He’s beautiful in a way that feels...normal. Not exaggerated like an alpha or delicate like an omega. There’s nothing engineered about Finn. He’s not bred to entice. Not built to seduce.
But still—he does.
Because he’s him. And beauty, I’m realizing, doesn’t need a pheromonal blueprint. Doesn’t need rules. It’s something you feel.
And I feel him.
He moves again—this time slower—and then, almost as if he senses me, he looks up. Our eyes lock. My breath catches, and something inside of me sings.
A single moment passes. Two.
And then his mouth tilts up at the corner—just the faintest hint of a smile.
Not smug or arrogant.
Just...acknowledging.
My heart thunders in my chest. Every instinct I have says to move—to run—to slip out the fire escape if it weren’t locked still, and cross the street. To throw myself into that apartment, into those arms, into whatever it is he’s offering me.
But I don’t.
Even though Graham removed the locks from the windows. Even though I could. Instead, I stand there. Heart racing. Palms sweating. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel powerless.
Because I’m not just choosing him.
I’m choosing me.
CHAPTER 57
Carson
I knock once,then push her bedroom door open without waiting for an answer.
We don’t live here—none of us do—but after the last few nights we had? After the way she clung to us, let us touch every inch of her, let us see her in a way I don’t think anyone else ever has? Yeah, I’m not tiptoeing around anymore.
The door creaks softly, and there she is.
Perched at the window, knees drawn up beneath my T-shirt, her face half-lit by the morning sun. She’s not even pretending not to stare.
My gaze follows hers, tracking across the street. It’s early, but he’s already there. The beta. Finn. He’s seated at the window of his apartment, he could be a damn statue—motionless except for the slow movements of his hand as he sketches. No shirt. Still. Focused.
And Willow’s not blinking.
“Well,” I say, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “Looks like someone’s got a view this morning.”
She startles slightly but doesn’t look away. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“I knocked.” I stroll in casually. “You didn’t answer. Figured you were doing something scandalous.”
She finally looks at me. There’s no guilt in her eyes—just a flicker of awareness. Caught, but not sorry.
I cross to her side and glance out the window again. “Is it weird that I kind of respect how unashamed he is about the whole lurking-across-the-street thing? Guy’s committed.”
Willow snorts. “He’s not lurking. He lives there.”
“Convenient,” I murmur. “You think he picked the place for the natural light or the direct line of sight into your bedroom?”
She doesn’t answer that. I don’t expect her to.
