Knot today hiddenverse, p.5
Knot Today: Hiddenverse, page 5
Alone.
After I… after I fucking ruined it.
I left her with my mark and never thought—never knew—never fucking considered what would happen when it started to fade.
But now I know. Now I understand. And it’s killing her.
Terror clamps my chest, squeezing until I can’t draw breath. My hands dig into the pavement, fingers scraping against the rough concrete, body trembling from the force of it.
I squeeze my eyes shut…and I see her.
Willow, curled in on herself, arms cinched tight around her ribs, desperate to keep from falling apart. Sweat slicking her skin. Her mouth open in a scream I can’t hear, but I feel it. Every shred of it. The bond lets me feel it. Makes sure I do.
Another wave crashes into me—pure, raw agony. I can’t catch my breath.
“I have to go,” I rasp. I push up, hands slipping, elbows giving out.
Another flash—her being held by someone. Clutching at his shirt, begging for relief. Sobs tear her apart, soundless yet cutting into me, jagged as broken glass.
Mason shouts something, but it’s drowned out by the next hit of pain, jagged and relentless.
Her pain. Mine. No difference anymore.
Her scent chokes me through our shattering bond; sour peaches and tart cream, the sharp metallic bite of panic and pain.
“Landon!” Mason’s shout tears across the haze, but it’s already too late. The image of Willow curling up, making herself smaller as she breaks, burns into my mind as the darkness swallows me whole.
CHAPTER 8
Hunter
Willow sleeps, but it’s not restful. Her face is pale, damp with sweat, her breathing shallow. Every now and then, her fingers twitch as though she’s still lost in the nightmare of whatever hell her body just put her through.
I sit beside the bed, my forearms braced against my knees, watching. Waiting.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s not going through this alone. Not anymore.
Graham and Carson talk in low voices near the door, their presence grounding, but my attention never wavers from Willow. I can still hear her begging us to make it stop. The raw desperation burrowed under my skin, locked itself inside my ribcage. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound.
Because I’ve heard it before.
Years ago.
My mother.
She thought she’d found her mate, let him mark her, trusting that he wouldn’t abandon her. But he did. And when the mark started to fade, when the bond started tearing itself from her body, she collapsed right in front of me. I was only a kid, too young to understand, but old enough to know something was wrong.
She never recovered. She couldn’t even come to her senses enough to take care of me and my sister, Jasmine. The pain weakened her, made her sick. The doctors said it was rare, but it happened. Some omegas don’t survive a fading bond. Some bonds are too deep to sever cleanly.
That’s not going to happen to Willow. I’m going to make sure of it.
I tighten my grip on my knees, jaw clenching. No one is touching her. No one is leaving her like that bastard left my mother.
“—he’s still watching her.”
Carson’s words pull me back into the moment. Back to the reason we are even here in her apartment. Finn Reed. He is obsessed. I'll give Graham that, but I’m not positive he’s dangerous. His file seems to indicate that he goes after shit alphas. Which is understandable, at least to me.
Graham folds his arms. “Then we escalate security. More eyes, more surveillance. No one gets near her.”
I exhale sharply. “She’s not leaving our sight. Not for a second. We don’t need more eyes, we can do this.”
Carson tilts his head, gaze dissecting me, peeling at layers I’d rather keep hidden. “You’re taking this personally.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Yeah.”
Graham exhales through his nose, nodding. “Good.”
I glance back at Willow, at the way her lips part slightly as she exhales, at the flutter of her lashes, caught in the space between dreams and waking. Fragile. Too soft. But she’s stronger than she knows. She survived the bond breaking. She survived him. And I’ll make damn sure she never has to fight alone again.
“We need to consider our next steps,” Graham says, voice level. “When she wakes up, she’s going to have questions. And she’s not going to like the answers.”
“She doesn’t have to like them,” I mutter. “She just has to accept that this isn’t optional. She’s ours to protect now.”
Carson hums, a low, knowing sound. “Not just the job anymore, huh?”
I don’t answer. Because we all know the truth. The second I climbed into her bed and pulled her to my chest, it was more than a job.
Silence settles between us, heavy. Too heavy. My pulse thrums in my ears, my skin too tight. I need to move. To do something. Sitting here, watching her this way, helpless, makes my chest tighten until I can’t breathe.
I scrub a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. “I swear to god, if he ever comes near her again—” My voice cuts off, my throat locking up before I can finish the sentence. I’m not talking about her stalker, I’m talking about the alpha who bit her and then let her go through that. I swallow hard, pushing down the raw, furious ache clawing at my chest. Maybe her stalker should take care of him.
I shake my head, a silent laugh moving my shoulders. Yeah, lets team up with the stalker to take out the fucker that put her through that. Graham would veto that in a heartbeat.
Carson watches me carefully. Graham doesn’t react, just nods once, a silent promise.
I flex my hands, trying to shake the tension from my fingers, but the anger is still there, smoldering. This is different. This is personal. I look back at Willow, my jaw tightening. The need to protect her is more alpha instinct now than being hired for a job to do it.
A soft sound pulls my attention back to the bed.
She shifts, eyelashes fluttering, her breath hitching. Then—a pained whimper.
I move before I can think, my hand closing gently over hers. 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.”
I already know what they’re going to say. And I already hate it.
“No,” I say flatly. “We don’t leave her.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Graham replies, tone unreadable. “He won’t let it go. And if this threat is real, if it connects to her…we need to know who’s behind it. Fast.”
“We’ll leave her with private security,” Carson adds, softer. “People we trust. You know we wouldn’t leave her with anyone less.”
I look back at her.
Willow, pale and still, finally breathing without pain. Her fingers twitch again in my grip, a ghost of a hold, barely there, but breaking me anyway.
God, this feels wrong.
But they’re right. If this is connected to her—if she’s in the crosshairs—we need to get ahead of it.
I lean forward, brushing my knuckles gently across her cheek. “I’ll be back soon, princess,” I murmur. “Try not to give the guards hell.”
She doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t have to.
Because I already know the second we walk out that door, I’m going to be thinking about the moment we walk back in.
CHAPTER 9
Finn
Four days.
She hasn’t left her apartment in four days.
I pace the length of my newly-obtained apartment, flicking the curtain open just enough to scan the street below. Nothing. No familiar flash of pink hair, no sign of her. She hasn’t even been walking around her apartment across the street.
I know her schedule. Her routines. I know the way she craves movement, the way she burns restless energy walking through the city. She doesn’t sit still. She doesn’t hide.
And yet, for four days, she’s been a ghost.
Something is wrong.
I rake a hand through my hair, breathing through the irritation buzzing beneath my skin. Patience, Finn. Patience. I tell myself it’s nothing, that she’s fine. That she’s simply recovering from the game, from whatever minor inconvenience has kept her inside. But I don’t believe that.
Not when I’ve seen the men guarding her. Besides the three in her apartment, there are more around her building.
I’ve tracked their movements, watched them trade shifts outside, covering the entrances like she’s some high-profile asset instead of my Willow. Mine.
The first day, I waited. The second day, I started watching the exits more closely. By the third, I was trailing one of them when he left for coffee, just to see where he went, if he reported back to someone, if he was hiding something from me.
And today, I’m done waiting.
I move to my desk, flipping through the pictures I printed last night. A habit, one that usually soothes me, lets me see her the way I see her, not the way the world does.
But tonight, the images just make my blood burn.
Because they’re old. Because they’re not her now.
Because I don’t know what’s happening to her.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I pick up one of the more recent shots, the one from that night at Poor Choices, from before she disappeared. Her lips parted, her pulse hammering in her throat, her pupils wide and dark as she looked at me.
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. The living 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.
Good.
I reach for my camera, angle it just right, and snap a photo.
One. Two. Three.
The sound is quiet, but she stirs again, and I retreat, setting the camera down long enough to pull something from my pocket.
A small, glossy photograph.
I want her to see it. The way she looked at me that night at Poor Choices—eyes locked on mine, pupils blown wide, breath caught in her throat. The moment she knew what we were.
I lay it carefully on her nightstand, positioned so she’ll see it the second she wakes up.
A reminder.
A gift.
A promise.
Then I slip back into the shadows, leaving her apartment exactly as I found it.
Except for the picture.
And the certainty that I was here.
CHAPTER 10
Willow
I wake up slowly, my body reluctant to pull itself from the heavy, suffocating fog of sleep. Everything feels wrong. Too quiet. Too still.
Then the ache sets in.
Not just in my muscles—though they ache as if I’ve been run over—but deep inside me. A raw, hollow emptiness, something once stitched into my very being now ripped away, leaving nothing but exposed nerve endings in its wake.
Landon’s mark.
It’s gone.
A choked breath rattles out of me as I push up on weak limbs, my fingers trembling as they rise to my neck. The skin is bare, smooth where his claim used to be. No raised edges, no sign it was ever there—except for the dull, lingering burn beneath my skin. The ghost of something that should have lasted forever.
A wave of nausea rolls over me, my stomach twisting, grief and anger curling inside my ribs, suffocating and thick. I hate this. I hate him.
I hate that he let me go. That he never even tried to fight for me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shove down the bitter sting, but my chest tightens. The pain and loss, it’s too much. I let out a slow, shaky breath, pressing my palm against the ache in my sternum as if that could somehow hold me together.
I refuse to break for him. Not again. Not when I barely survived it the first time. My fingers slide from my throat to my lap, and that’s when I see it.
A photo. Face-up on my nightstand.
My breath catches. My pulse slams into a sprint as I reach for it with stiff fingers, flipping it toward me.
I recognize the moment instantly. Poor Choices. The night at the bar. The way I looked at him.
The exact second my body reacted before my brain caught up, before I shoved the awareness down and let my usual bravado take over. But in this picture, the moment is frozen. My parted lips, my wide eyes, the way I looked at him like he was something worth wanting. Finn was here.
