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.
” He’s close to my ear. “I kissed you at the gala and I thought about it for weeks afterward. I couldn’t stop.
I’d be in a meeting or trying to sleep, and I’d just—be back there.
Thinking about you.” His breath catches.
“The same thing happened after the last time we kissed. And I’m afraid that if I kiss you again now, I won’t be able to give you the space you need.
That I’ll want too much, too fast, and I’ll frighten you, and I—” He stops and swallows.
“I would rather want you forever from a distance than be the reason you flinch.”
The words settle deep in my chest, and my eyes burn.
I turn around in the space between his arms and look up at him.
He’s right there. His blue eyes are bright and completely unguarded, his breathing rough enough that I can see his chest moving. I can see everything he’s been holding back.
“Finn.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “I felt it too. Every time we kissed. I felt it and it terrified me.” I hold his gaze. “I feel it now. I’m not running.”
He stares at me for one suspended second, his thumb tracing my jaw. Then something in him gives. He kisses me, and it’s nothing like restraint.
His mouth closes over mine, warm and hungry, both hands coming up to my face. It’s different from every kiss before because this time there’s nothing between us.
He knows everything. He’s seen my scars. And he’s still here.
I kiss him back. My hands rise to his chest and stop there, hovering, not quite touching. Some part of me is still waiting for the flinch. For him to remember what I am and pull away.
Finn feels the hesitation. He takes my hand and presses it flat against his chest, holding it there.
“Touch me whenever you want, Soph,” he says against my mouth. “You never have to ask.”
My fingers spread against his shirt. I can feel his heart slamming under my palm, and the fact that he’s shaking too—that this steady, golden man is trembling under my hand—undoes something in me.
I let my hands wander over him, and for once I let myself take everything I want.
He makes a sound against my mouth and breaks the kiss, his hands still holding my face. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “God, I’ve thought about this so many times.”
He lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing. The movement brings us flush together, and I feel exactly how much he wants me. Then he’s between my knees, hands firm at my waist, my fingers buried in his hair as he kisses me deeper.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His breathing is uneven, every muscle in his body drawn tight with restraint. His thumb traces my cheekbone before his hand drifts lower. It reaches my breast and stops. Completely still. Waiting.
His eyes find mine.
“Touch me, Finn,” I whisper.
He kisses me again, and his fingers find my nipple through the shirt and pinch gently.
I moan into his mouth as warmth floods from that single point of contact, down through my stomach, settling low and insistent.
My eyes prick because I wasn’t prepared for it.
For how good it feels to be touched by him.
“You like that,” Finn says softly, kissing the side of my neck.