CHAPTER 4

"Willow? Willow Grant? Is that really you?"

Matthew Ross stood before her, a flash of recognition lighting up his caramel eyes. "By the Moon, it is! The infamous Willow Grant who didn't even leave a scent trail for this poor, abandoned wolf all these years?"

Willow managed a thin smile. "Hello, Matthew."

He caught her in a bone-crushing bear hug, and despite her armor, Willow found herself returning the gesture. In Redwood Bay, Matthew had been like an older brother to her. But when she’d fled, her desperation to excise Roman from her life meant cutting ties with everyone connected to the Vale lineage.

Matthew pulled back, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked her over. "Has anyone told you what a fierce, beautiful wolf you’ve shifted into?"

Willow shook her head, her fingers tightening around her glass. The air in the Vale Compound was thick with the power of the high-ranking families, and she felt the invisible pressure of a predator’s gaze nearby.

"If you've finished scent-marking my sister, I’d like a moment with her," Blair said, stepping in with a raised brow.

Matthew grinned, kissing Blair’s temple with a possessive ease. "You know you’re the only Luna for me, right?"

Blair rolled her eyes, pushing him toward the center of the hall. "Go. It's time for the first dance."

Matthew gave Blair a pointed look that Willow couldn't quite read before leading her onto the floor. Willow watched them go, feeling a strange tension in the air. Her parents were deep in conversation with another Alpha couple, and Tyler had stepped away to take a business call.

"Breathe, Willow. Everything is under control," Evan murmured, appearing at her side.

"I’m perfectly fine, Evan," she lied, her eyes scanning the room.

He sighed, noting her empty glass. "Right. You want another?"

"Please."

As Evan headed for the bar, Willow stood alone. The fine hairs on her neck began to prickle. The primal instinct of her wolf hummed under her skin—a warning. Someone was watching her. She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping over the mass of chattered guests until it snagged on the shadows of the first-floor mezzanine.

A figure stood there, unmoving. Even in the dim light, she could feel the weight of his stare. It was heavy, ancient, and unnervingly familiar.

"Willow!"

She jumped, nearly dropping her glass as Tyler reappeared. "Easy there! It’s just me," he said, reaching out to steady her.

Willow looked back at the mezzanine. The shadow was gone.

"You okay?" Tyler asked.

"Fine. Just… the noise," she whispered, her heart still racing.

"Dance with me?" Tyler offered his hand. Willow took it eagerly; she didn't want to be a stationary target for whoever was lurking in the rafters.

As they swayed to the slow, melodic hum of the music, the sensation returned—a burning, possessive gaze that followed her every move. Tyler tucked a stray hair behind her ear, but Willow’s senses were elsewhere, searching the crowd for a ghost.

"Willow, you’ve been on edge since we landed," Tyler frowned. "Is it the pack dynamic? You can tell me anything."

"It’s just jet lag, Tyler. I promise." She gave him a genuine, grateful smile, and he responded by kissing the back of her hand.

Suddenly, a throat cleared behind them. The sound was low, vibrating with a familiar, dangerous authority.

"May I have the honor of a dance with this lady?"

The voice was a deep, melodic rasp with the unmistakable lilt of the old territories. Willow’s entire body went rigid. Tyler looked up, his eyes widening as he recognized the man standing over them. A polite, slightly intimidated smile touched Tyler’s lips.

"Of course," Tyler said, stepping back and glancing at Willow. "I’ll find you at the bar."

Willow wanted to scream at him to stay, but her voice was trapped in her throat. She didn't turn around. She didn't have to. The heat radiating from the man behind her was like a physical brand.

A pair of large, calloused hands slid over hers, pulling them together against her chest as his arms encircled her from behind. The shock of the contact sent a jolt of electricity through her veins the spark of a bond she had tried to kill years ago.

He didn't wait for her permission. He moved with a predator's grace, steering her into a slow, rhythmic sway. The scent of him smoke, rain, and something intoxicatingly wild flooded her senses. Her brain short-circuited.

His hot breath fanned her neck, making her knees tremble. They moved in silence, the only sound the thumping of her heart against her ribs. When she finally tried to pull away, he spun her around, hauling her flush against his chest.

Willow gasped, her eyes snapping up to meet his.

Stormy gray eyes.

After seven years, she was trapped in them again. They peered into her soul, dark and compelling, holding her captive just as they had when she was a child. He was inches away, his features carved from granite—a sharp jawline, a prominent chin, and jet-black hair that brushed the nape of his neck.

The boyish charm was gone. In its place stood a powerful, lethal man. Achilles—no, Roman Vale—looked like a god of the old world. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch burning in a way Tyler’s never had. His knuckles grazed her cheek as if he were memorizing the texture of her skin.

He leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Still refusing to speak to me, Rosebud?"

The name the one that used to make her heart soar now felt like salt in an open wound.

"Don't call me that," Willow snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and old, buried pain.

Roman arched a dark brow, his gray eyes searching hers. "I didn't think my Rosebud could harbor a grudge for this many winters."

My Rosebud?

Willow’s blood simmered. The girl who would have died for that title was dead. She had been replaced by someone who knew better than to trust the honeyed words of a Vale tactician.

"I have a name, Roman. Use it. I’ve outgrown nicknames."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a ghost of a smirk. "I know your name, Willow. But to me, you will always be the bud I watched grow." He leaned closer, his lips nearly touching her ear. "Though it seems the rose has finally bloomed. Just as I said it would."

The memory hit her like a physical blow: When the rosebud finally blooms into a rose... that's when the time is right.

Willow’s breath hitched. A sharp, squeezing pain radiated through her chest. He remembered? But then, the vision of the balcony of Roman and Blair flashed before her eyes. The betrayal turned the memory to ash.

She shoved him back with all the strength she could muster. Surprise flickered in his eyes, followed by a dark, intense concern. Willow didn't stay to see more. She turned and fled, weaving through the crowd until she reached the far balcony overlooking the Redwood Bay forests.

She gripped the stone railing, gasping for the cold night air. The moon hung high, a silver crescent mocking her. A lone tear escaped, followed by a torrent she had suppressed for seven years. She felt pathetic. All the years of Manhattan, all the dates with other men, all the "strength" she had built—it had all crumbled under a single look from one man.

She had moved to a different city to forget him. She had dated Tyler to replace him. But one glance, and she was fifteen again, heart-shattered and bleeding.

"Why?" she whispered into the wind. "Why can't I just let go?"

A presence settled behind her. A glass of juice appeared in her peripheral vision. "Give me a minute, Tyler. I'll be back inside soon."

"I’m afraid I’m not your boyfriend," a deep voice rumbled. "He’s currently occupied with your brother’s liquor cabinet."

Willow spun around. Roman stood there, his charcoal suit gleaming under the moonlight. He towered over her, his jaw set in a hard line. The way he spat the word boyfriend was laced with a territorial malice she couldn't ignore.

"Why are you out here?" she demanded, stepping back.

"To see if you were alright."

"You haven't cared for seven years. You don't get to start now."

Roman’s jaw ticked. He shed his jacket in one fluid motion, draping it over her shoulders before she could protest. His scent overwhelming and addictive wrapped around her like a cage. He held the lapels, keeping her in place.

"I will always be concerned for you, Willow. I couldn't stop if I tried."

"Why?" she challenged, her voice bitter. "As a favor to my brother? As a pity project for the little sister?"

Roman leaned in, nuzzling the crown of her head, his breath hitching as he took in her scent. Willow’s wolf whined deep in her chest, wanting to lean into him. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips.

"Let’s save the answer for another night," he whispered. "Let time reveal what is inevitable."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then turned and stroded back into the light, leaving her shivering in his jacket, cold and utterly confused.

What did he mean by inevitable?