She felt it. She knows what we are.
So why is she hiding? I exhale sharply, shoving the pictures back into their folder. Enough.But the thought won’t stop churning.
She’s not alone in there. Those alphas, they’re in her space. Too close. Watching her sleep. Maybe touching her when she’s too weak to fight them off.
The burn in my chest spikes, sharp and acidic.Mine.
I slide my jacket on, pocket my knife—just in case—and step into the night.
It’s time to get answers.
Getting inside is easy.
Too easy.
The men guarding her are good, but they aren’t watching for someone with my patience. They watch the doors, the street, the obvious entry points. They don’t think about shadows, about someone already inside before they even know they’ve been breached. It helps that the guys watching the doors aren’t one of the three. Those three are perceptive, but I watched them all pile into a car earlier, called away by something more important than Willow.
There’s nothing more important than her; they should already know that.
I slip through the alley, past the service entrance where deliveries come in for the small shop in the lobby. A worker buzzes in with a load of supplies, and I step in behind him, moving as though I belong. No one questions confidence. No one notices a ghost.
I take the stairs, moving slow, silent. The guards are stationed on her floor. One in the hallway, another nearby. Good. That means they assume no one’s inside.
Idiots.
I wait, pressing myself into the shadowed corner of the stairwell. The second one steps out, walking toward the elevator, probably to check the perimeter. He doesn’t even glance my way.
Perfect.
I slip into the hall, past the first guard’s blind spot, my breath steady, my movements practiced. I don’t run. I don’t rush. I move like I belong.
And then I’m inside with a quick picking of her lock.
Her apartment is dark. Still. The air is warm, carrying the fading scent of something sweet. Peaches and cream.
I inhale, slow and deep, letting it settle inside me. Willow.
She’s here.
I move through the space, my movements silent. Theliving room is untouched, a throw blanket draped over the couch, an empty water bottle on the coffee table. But I don’t care about any of that.
I follow the sound of her breathing.
Her bedroom door is cracked open.
I step inside.
Willow sleeps, curled on her side, tangled in her sheets. Her hair spills across the pillow in messy waves, strands falling across her face. Her lips are slightly parted, her brows furrowed, caught in a dream. She looks soft, fragile in a way the world never gets to see her.
She’s perfect.
But her hair is wrong.
A flicker of heat coils low in my gut. Has one of them touched her? Brushed these strands back? Laid hands where they don’t belong?
I step closer, kneeling beside the bed. My fingers ghost over the strands before gently smoothing them back, adjusting them until they fall just right. My thumb grazes her temple, tracing the curve of her cheekbone, memorizing the warmth of her skin.
She sighs in her sleep, shifting slightly into my touch. I still. Waiting, watching. But she doesn’t wake.
