Knot Today: Hiddenverse, page 32
Hunter shakes his head but can’t suppress a smirk. “You three are chaos.”
Willow arches a brow, her lips twitching. “Chaos you volunteered for.”
His expression relaxes, something unguarded slipping through. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”
There’s a beat of quiet after that. Comfortable. Familiar.
Hunter sits on her other side, leaning into her just enough to nudge his shoulder gently into hers. “You doing okay, princess?”
Willow gives him a small smile, one that reaches her eyes. “Yeah. I think I am.”
She glances around the kitchen, and her expression shifts.
“I think I could get used to this,” she murmurs.
“You better,” Carson says. “Because we’re already used to you.”
I don’t say anything—just refill her glass of water and set it beside her plate. My hand brushes hers as I place it down, and her fingers linger on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
She looks at me, and she doesn’t look away.
And in that moment—with dinner in front of us, her scent in the air, Carson close enough to kiss her shoulder, and Hunter watching her as though she’s the only star in the sky—I realize something:
We’re not just protecting her anymore. We’re building a home. One bite, one touch, one promise at a time. And I’ll wait for my bond as long as it takes.
Because I’m not here just to claim her.
I’m here to love her.
CHAPTER 62
Willow
It’s been a week since everything shifted.
A week of dinners shared around my tiny kitchen island, of Hunter pulling me into his lap like I’m something precious, of Carson bringing me little things that make me laugh—sparkly pens, a sticker that says Omega but make it chaos.
A week of Graham disappearing during the day with no explanation, returning late with tired eyes and a look as though he’s keeping a secret. That doesn’t bother me; whatever it is must be important. But he makes my body sing every single night.
The mark on my neck from Hunter makes our bond stronger the more time we are together. It’s to the point where I know when he’s close by. I want to offer the same to Carson and Graham, but fear is a bitch.
They’re my pack—even if it isn’t official.
No one’s said it out loud, but I can feel the shape of it forming in the space between all of us. The way they orbit me. The way I’ve started to lean into them without hesitation.
Even the way they argue feels different now—less about protocol, more about who gets to cook dinner or hold the remote or keep watch over me when I fall asleep in the nest of blankets we’ve started making permanent on the living room floor.
I haven’t asked about Graham’s house. I know they have one—he mentioned it once. I think part of me is afraid to ask. Afraid it means something too big. Too permanent.
At the rink, Landon watches me, attempting to piece together who I’ve become without him. Almost as if he’s still searching for the girl he remembers, and doesn’t quite recognize the woman standing in her place.
Sometimes he offers advice. Throws out a quiet joke. Keeps just enough distance to make sure I know he’s still there.
But I watch him too—when no one’s watching me.
And I’d be lying if I said he didn’t still twist something inside of me. The way he did that first day on his sister’s porch, when he smiled and the world slowed down just for us.
It was only a week.
One week.
But it wrecked me for months.
So when practice ends and the team starts to filter out, their laughter echoing toward the locker rooms, I skate toward him with all the words I’ve been carrying since I left him behind.
He looks up, surprised, his helmet tucked under his arm, auburn hair falling messily over his forehead.
“I need to say something,” I start.
He straightens slightly, bracing.
“I don’t hate you,” I say, voice soft but firm. “I wanted to. For a long time, I did.”
His inhale is shallow, but he doesn’t speak.
“You hurt me, Landon. You broke something in me I didn’t even know I had. And yeah, part of that’s on you—but not all of it. I chased the fairytale. I thought scent matches were supposed to mean something unstoppable. Something perfect. And I put all my hope in that… in us… without realizing we weren’t ready.”
His eyes flicker with something, guilt, maybe. Sadness.
“I know you were scared. I was too. But when everything crashed down—when my body was tearing itself apart because your mark was gone—you didn’t come.”
I blink hard, throat tight. “You let me go. And I had to find a way to survive that.”
He lowers his gaze, not quite meeting my eyes.
“And now you’re here,” I whisper. “I know you’re trying. And I see it. I do.”
His lips part, just slightly.
“You’re showing up. And I want you to know I notice that.”
His shoulders relax a little, but I keep going.
“But Landon...I needed you when it mattered. When I was hurting the most. When my body was tearing itself apart and I didn’t even know who I was without you.”
His throat bobs with a swallow.
“And now you’re here, and you’re doing all the things I wished you would have done back then. But I don’t know what to do with it. Because it feels like I’m still healing from the version of you who didn’t fight. And now I’m falling for the people who did. Who stayed. Who caught me when I was at my worst.”
He opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a second chance. I’m saying if you want one, you have to stop hovering. Stop waiting for me to make it easier. You want to stay? Then stay. But don’t make me carry the guilt of choosing someone else just because you showed up late.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Willow.”
I suck in a breath. That came out wrong. It’s hard to shake the anger I held on to. I shake my head. “I know, Landon; it doesn’t stop me from feeling it, though. And I guess, blaming you has become a default.”
He exhales, slow and rough. “I didn’t mean to be late, if I knew—really knew that I wasn’t actually protecting you, I would have come sooner.”
“I know,” I say, voice cracking. “But you still were.”
He steps forward, just a little. “Then let me be on time now. Let me prove it.”
I look at him. Really look. And I want to believe him. But I can’t say it yet.
So instead, I turn—and skate back toward the only steady thing I can hold on to.
Carson’s already at the edge of the rink, quiet and waiting. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask questions.
He just opens his arms.
And I crash into him.
My face buries against his chest, his scent wrapping around me. Solid. Certain.
His arms curl around me without hesitation, warm and sure.
“I’ve got you, peaches,” he murmurs, voice low and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
I shudder, silent tears soaking into his shirt. But he holds me tighter, one hand stroking slowly down my back, the other anchoring me in place. A low purr rumbles in his chest.
He holds my pieces together while I fall apart.
And when the worst of it ebbs—when the sobs soften into hiccups and my tears finally dry—I slowly pull back, blinking blearily up at him. I’m sure I look like a wreck. But Carson just smiles. He brushes a thumb under my eye, catching the last of the tears.
“Always causing chaos, I see.”
I let out a snort of a laugh, the sound half broken but real. “It’s what I do best, apparently.”
Carson doesn’t let go right away. Only holds me for another beat, until my breath starts to even out and the ache in my chest quiets.
Then he shifts, sliding one arm around my waist and guiding me toward the nearest bench.
“Sit,” he says gently, already crouching in front of me.
I obey without argument.
He starts unlacing my skates, his fingers fast and practiced. “You know,” he says, his tone light but sincere, “for someone who claims to hate feelings, you’ve got a hell of a lot of them.”
“Shut up,” I murmur, scrubbing at my face.
Carson grins, not looking up. “No, seriously. That wasn’t just venting. That was brave.”
I blink down at him. “For… what? Telling the truth?”
He shrugs as he slides the first skate off and reaches for the second. “Yeah. For not pretending you’re fine when you’re not. For letting yourself feel all of it—even the part of you that still cares about him. That takes guts.”
He pauses, glancing up now, his gaze steady on mine.
“And for asking him to show up for real. Not just show up physically—but emotionally. You didn’t slam the door, Willow. You left it open. Just…with conditions. That’s strength, not weakness.”
My chest tightens—but it’s not the same sharp, broken feeling from earlier. It’s softer now. Realer.
Once both skates are off and my shoes are in place, he stands and reaches for my hand, helping me to my feet.
“Now come on,” he says, snagging my skates and bag with his free hand. “You’ve earned a reward.”
“A reward?” I echo, blinking.
He shoots me a crooked grin. “Ice cream. Obviously. Mint chip, double scoop, or nothing at all.”
I snort. “You bribing me with sugar now?”
“Bribing? Nah.” His grip tightens just slightly. “Celebrating. You stood in front of someone you once loved, and you told the truth. That’s not easy. Especially not when the feelings aren’t simple.”
He opens the door for me, and as I step outside into the late afternoon warmth, he adds, “And if you decide there’s still space in your life for Landon—after everything—then okay. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
I glance at him, heart fluttering.
“And if I don’t?” I ask quietly.
Carson smiles without a trace of hesitation. “Whatever you decide—him or not, now or later—I’m not leaving. Not unless you ask me to.”
My throat feels thick again—but not in the broken way it did before.
This time, it’s the good kind.
Later that evening, Graham’s brow furrows as he surveys the countertop, one hand on his hip, the other lifting the lid on the pan of simmering sauce. The smell of garlic and herbs fills the apartment, but I can tell something’s missing before he even says it.
“Shit,” he mutters. “I forgot the rosemary.”
“Didn’t you already use some?” I ask, hopping up onto the counter beside him.
He shakes his head, still focused on the stove. “That was for the chicken. I need fresh for the finish, or it’s gonna taste flat.”
I nudge his side with my foot. “There’s that produce market on the corner. I’ll run down and grab it.”
His head snaps toward me. “No.”
I blink. “No?”
“You’re not going out alone.”
“Graham,” I say slowly, sliding off the counter and stepping into his space. “It’s a block away.”
“Carson and Hunter can grab it when they get back,” he insists, jaw tight.
“They’ll be back after dinner’s done,” I argue gently. “You know it’ll be better with the rosemary.”
His frown deepens, and I can see the battle behind his eyes.
“I’m a big girl,” I say, trying to soothe the tension winding through him. “I lived a whole life before you three showed up. I know how to cross a street and buy herbs.”
“That was before Finn.”
“He hasn’t been around for a while,” I add quickly. “And if he does show up? I’ll scream, I’ll kick, I’ll mace him with a bottle of organic basil oil—whatever it takes.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile. I know it wouldn’t come to that, but if it puts Graham at ease, I’ll say it.
I rise on my toes and press a kiss to his jaw. “Come on, alpha. Trust me, just a little.”
He closes his eyes at the contact. So I keep going—another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth. Then his other cheek.
“Please?” I whisper.
His hands settle on my waist, reluctant, but loosening. “In and out. You text the second you arrive, and the second you’re on your way back.”
I grin, triumphant. “Deal.”
And then, because I can, I kiss him properly—slow and deep and smug as hell. When I finally pull back, he’s glaring at me like I just cheated at a game he didn’t know we were playing.
“Manipulative omega,” he mutters.
I wink. “You love it, Alpha.”
He sighs, already reaching for his phone. “You better be back in ten.”
“I’ll be back in eight.” I flash him a grin as I grab my purse and head for the door.
As I exit my apartment building, the evening air hums against my skin—thick with heat, heavy with the low golden light of a summer sun on its descent.
I cross the street without checking Finn’s window. I already know it's dark. I noticed before I left. My gaze drifted there automatically—out of habit, curiosity… maybe hope. But the curtains were pulled. The lights were off. No sign of him.
Still, something in my pulse doesn’t settle.
The produce store is just a block away. Familiar. Comforting. The door creaks open, and a wash of cool air spills across my skin as the little bell above the entrance jingles.
I inhale. Lemons. Crushed mint. And something earthy beneath it all.
I head for the back. I know exactly what I’m after. Graham’s dinner is nearly done—whatever it is, it smells like heaven—and all we’re missing is the rosemary.
Being out alone feels good. A breath of space. Not that I don’t enjoy the guys’ constant presence. I do.
But I wasn’t lying when I told him that I lived alone for years. And I miss this part. A little freedom. The quiet.
My fingers skim over a bundle of herbs on display.
And then I feel him.
Before I hear him. Before I see him. Every part of me knows he’s there.
“I’ve missed this,” Finn’s voice murmurs behind me. “Watching you when they aren’t around.”
It’s low and smooth and filled with something that makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise. I don’t spin around. I just swallow, slow and tight, before turning.
And there he is.
Black shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, ink peeking out from under the collar. His dark lashes seem darker up close, under the fluorescent lights. He looks tired and alive all at once.
And he’s close. So close the air between us feels pulled thin.
“Finn,” I breathe.
He tilts his head, his eyes flicking down, then up—slowly.
“You smell like them,” he murmurs.
My breath catches. He steps forward—not touching, but surrounding. Caging me in with heat and intensity, that look in his eyes tells me he already knows what I’m going to say before I say it.
I take a half step back and bump against the cool steel of the upright freezer. He doesn’t move.
His fingers trail over my cheek, then down my throat, tugging my t-shirt down slightly. They pause just above the fresh mark on my neck. His eyes lock onto it.
“What’s this?”
I swallow. Why do I feel like I betrayed him?
“Little fire, which one did this?”
“Hunter.”
I hate that I answer him. Hate that I care what he thinks.
He presses his lips together, then nods once. “This doesn’t change anything between us, you know. You’re still meant to be with me.”
A shiver dances down my spine—and it isn’t from aversion.
“If he hurts you like Landon did, I won’t be as forgiving,” he adds. “There are ways of making alphas disappear. And I’d do that for you.”
“He won’t hurt me.”
How insane is it that I’m trying to convince my stalker that the man I’m in love with won’t hurt me? I must be just as crazy as Finn. Maybe we’re two of a kind. Maybe that’s why I crave him.
“Good.”
A couple walks past, pretending they don’t see me pinned to the freezer. That’s New York for you—people mind their own business.
I take a slow, steady breath. My chest brushes his as I inhale.
“I told Graham I’d only be eight minutes.”
“Then you’d better hurry, little fire. Wouldn’t want you to lose the freedom you’re finally earning.”
He steps back. And part of me hates that he does. Part of me doesn’t want him to let me walk away. But he’s right. Graham would let the apartment burn to the ground before letting me stay gone too long.
I push away from the cooler and turn.
“Wait,” he calls.
I pause, hesitating only a second before I glance back over my shoulder.
He’s already raised his camera.
But he doesn’t snap the picture. Not yet.
“Smile, little fire. You’ll see me soon.”
I close the door gently behind me, letting the quiet settle around me as I press the paper bag to my chest. The rosemary’s scent wafts up—sharp and clean—and I try to focus on that instead of the lingering chill of the freezer aisle. Instead of the image of Finn’s camera aimed at my face and the possessive glint in his eyes when he saw the mark on my neck.
But I’m not shaking.
That has to count for something, right?
I toe off my shoes, heading toward the kitchen, acting normal. Like I didn’t just get cornered by a man who makes my heart flutter and twist in equal measure.
Graham is at the stove, his broad back to me. The sleeves of his Henley are pushed up, revealing strong forearms, and the oven’s gentle heat gives the kitchen a golden glow.
“I’ve got it,” I call softly, holding up the bag.
He turns immediately—eyes sweeping over me, assessing. Not suspicious. Just thorough. It's his nature.
