Marked (Marked by Alphas #1)

Chapter 1

T he woods had always watched me.

Which, honestly, rude . You’d think after twenty-two years of me actively avoiding them, they’d have taken the hint and moved on to stalking someone more interested. Like a bird enthusiast. Or a squirrel.

I was staring at the peeling paint in my apartment, noting how it resembled tree bark, because apparently, even my cheap-ass living space was conspiring against me. The lawyer’s letter sat on my counter like a ticking time bomb wrapped in legal letterhead, worn soft from my numerous “maybe if I read it again, the words will magically change” attempts.

Mom’s warnings echoed in my head like a broken record: The woods hide monsters, Kai. They’re waiting for you. They never forgot.

“Thanks for the cryptic death flags, Mom,” I muttered, shoving another ratty t-shirt into my duffel bag. “Really helping with my anxiety here.”

The sum total of my worldly possessions was depressingly modest for a fresh business grad—three duffel bags, two cardboard boxes, and enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo ship. At least it made moving easier. Though “moving” implied having an actual destination in mind, not just “flee to nearest concrete jungle post-cottage-sale.”

My phone buzzed for the hundredth time today. Did you pack the pepper spray I got you? And the emergency beacon? ANSWER ME!

I typed back quickly. Yes, Mom, packed both. Also holy water, silver bullets, and that stake you insisted I whittle.

NOT FUNNY KAI

The beacon’s in my bag, the spray’s in the car. Happy?

No. You could still get murdered

Luke Kim, my half-Korean best friend and former college roommate, had spent all of yesterday helping me pack while dramatically listing every horror movie that started with “innocent person inherits creepy property.” Now he was stuck in some corporate marketing meeting, probably googling murder statistics between PowerPoint slides.

My Honda Civic—a vehicle held together by duct tape, prayers, and spite—groaned as I loaded the last box. The city’s symphony of sirens and car horns felt like a goodbye song, and for once, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I loved this chaos. Give me steel and glass over leaves and branches any day. I was the guy who walked an extra ten blocks to avoid the park’s sad excuse for a forest. The urban jungle was my fortress—predictable, safe, and distinctly lacking in whatever creatures Mom swore wanted a piece of me.

“Two weeks,” I told myself, gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape. “Get in, sort out Mom’s Blair Witch cottage situation, get out. How bad could it be?”

What should have been a three-and-a-half-hour drive had stretched into five thanks to my GPS having an existential crisis every time I hit the mountain roads. “Recalculating” became its favorite word somewhere around hour three, right before it gave up entirely and started showing me driving through what was apparently a void.

The signal bars on my phone played hide-and-seek as the mountains grew closer. Suddenly, Luke’s texts finally broke through. Hello??? Why aren’t you answering?? I swear if you’re already dead in a ditch… Did you take the wrong turn? Google Maps shows like three different routes . DON’T TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.

Still alive , I texted back. GPS having existential crisis. Send help. Or pizza. Actually, just pizza.

NOT THE TIME FOR JOKES came the immediate response. Text me when you get there or I’m calling the FBI.

The roads got increasingly narrow and winding, pavement giving way to gravel more often than I liked. Twice I had to backtrack after dead-ending at “Private Property” signs that hadn’t been on any map.

I’d mastered the art of the ninja pit stop out of necessity. Gas? Paid at the pump. Snacks? Grabbed while power walking through convenience stores. Bathroom breaks? Let’s just say I set new records for speed-peeing. When you’re the only half-Chinese guy in a hundred-mile radius, you learn to move fast.

My phone suddenly erupted with an hour’s worth of missed messages from Luke. Googled Cedar Grove. WHY ARE THERE NO RECENT PHOTOS OF THIS PLACE?? That’s serial killer behavior. If you get murdered by small-town cultists, I’m not clearing your browser history.

I managed to fire off a quick Still alive, just bad reception before my signal died again. Trust Luke to cyber-stalk a town from his desk, probably ignoring his afternoon deadlines.

The stares followed me everywhere. Small-town folks weren’t subtle about their rubbernecking, probably trying to figure out which box to check on their mental racial profile form. My hazel eyes with their weird gold flecks didn’t help—they just gave people another reason to stare. Sorry to disappoint, Karen at the gas station, but “ambiguously ethnic with supernatural-looking eyes” isn’t an option on your census form.

My college fund—or what was left of it after Mom passed when I was eighteen—would keep me afloat until I could sell this cottage and make a break for civilization. Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles—anywhere with more streetlights than trees. I had no job lined up, no brilliant plan beyond “don’t get eaten by whatever lives in these woods.” But hey, I had a fresh business degree and a perfectly honed ability to detect when branches were moving in suspicious ways. That was marketable, right?

Another burst of texts broke through. Getting weird vibes, Kai. Like, BAD weird. Eomma (Mom) is doing that thing where she burns sage and won't tell me why. Call me when you get there or I'm sending a search party. Not kidding. PS: Found more weird stuff about Cedar Grove. Call. Me.

Just hit town limits , I texted back. Population seems sus. Will call when I reach the murder cottage, assuming I survive the local welcoming committee.

Passing the Welcome to Cedar Grove—Population 2,187 sign—which might as well have read Welcome to Your Doom—Where Outsiders Check In But Don’t Check Out—my heart skipped several beats. The trees pressed in from both sides like nature’s version of closing walls in a horror movie. Three times I almost turned around. Three times I imagined showing up in Seattle or Bellingham with nothing but my Honda full of regrets and a story about how I chickened out of basic adult responsibilities. But my bank account kept screaming “sell the cottage” louder than my anxiety, so here I was, pushing forward like the world’s okayest adventurer.

The town that materialized through the trees looked like it had been ripped straight from a Hallmark movie set. Red brick buildings lined the main street, their facades decorated with hanging flower baskets. A clock tower rose above the town square, because of course it did. People strolled along pristine sidewalks, carrying shopping bags from stores with names like Thyme After Thyme and The Cozy Corner—places that probably sold more charm than actual merchandise.

I cruised past a coffee shop where patrons sat at outdoor tables, their conversations pausing as I drove by. Their heads turned in unison, following my car like those creepy paintings whose eyes track you across the room. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—my own eyes doing that annoying thing where the gold flecks seemed to dance in the sunlight. Great. Just what I needed—another reason to stand out.

The mountains loomed behind it all, guardians or gatekeepers, I couldn’t decide which. And there it was again—the tingling on my hip where that mysterious scar served as a constant reminder that something wasn’t quite right with my world. Or maybe with me.

“Just get in, sell the cottage, get out,” I reminded myself, ignoring how the trees seemed to lean in closer, as if listening. “No need to make friends, solve mysteries, or discover any life-changing secrets about my possibly supernatural heritage.”

I pulled into the parking lot of what was apparently Cedar Grove’s answer to Walmart, a grocery store that promised everything from arugula to zip ties. The sun was already kissing the tops of the trees, hinting that I’d be navigating the infamous cottage driveway in twilight if I didn’t hurry. The thought of being caught between town and cottage after dark was enough to make me consider braving the stares for a night at the local inn. But the way the townsfolk looked at me—like I was a new exhibit at the zoo—nixed that idea pretty quickly.

“Alright, Kai,” I muttered, grabbing a cart that wobbled like it had one too many on a Friday night. “You’re a man on a mission. First priority: survival supplies. No idea if that cottage even has a working fridge, so let’s think apocalypse prep minus the bunker.”

I pulled out my phone and squinted at my hastily made list. Rice—obviously. Vegetables, but only the kind that wouldn’t die in a day. Canned everything, because who knew about electricity? Dry goods, because a man cannot live on rice alone. Snacks—stress eating was definitely in my future. Basic cooking supplies, assuming the kitchen wasn’t from the stone age. Instant coffee, because civilization. Water, lots of it, because plumbing was questionable at best. Basic cleaning supplies. And emergency supplies: flashlights, batteries, first aid kit, because… woods.

“How hard can it be?”

I stood in front of the canned goods aisle, having an existential crisis over soup varieties. “Why didn’t I do this shopping in Seattle? Oh right, because nothing says ‘warm welcome to spoiled food’ like hours of car ride in summer heat.”

“Excuse me,” an elderly woman called out as I zoomed past. “Are you looking for something specific, dear?”

The exit? My dignity? A town with more than one Asian resident?

“Just browsing, thanks!” I called back, noticing how she and her husband had somehow materialized in every aisle I entered. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about their rubbernecking. At this rate, I was going to end up as the star of Small Town Shopping Network: The Asian Invasion .

The cart gradually filled with my survival kit: canned soups, beans, tuna, and enough instant noodles to get me through college again. I threw in some pasta and jarred sauce, silently apologizing to my mother’s ghost for the culinary sacrilege I was about to commit.

“Sir?” A teenage stocker watched me load up on instant coffee like I was preparing for the caffeine apocalypse. “We have fresher coffee in—”

“Bold of you to assume that cottage has a coffee maker,” I muttered, grabbing another jar. “Or electricity. Or running water. Or isn’t actually a shed with delusions of grandeur.”

The International Foods aisle was a joke waiting for a punchline. One sad shelf of “ethnic” foods that looked like they’d been curated by someone whose most exotic meal was buttered toast.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I stared at the selection of soy sauce—exactly one bottle, featuring a label so stereotypical it made me cringe. “What, no fortune cookies to complete the ‘authentic Asian experience’?”

The rice selection was even more tragic. Three lonely bags sat on the shelf, the kind Mom would’ve used as doorstops rather than cook. “Sorry, Mom.” I sighed, hoisting a bag into my cart. “Desperate times call for desperate grains.”

The cleaning supplies aisle became my next victim. “Bleach? Definitely bleach. All-purpose cleaner? The more purposes the better. Air freshener? Because what’s a potentially haunted cottage without the artificial scent of Summer Breeze?”

In the toiletries section, I had another moment of clarity. “Toilet paper. Oh God, please let there be a working bathroom.” The twelve-pack looked pathetically small, so I grabbed the twenty-four-pack. Then another. I’ve seen horror movies—no one ever thinks about toilet paper until it’s too late.

The snack aisle was my salvation. “Hello, stress eating, my old friend.” Chips, cookies, and enough candy to give my dentist nightmares joined the pile. “Don’t judge me,” I told my cart. “You try facing unknown woods without emotional support chocolate.”

The produce section required strategic thinking. “Okay, what won’t die in a day? Potatoes? You’re in. Onions and garlic? Welcome aboard. Carrots and sweet potatoes? You look sturdy enough.” I eyed the leafy greens with regret. “Sorry, bok choy. It’s not you, it’s my questionable refrigeration situation.”

At least the local produce looked suspiciously fresh. Farm-to-table was apparently alive and well in Cedar Grove, even if authentic Asian ingredients had yet to make it past the town limits.

“Flashlights,” I muttered, wheeling toward hardware. “Batteries. First aid kit because, knowing my luck, I’ll probably need it. Matches. Candles. Is this a survival shopping spree or am I accidentally planning a séance?”

Approaching the checkout felt like the walk of shame after an apocalypse preparation spree. My cart looked like anxiety had gone shopping with a credit card. The wobbling wheel, which had been my constant companion through this ordeal, chose this moment to stage its final protest by getting stuck sideways.

“Come on,” I muttered, wrestling with the cart. “Don’t fail me now. We’ve been through so much together.”

The elderly couple who’d been tracking my progress through the store like amateur anthropologists were still watching. They now had front-row seats to my battle with the cart and my questionable life choices piled inside it. I could practically hear their thoughts: Is he moving in or preparing for doomsday?

At the checkout, I was greeted by the epitome of small-town curiosity: a woman whose nametag read Karen. Of course it did. She scanned my items with the efficiency of a sloth on a bad day, her eyes darting between my purchases and my hazel eyes like she was trying to solve a particularly tricky Sudoku puzzle.

“You just passing through?” she asked, her voice dripping with nosiness. “Those eyes are something else—exotic!”

I forced a smile, mentally counting backward from ten. “Just here on business.”

“Oh? Where’re you from originally? You speak English so well!”

Born and raised right here in the good ol’ US of A, Karen, but thanks for the casual racism.

“Actually, I’m here about the Chen cottage.”

Her eyes lit up like I’d just handed her premium gossip material. “The Chen place? Are you with the real estate office? We don’t get many folks asking about that property.”

“Actually, I’m Sarah Chen’s son.”

The recognition flickered across her face like an old movie reel spinning to life. “Little Kai? My word! I remember when you and your mama lived here—must be, what, ten years ago now? She kept to herself mostly, but I’d see you two at the market. Then one day, you both just… disappeared.” She paused her scanning, eyes searching my face. “How is your mama? We always wondered…”

My throat tightened. “She passed away. Four years ago.”

“Oh, bless her heart.” Karen’s voice softened with what seemed like genuine sympathy. “She was such a quiet thing, always looking over her shoulder like she was expecting… well, never mind that. But you’re back now! For the property?”

My scar tingled as she continued scanning items, but Karen was just warming up.

“You know, you really didn’t need to buy all these cleaning supplies. The Stone brothers have kept that place in perfect condition.” She held up my emergency flashlight multipack with raised eyebrows. “Though Marcus—he’s the responsible one—always says it’s good to be prepared. Those woods can get mighty dark.”

The scar wasn’t just tingling now; it was doing the cha-cha. “The… Stone brothers?”

“Oh yes, such good boys. All three of them.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Built like mountains, those ones. Marcus runs all those successful businesses, and Derek—he’s the protective one, ex-military you know—he actually installed new security lights all around your property. And Caleb, bless his heart, he’s been maintaining the garden. Such thoughtful boys.”

Great. So not only does this cottage come with woods straight out of a horror movie, but it also comes with three giant caretakers who’ve been playing handyman. Probably shirtless. Stop it, Kai.

“That’s… fascinating,” I managed, swiping my card with trembling fingers. The receipt couldn’t print fast enough. “Really must be going though. Long drive ahead.”

“Oh, but honey…” Karen leaned even closer, like we were sharing state secrets over a checkout counter. “The cottage is only an hour away! Through the woods, past their compound—you can’t miss it. Unless you get lost in the dark. Those woods can be tricky after sunset.”

I fled Karen’s Twenty Questions session like my cart was on fire, the tingling in my scar growing more noticeable as I hit the parking lot. Halfway through loading groceries, the sensation intensified to a warm buzz, making me pause and shift uncomfortably. Not painful exactly, but impossible to ignore.

My neck prickled with an odd sensitivity, the hair standing up as if someone was watching. I paused, groceries forgotten as I scanned the parking lot. Nothing seemed out of place—just the usual small-town scene of pickup trucks and minivans.

Get it together, Kai. You’re getting paranoid.

My hands shook as I shoved the last bag into the trunk, trying to ignore how my scar hummed with that strange warmth. Karen’s words about mountain-sized brothers and their compound echoed in my head like a horror movie trailer, made worse by the persistent feeling of unseen eyes on me.

A compound. They have a compound. Nobody normal has a compound. That’s serial killer territory, straight out of those true crime podcasts I shouldn’t have binged before this trip. The tingling in my scar continued its steady pulse, as if trying to tell me something I couldn’t quite understand.

“Just drive fast,” I muttered, gunning the engine. “Beat the sunset, avoid the murder compound, find the cottage. Simple.”

The sun mocked me from its steady descent toward the tree line as I sped down the highway. My knuckles went white on the steering wheel, and I definitely wasn’t thinking about three suspiciously helpful brothers who apparently had nothing better to do than maintain my mother’s abandoned property.

Thirty minutes into my escape plan, my car made a sound like a dying whale.

“No, no, baby, please.” I patted the dashboard like I was soothing a temperamental pet. “You’ve been so good. Just a little farther. Do it for daddy?”

The engine responded with a death rattle and an impressive cloud of smoke from under the hood.

“Shit!” I pulled over, my heart trying to escape through my throat. The hood release took three tries because my hands were shaking so bad.

I stared at the engine like it might speak to me. “Right. Because four years of business school totally prepared me for this moment.” The smoke curling up from… whatever that thing was… didn’t inspire confidence.

My phone displayed the three most terrifying words in the English language: No Service Available.

“Perfect. This is fine. Everything’s fine.” The woods loomed on either side of the road, darker by the minute. At least I had enough snacks to last through an apocalypse. “Death by starvation: unlikely. Death by whatever’s making those rustling sounds in the trees: increasingly probable.”

An hour crawled by. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in colors that would be beautiful if they weren’t a countdown to my doom. I’d gone through five stages of panic, invented three new ones, and was currently alternating between praying and cursing at my phone’s useless No Service message.

Then—headlights. A massive black truck appeared around the bend, all gleaming chrome and money, looking about as out of place on this backwoods road as I did.

“Hey! HEY!” I waved my arms like a deranged air traffic controller, probably looking completely unhinged. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was way past desperate.

The truck slowed to a stop, its engine purring like a well-fed panther. The driver’s window rolled down with a quiet whir, revealing a face that belonged on a magazine cover. Dark hair fell in casual waves, while electric blue eyes studied me with unexpected warmth. His features were a perfect blend of strong and boyish—the kind of handsome that makes you wonder if you’ve somehow stumbled into someone else’s story.

Oh no. He’s hot. Why is he hot? This is not the time for hot.

“Car trouble?” His voice was gentle but still deep enough to make my scar tingle, which was not the response I needed right now.

“No, I just really enjoy standing on dark roads waving at strangers,” I quipped before my brain could stop my mouth. “I mean, yes. Sorry. My car decided to audition for a smoke machine and then died.”

He laughed—a genuine, warm sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. I caught him stealing glances at me through my reflection in the window, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. It should have been creepy. It wasn’t creepy. Why wasn’t it creepy?

“Pop the hood. Let me take a look.”

As he stepped out of the truck, my jaw nearly hit the ground. The man was huge, though he carried himself with an easy grace that almost made you forget he was built like he could bench-press small cars. His casual trendy clothes did nothing to hide the fact that he was basically a wall of muscle with perfect hair.

Great. I’ve either been rescued by a fashion model or a very friendly serial killer. Though with my luck, probably both.

“I’m Caleb,” he said, rolling up his sleeves as he approached my car. Every casual movement seemed calculated to appear nonthreatening, which only made me more aware of how easily he could probably snap me in half.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hyperaware of my every movement while pretending not to be. Like those nature documentaries where the predator acts completely disinterested in its prey while tracking its every breath. Not that I was prey. Definitely not thinking about that.

“Kai,” I managed, trying not to stare as he bent over my engine with the confidence of someone who knew what all those metal parts were supposed to do.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and friendly, “looks like your radiator’s given up the ghost. I can tow you into town, or…” He straightened up, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Do you live nearby?”

“Actually, I’m heading to the old cottage on Cedar Grove Road,” I said, trying not to fidget under his careful attention. “Just inherited it. I don’t suppose you know where that is?”

Something flickered in his eyes—too quick to catch—before his smile widened. “The Chen place? That’s on my way. I’d be happy to tow you there instead of making the trip into town. Might even be able to fix it for you tomorrow, if you’d like. I’m pretty good with cars.”

Of course you are. Along with apparently modeling for fashion magazines and winning genetic lotteries.

I weighed my options while trying not to stare at the way his shirt stretched across those shoulders. Town meant expensive repairs and days—maybe even a week—without transportation. Being stuck in the maybe-haunted cottage with no escape route wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. I needed my car for exploring, job hunting, hitting up the library for Wi-Fi—because there was no way that cottage had internet—and apartment searching in nearby cities. Plus, my bank account was already crying from the grocery run.

“You’d do that?” I asked, suspicion wrestling with desperation in my voice. “I can pay you, of course.” Please be cheaper than a mechanic. I’ll sell a kidney if I have to—wait, no, bad plan.

Caleb leaned against my car, arms crossed over his chest—a gesture that somehow managed to be both disarming and alarmingly attractive. “No charge,” he said, his smile never faltering. “That’s just how we do things around here. Neighbors helping neighbors.”

Right. Because gorgeous men regularly appear on dark roads offering free car repairs. Totally normal. Not suspicious at all.

I watched him work, movements precise and efficient as he hooked up the tow cables. His rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms that belonged in some kind of calendar—Hot Handymen of Cedar Grove or something equally ridiculous. Every motion spoke of experience, like a dance he’d done a thousand times before.

“All set,” he called out, dusting off his hands. “Hop in.”

I hesitated for a split second, eyeing his truck—a behemoth of steel and power that made my Honda look like a toy car. But what choice did I have? Walk through murder woods?

The moment I climbed into the passenger seat, the cabin seemed to shrink. He was everywhere—all broad shoulders and cologne. The space felt intimate in a way that made my pulse quicken, though from fear or attraction, I couldn’t quite tell. Probably both. Definitely both.

As we drove, I couldn’t help but keep stealing glances at him—his profile, the way his forearm muscles shifted under his rolled-up sleeves every time he turned the wheel. It was like my eyes were magnetized to him.

“Like what you see?” His eyes caught mine during one of my not-so-subtle glances, amusement dancing in their depths.

Heat rushed to my face. “Just admiring your truck’s… suspension.” Smooth, Kai. Real smooth. “It’s very… suspended.”

He chuckled, a sound that filled the cab and did things to my insides I didn’t want to examine too closely. “That’s a new one. Usually, people just comment on the size.”

“Well,” I quipped, finding my footing in familiar territory—sarcasm, “everything about this situation is larger than life, isn’t it?”

The truck hit a rough patch in the road, making me lurch sideways. Before I could even grab the door handle, Caleb’s hand shot out to steady me, his palm warm against my shoulder. The touch sent an odd shiver through me, and I could have sworn my scar tingled in response. His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, those long fingers gentle but firm against my shirt.

“Sorry about that,” he said, finally withdrawing his hand. “Roads out here aren’t exactly highway quality.”

“Right,” I managed, trying to ignore how my skin still hummed where he’d touched me. “Because that would be too civilized?”