I don’t have time to process it before he tangles his fingers with mine and tugs me away from the wall.
I follow him.
Willingly. Crazily.
Maybe I’m just as unstable as he is. Because I’m meeting his crazy right where he’s at. And I don’t want to stop.
Finn’s grip is firm, his fingers tangled with mine, staking his claim without a word. His hold says it all—mine. I’ve already won.
And maybe he has.
The morning sun filters through the buildings, casting long shadows across the pavement as he leads me out of the alley and across the street. The city is waking up—horns blaring, people rushing to work, a man in a suit balancing a coffee and a bagel while attempting to hail a cab. It’s all so normal, so mundane.
And yet, here I am, willingly letting my obsessed stalker pull me toward the apartment that he probably rented just to watch me. My heartbeat pounds between my ribs.
I feel his eyes on me as we step into the lobby of his building, the scent of old carpet and stale coffee filling my lungs. The elevator is out of order, so we take the stairs, Finn walking half a step ahead of me, his grip never loosening.
There’s something different about him now.
A quiet certainty. A confidence that wasn’t there before. Because I already gave in. Because I’m following him willingly. He knows exactly what that means. At the top landing on the fourth floor, he stops in front of his apartment door and turns to face me.
"You’re not running anymore,” he says. And it’s not a question. “You finally figured it out.”
I swallow hard, my fingers still tangled with his. “Figured what out?”
His smirk is slow, possessive, and full of dangerous satisfaction.
“That you belong to me.”
The air between us crackles, an invisible thread tightening, pulling, binding us together in a way that should terrify me. My heart jumps, ready to free-fall straight into this. Whatever this is.
He lifts our joined hands, brushing his lips over my knuckles, his breath hot against my skin.
“I don’t have to chase you anymore, do I?” he murmurs. “You’ll come to me.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
The fact that I’m standing here, letting him pull me deeper into his world, says more than words ever could. His smile widens, his free hand coming up to cup my jaw, tilting my chin so I’m looking directly into his eyes.
“I told you, Willow,” he whispers, his thumb grazing my lower lip. “You were always going to come to me.”
My back meets the cool wood of his apartment door, and Finn follows, pressing into me without hesitation. His grip on my chin is firm but not forceful, his thumb still resting against my lower lip, memorizing the shape of it.
His touch is soft—too soft for someone like him. I expect him to take what he wants. To claim, to consume, to overwhelm.
But instead, he kisses me slowly this time. The kind of slow that seeps into my bones, into my bloodstream, into the very center of who I am.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, lips dragging slow against mine. Unhurried. Certain. Savoring every second, as though he’s waited too long to rush now.
My fingers slide up his chest, finding the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palm. Solid. Real. The only thing keeping me grounded in the storm I created.
Finn groans low, pressing me harder into the door, his body flush with mine, heat sinking into my skin.
Then he rips back. Pupils blown, breath uneven, lipsswollen from the kiss. He exhales sharp, reining himself in, dragging back from the edge of something dangerous.
His gaze flicks to the door over my shoulder, then back to me. A slow smirk curves his lips.
"Inside," he says.
