She looked soft in their arms. Spent. Satisfied. All the tension she wore like armor had finally melted. As if she could finally breathe.
And fuck—my brain’s been looping on it all night. Replaying every flicker of motion, every shift in her silhouette as her body pressed to theirs. I could imagine the sound she must’ve made when Graham buried his face in her throat. Could feel the way she probably whimpered when Carson’s mouth found her skin.
I pictured her purring.
I know I didn’t hear it. But I didn’t have to. I could see it in her body, in the way she arched, the way her fingers curled, the way her legs tangled around them as she accepted them as hers.
And maybe they are.
That thought digs claws into my chest.
I don’t move as the light shifts again, pouring a little more boldly through her windows. They’re still in there—those three. Her pack, whether she’s called them that yet or not. Graham’s arm is slung over her waist. Hunter’s curled on her other side. Carson is behind her, curled around her back.
I lick my lips and press my forehead to the windowpane. It’s cold. Not cold enough.
I wanted this for her. I still do.
But I never thought I’d have to watch it happen without me. I thought I had more time. Thought I could still become what she needed.
Instead, I’m outside the glass, stuck in the waiting. The watching. The ache.
She hasn’t looked this way yet. But when she does…
Maybe I’ll be gone.
Or maybe I’ll still be here.
Waiting.
Ready.
Because if she opens that window again—if she even thinks about running…I’ll be right here.
And this time, I won’t let her go back.
Not without a fight.
CHAPTER 53
Willow
The knock is soft.Two quick taps. Not enough to draw attention.
I glance up from the couch, Carson’s flannel swallowing my hands, sleeves hanging past my fingers.
Graham’s in the kitchen, cast iron in hand, moving with the ease of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Hunter’s crouched by the window, tightening the new alarm, jaw set in concentration. Carson hums barefoot, pouring water into a French press, suspiciously domestic.
None of them seems to notice.
I slip off the couch, bare feet whispering against the floor as I edge to the door. Crack it open.
No one’s there.
Just a box. Medium-sized. Wrapped in brown kraft paper, tied with twine—something out of another century.
No return address.
Only my name.Willow—inked in a script I don’t recognize. But it snags in my chest, sharp, tugging at something buried. Not familiar, not exactly. More the echo of recognition, déjà vu dragging nails across my ribs.
