She shifts, eyelashes fluttering, her breath hitching. Then—a pained whimper.
I move before I can think, my hand closing gently overhers. Her fingers twitch in my grip, but she doesn’t pull away. Her skin is still too warm, but there’s no more fever-slick sweat clinging to her forehead. She’s coming out the other side.
But it’s not enough. She’s not okay.
“Easy, princess,” I murmur, my voice low, steady. I don’t know if she hears me, if she even knows I’m here, but I hold on anyway. Just in case. Just so she doesn’t wake up alone.
Her fingers curl slightly, the smallest movement, but it’s enough to send something tight and unfamiliar twisting in my chest.
She’s reaching for something, someone—even in sleep.
Beside me, Carson lets out a quiet scoff that’s half amusement, half something else. “Well, shit.”
I don’t look up, but I feel their eyes on me. A beat of silence hangs too long.
Out of the corner of my eye, Graham shifts his weight, arms crossing. He glances at Carson. A look passes between them.
“Hunter,” Graham says.
I ignore them.
She moves again, pressing deeper into the bed, her body still lax with exhaustion. A quiet sigh leaves her lips, her fingers loosening, but I don’t let go.
I should. I don’t.
Instead, I brush my thumb across the back of her knuckles, grounding both of us in the simple point of contact.
Carson lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t peg you for the hand-holding type. In fact, you're not soft with me like that at all.”
I exhale. “Fuck off,” I say, but there isn’t heat behind the words. He’s right, with him and Graham I don’t need to be soft. But Willow—she’s an omega. Even if she tries to refuse that part of herself, she deserves soft.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
A sharp buzz breaks the quiet.
Graham’s phone.
He pulls it from his pocket, frowning as he reads the screen. His jaw tightens, and suddenly the energy in the room shifts.
“What is it?” Carson asks, straightening.
Graham doesn’t look up. “Delong’s estate was hit.”
I snap my head toward him. “What do you mean hit?”
“Security breach,” he says, already moving toward the window. “Multiple entry points. Looks coordinated.”
Carson curses under his breath. “That’s not random.”
I look back at Willow. She hasn’t stirred, but her hand is still in mine. I squeeze it gently, unwilling to let go.
Graham’s voice is low, clipped. “He’s calling us in. All three. Says he doesn’t trust anyone else to handle this.”
“Of course he’s calling us,” Carson mutters. “Because that man only trusts who he can buy.”
“He’s her father,” Graham says. “And this is his home. If someone’s targeting him, it might not be just about his business. It could tie back to her.”
