“And you’re an omega.” Dad says it without blinking. “And whether you want it or not, that makes you a target.”
My temper flares. “For what? I play a sport no one expects an omega to play. I have my own life, my own rules. No one cares what I am?—”
“And I won’t stand by while someone threatens that.” His voice is firm, unyielding. My stomach knots, something cold and tight winding through me.
“You’ve lived your life how you wanted, Willow. But then you went on that show… People know you’re an omega now. It’s not like before. You’re not as anonymous as you think you are.”
He leans forward, the space between us shrinking. “As much as you don’t want to be an omega, you are. And hiding your head in the sand won’t change that.”
I blow out a slow breath, forcing myself to loosen my grip on my thighs. “So, what’s your solution?”
Dad leans back, expression unreadable. “You’re getting a security detail.”
I blink.
Then laugh. “Yeah, no.”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, throwing up my hands. “It’s an edict, right? The great Mitchell Delong has spoken, and the world must obey.”
From the side, I feel eyes on me—three sets, sharp and unreadable. I get the distinct impression none of them are used to being dismissed.
Dad exhales slowly, clearly trying not to lose his patience. “Willow, this is for your safety.”
“I don’t need a damn babysitter.”
“You need protection.”
My head shakes automatically. “This is not protection. This is just another way for you to keep me in line.”
For a beat, no one says a word.
But when I glance up again, all three men are still watching me.
And I can feel it—them—beneath my skin, a warning and a promise all at once, fate twisting the game board when I wasn’t looking.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I wanted to keep you in line, Willow, I wouldn’t have let you play in the first place.”
That shuts me up for half a second.
Because…he’s right.
I don’t fit the mold of a Delong. My entire life, I’ve done the exact opposite of what’s expected—derby instead of debutante balls, road trips instead of curated social events, freedom instead of a carefully arranged life.
And yeah, Dad pushes. He sets rules, boundaries. But he’s never tried to stop me.
Not until now.
My chest tightens. “You can’t make me.”
His eyes glint darker, something coiling beneath the surface. “Actually, I can.”
The pause drags, thick with things unsaid.
I fold my arms, breath thinning. “What does that mean?”
His next words slam into me, a gut punch that steals my breath.
