Still, I won’t chase that without my pack behind me.
Because I think that’s what they are now—mine. My thoughts are still spinning when I hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen.
Hunter is first, a towel slung over one shoulder. His eyes move from Carson to the package on the table and then to me. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t hesitate. He just moves.
In one smooth motion, he plucks me from Carson’s side, settling me across his thighs as he sinks into the corner of the couch. His arms wrap around me, grounding me, possessivebut comforting. His musk fills my lungs—sweet and protective, full of unspoken things I don’t think I’m ready to hear just yet.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my temple.
I nod, but it’s a small thing. A little lie. Or maybe just a complicated truth I haven’t unraveled yet.
Then Graham steps into the room.
He’s wiping his hands with deliberate focus, giving me a second to speak before he fills the silence himself. But I don’t say anything. Not yet.
So he walks forward, his gaze flicking to the box on the table. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t hover. Just reaches out and lifts the lid.
The moment his eyes land on what’s inside—the photos, the sketches, the journal page neatly folded—his entire posture shifts. His jaw tightens. His shoulders square. And that sharp, assessing look slides into place.
“From him?” he asks, even though it’s not really a question.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Graham’s eyes lift to mine, unreadable for a breath.
“What’s it say?” he asks, calm and controlled.
I twist slightly in Hunter’s lap, watching Graham as he pulls out the journal page. He reads it without a word. Without so much as a twitch.
But when he’s done, he slides it back into the box, replaces the lid, and looks me straight in the eye.
“That doesn’t scare you?” he asks.
I hesitate. Then shake my head. “No.”
Hunter’s grip around me tightens just enough to make me feel it. And Graham gives one short nod. He looks at me, his jaw working as he holds back a hell of a lot more than words.
Hunter’s grip on me doesn’t loosen, and Graham’s still standing, his hands clenched into loose fists at his sides. Thetension in the room shifts, simmering under the surface, a slow-building storm.
“He’s still a threat,” Graham says finally.
“To who?” I snap. “To you?” I throw my hands up. “Because he’s not a threat to me.”
Hunter’s breath flares behind me. “You don’t know that.”
“I do know.” I push up slightly, enough to turn and face him better. “I read the file, remember? And I’ve been around him. And you weren’t there when he—when I went with him. You didn’t see how he looks at me.”
Graham scoffs. “How he sees you? Willow, he’s a stalker. He probably sees you more than you think.”
My chest tightens, and my eyes instinctively lift to the window. He’s right. Of course he’s right.
Finn has an apartment across the street. A whole damn apartment, just so he can watch me. And I’ve left the blinds open. I haven’t even tried to block his view. Haven’t told any of them, even though the note he sent made it perfectly clear—he can see everything. Every moment. Every touch.
Graham follows my gaze, his head turning as he zeroes in on the building across the way. He doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to. The sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides? That says enough.
Then he moves.
He stalks across the room, stopping at the window. He glares across the street, his whole posture stiff.
