Marked (Marked by Alphas #1)

Chapter 6

T he rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the covered walkway above us.

“My car is just around the corner. Let me drive you.”

“I have my own car—”

“Which is parked in the opposite direction from the lawyer’s office.” His tone was gentle but firm, like he was used to people simply agreeing with him. “And you don’t know where you’re going.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. He had a point. “Fine. But I’m perfectly capable of following directions.”

“I’m sure you are.” His smile held a hint of heat that made my scar tingle. “But I’d prefer to drive you myself.”

The word ‘myself’ carried a weight I wasn’t ready to examine.

His car, because of course, was a sleek black Mercedes that probably cost more than my entire college education, student loans included. It looked completely out of place among the town’s practical trucks and SUVs, all gleaming wet curves and predatory grace. Like its owner, it managed to be both beautiful and vaguely threatening.

“Very CEO,” I commented as he opened the passenger door for me—who even did that anymore? The interior was all black leather and brushed metal, with that new car smell that somehow managed to mix with Marcus’ subtle cologne. “Though I have to say, it’s a bit different from Caleb’s mountain man mobile.”

“I have a truck as well,” Marcus said, sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life under his touch, and why did that sound so suggestive in my head? “And a Jeep. Several, actually.”

“Several?” I rolled my eyes, trying to ignore how the heated seats were already warming my rain-chilled body. “Of course you do. Let me guess, one for each day of the week? Color-coordinated with your suits?”

His laugh was rich and warm in the intimate space of the car. “The truck is for site visits, the Jeep for terrain surveys. This…” He patted the leather dashboard with an oddly possessive gesture. “This is for intimidating business rivals.”

“And impressing small-town boys who spill coffee on you?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“That’s just a bonus.” His eyes caught mine, dark and intense enough to make my heart skip. “Though I have to say, you’re the first person I’ve met who’s more impressed by Caleb’s truck than this.”

“Well, yeah. His actually looks like it does something other than scream ‘I make more money than you.’” I ran my hand over the butter-soft leather armrest. “Though I have to admit, these heated seats are making a compelling argument for corporate excess.”

Marcus’ smile was subtle but pleased. “Just wait until you feel the massage function.”

“The what now?” I pulled my hand back like the seat might start getting fresh with me. “No. That’s ridiculous. Cars don’t need massage functions. That’s just… that’s peak rich person nonsense.”

“Says the man who just melted into the heating function.” His voice held warm amusement as he navigated the rain-slicked streets with casual confidence. One hand rested loosely on the gear shift, and I couldn’t stop staring at his fingers. They were elegant but strong, like everything else about him. “Would you like me to turn it on?”

“No!” I said too quickly. “No massage seats. I draw the line at being felt up by a vehicle, no matter how expensive it is.”

“Felt up by a vehicle?” He actually laughed out loud at that, the sound rich enough to make my scar pulse. “That’s a new one.”

“Well, what would you call it? This car probably has more features than my apartment.” I gestured at the complicated-looking control panel. “I bet it even makes coffee.”

“Not coffee, but it does have a mini fridge.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Under your armrest.”

I lifted the console and, sure enough, there was a small cooling compartment. “Oh my God. This isn’t a car, it’s a Bond villain’s mobile lair. Do the seats eject? Is there a secret weapon compartment? Should I be checking for a red button labeled Rockets?”

“The rockets are controlled by voice command, actually.”

“See? This is why people think CEOs are supervillains.” But I was laughing, and the strange tension from earlier had shifted into something warmer, more comfortable. Even if my scar was still tingling every time he smiled.

Marcus turned onto Pine Street, the windshield wipers creating a hypnotic rhythm. The rain made everything feel soft and distant, like we were in our own little world. It was… nice. Dangerous, but nice.

“The law office is just ahead,” Marcus said, and was it my imagination or did he sound reluctant?

Morrison & Associates occupied a meticulously restored Victorian on the corner of Pine and Maple, all gingerbread trim and stained glass windows. The wraparound porch hosted a collection of rocking chairs that somehow managed to look both welcoming and intimidating, like they were judging your net worth before allowing you to sit.

“I feel underdressed. Again.” I tugged at my coffee-stained shirt as Marcus guided me up the steps, his hand at my lower back—a gesture that was becoming disturbingly familiar. “Do all your regular haunts require a minimum income bracket?”

“You’re with me,” Marcus said, like that explained everything. Maybe it did, because the moment we stepped through the heavy oak doors, the receptionist practically levitated from her chair.

“Mr. Stone!” She was elegant in that small-town professional way, perfectly coiffed gray hair and a pearl necklace that probably had its own insurance policy. “We weren’t expecting you today.”

“Margaret.” Marcus’ nod was warm but professional. “Is James available? Mr. Chen here needs to discuss some property matters.”

“Of course, of course!” She was already reaching for her phone, but her eyes lingered on me with poorly concealed curiosity. I tried not to squirm under her attention. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The reception area looked like it had been lifted straight from a law firm drama—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and what appeared to be original oil paintings. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked away money I didn’t have.

“Wait,” I whispered to Marcus, eyeing a framed newspaper article about Morrison’s Harvard Law graduation. “Don’t we need an appointment? And the fee—” My bank account was already crying at the thought.

“Kai.” The way he said my name, soft but firm, made my protests die in my throat. “Let me handle this.”

Before I could argue that I was perfectly capable of handling my own legal matters—I wasn’t—a distinguished older man appeared in the doorway. He had the kind of face that belonged on currency—silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the confident bearing of someone who’d never worried about overdraft fees in his life.

“Marcus!” His handshake was firm but friendly. “Twice in one week? The board meeting couldn’t have gone that badly.”

Marcus’ laugh was warm. “No emergencies today, James. But Mr. Chen here”—his hand moved to my lower back again, steadying me—“needs some clarity about his property situation.”

“Ah, yes! Linda called ahead. Please, come in, come in.” Morrison gestured us through to his office, and I tried not to gawk at the obviously expensive art lining the hallway. Was that an actual Monet? “I had Sarah’s file pulled as soon as she called.”

I stumbled slightly at my mother’s name. Marcus’ hand tightened on my back, and my scar tingled in response.

The office itself was exactly what you’d expect from someone who handled old money—leather chairs that had been worn to butter-softness, an oak desk that had probably witnessed a century of life-changing decisions, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with law books that looked both well used and expensive.

But it was the photos that caught my eye. Mixed in with the expected diplomas and professional achievements were familiar buildings—Stone Industries properties, I realized. Lots of them. Including what looked like construction photos of that fancy café we’d just left.

“Please, sit.” Morrison gestured to the leather chairs facing his desk. “Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, not wanting to risk spilling anything on what was probably priceless antique furniture. “Thank you. About your fee—”

Morrison’s eyes flicked to Marcus—so quickly I almost missed it—before he smiled warmly. “No charge for a consultation, Mr. Chen. Especially not for property questions. Now, what seems to be the concern?”

The way he said it made me wonder if he already knew exactly what the concern was. Something about his too-ready smile, the thick folder already sitting on his desk…

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortably aware of Marcus’ presence beside me. He’d positioned himself close enough that our arms almost touched, and my scar was doing that warm pulsing thing again.

“It’s about the cottage,” I started, then paused, unsure how to explain my situation to someone who probably owned several vacation homes. “I inherited it from my mother, and I was planning to sell it. But when I went to see the real estate agent today, Linda said there were… complications?”

Morrison nodded, opening the suspiciously ready folder. “Ah, yes. The Chen cottage. Lovely property, been in your mother’s possession for…” He consulted a document, though something told me he knew exactly how long. “Just over twenty years.”

“Right.” I tried not to fidget under his grandfatherly gaze. “The thing is, I can’t really stay in Cedar Grove. I have plans—had plans—to move. Find a job. Start my life, you know?”

“Perfectly understandable.” Morrison’s tone was sympathetic, but his eyes kept darting to Marcus. “However, there are certain provisions in the inheritance documents that need to be addressed first.”

I swallowed hard. “Linda mentioned something about a clause?”

“Yes.” He pulled out a thick document, turning it so I could see. “It’s quite standard for properties of this… nature. Before you can take full possession—including the right to sell—you must establish residency for a minimum of six months.”

“Six months?” My voice cracked. Marcus shifted beside me, his arm now touching mine. The contact sent warmth spreading through my body, which was not helpful for maintaining professional composure. “But that’s… I mean, I can’t…”

“The provision ensures that heirs understand the property’s unique qualities,” Morrison continued smoothly. “These old houses, they have… character. History. It’s important for owners to truly appreciate what they’re taking on.”

Or giving up, I thought, noting how the lawyer’s eyes kept meeting Marcus’ in what was definitely not random coincidence.

“Can I see the clause?” I asked, proud of how steady my voice was.

“Of course.” Morrison turned several pages, pointing to a paragraph of dense legal text. “As you can see here, the requirement is quite clear. Six months minimum residency, starting from your first night in the property.”

I leaned forward to read, very aware of Marcus doing the same. His cologne wrapped around me, making it hard to focus on the words.

“‘The inheritor must establish primary residency at the property for no less than six (6) calendar months before gaining full rights of ownership, including but not limited to the right of sale or transfer,’” I read aloud. “That’s… that’s actually real? This isn’t some small-town joke?”

Morrison’s smile was gentle. “I assure you, Mr. Chen, it’s quite real. Your mother was very specific about these terms when she set up the inheritance.”

“Mom did this?” Something cold settled in my stomach. “But why would she…?”

“Sarah was always very particular about the cottage,” Morrison said, and there was something in his voice—like he knew her, really knew her. “She wanted to ensure it would be… properly appreciated.”

I glanced at Marcus, caught him watching me with that intense expression again. “Did you know about this?”

“I knew the cottage had special provisions,” he said carefully. “Most properties in Cedar Grove do.”

“Right.” I slumped back in my chair. “Because nothing in this town can just be normal.”

Morrison cleared his throat. “The six months don’t have to be continuous, strictly speaking. Though interruptions would extend the overall timeline…”

“No, I…” I ran a hand through my hair, aware I probably looked as overwhelmed as I felt. “I get it. Six months or no sale. Live here or lose the inheritance.”

“It’s not quite that dramatic,” Morrison said, but his eyes did that thing again—that quick flick to Marcus that was starting to feel very deliberate. “Think of it as an opportunity to connect with your heritage. Cedar Grove has a way of growing on people.”

Like moss, I thought. Or maybe fungus. A very attractive, unsettling fungus that kept showing up in the form of gorgeous brothers and making my scar tingle.

“Thank you for explaining,” I said, proud of how professional I sounded despite my internal panic. “I appreciate your time.”

“Of course, of course!” Morrison stood, gathering the papers. “I’ll have copies made of the relevant documents. And please, don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions. My door is always open to the Chen family.”

The way he said it made me wonder just how well he’d known my mother. How much he knew about why she left. Why she’d put this clause in place.

But those were questions for another day. Right now, I needed to process the fact that I was apparently stuck in Cedar Grove for six months. Six months of mysterious Stone brothers and weird attractions and that creepy feeling from the woods. Six months of my body betraying me every time Marcus looked at me like… like he was looking at me right now.

“Ready?” Marcus’ voice was soft, intimate in a way that made my skin prickle.

No, I wanted to say. I’m not ready for any of this.

But I nodded, because what else could I do?

The walk back through the reception area felt surreal. Margaret gave me a motherly smile that somehow managed to be both kind and knowing, like she was already planning to add me to the office Christmas card list. The grandfather clock chimed the hour, reminding me that I’d just lost control of the next six months of my life in less time than it took to watch a sitcom episode.

“You’re processing,” Marcus observed as we stepped out onto the covered porch. The rain had softened to a gentle mist, turning Cedar Grove’s main street into something out of a watercolor painting.

“That’s one way to put it.” I leaned against one of the white porch columns, needing the support. “I just… six months. That’s half a year. That’s two seasons. That’s—”

“A reasonable amount of time to decide if you truly want to sell a half-million-dollar property.” His voice was gentle but firm, like he was trying to talk me off a ledge. Maybe he was.

I leaned heavily against the column, thinking about that number. Half a million. Linda had mentioned it earlier, but hearing it again made it more real somehow. That was… that was life-changing money. Student loans gone. A decent apartment in Seattle. Maybe even a small startup fund for my own business someday.

“But it’s tiny! And old! And probably haunted!”

“Historical charm. Original features. Unique character.” He ticked off each point like he was reading from a real estate brochure. “Not to mention the land itself. Waterfront property in Cedar Grove is… precious.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”

“I make it my business to know property values in town.” His smile was innocent, but his eyes held that predatory gleam again. “Especially significant ones.”

“Right. Because you’re basically the king of Cedar Grove or whatever.” I pushed off from the column, trying to think practically. “So I either leave now and lose a fortune or stay for six months and… what? Get a job at the local bookstore? Live off credit cards? Hope the cottage really is haunted and the ghost knows how to cook?”

“There are opportunities here,” Marcus said, following me down the porch steps. “If you’re willing to look for them.”

I thought about the Help Wanted sign I’d seen in the window of Stone & Page earlier. The poster that had seemed so perfectly timed. “Maybe. I did see that Stone & Page is hiring…”

“Ah, yes.” Something flickered in his expression. “Jane mentioned she was looking for help. Small world.”

Too small, I thought, and the name ‘Stone’ in the bookstore’s title suddenly seemed a lot more significant.

“I’ll give Jane a call tomorrow,” I said, watching the mist swirl around the streetlamps. “See if they’re still hiring.”

“A sensible plan.” He was standing close again, too close for my peace of mind. “You’re handling this well.”

“Am I? Because internally I’m screaming.” I turned to face him, which was a mistake because now I had to look up to meet his eyes, and that height difference did things to my insides that I wasn’t ready to analyze. “This is crazy, right? This whole situation? The clause, the cottage, the…” I gestured vaguely between us. “…whatever this is?”

“This?” His voice dropped lower, and my scar pulsed in response.

“Don’t.” I took a step back. “Don’t do that thing where you repeat what I say in that voice that makes everything sound… more. I’m having enough crises today without adding…” I waved at his general everything. “…all that.”

His laugh was warm enough to chase away the mist’s chill. “All that?”

“And now you’re doing it on purpose.” But I was smiling despite myself. “I should go. Thank you for… everything. Lunch, the lawyer, and not letting me have a complete breakdown on Morrison’s probably antique porch furniture.”

“My pleasure.” The way he said it made it sound like a promise. Or a threat. Or both.

“Right. Well.” I took another step back, even though my body seemed to want to do the opposite. “I should get back to my car. Process this whole six-month life derailment thing. Maybe panic-buy some houseplants.”

“Let me drive you back.” It wasn’t quite a command, but it wasn’t quite a request either.

“It’s literally two blocks,” I protested, but my feet weren’t moving away. “I can walk. The rain’s barely a drizzle now.”

“Kai.” Again, he said just my name, but it held weight. Like he’d been saying it for years instead of hours.

I should say no. I should definitely say no. But there was something in his eyes, something that made my scar warm and my resolve weaken. Something that felt dangerous and safe all at once.

“Fine.” I sighed, pretending I hadn’t already decided the moment he offered. “But no more cryptic comments about property values or mysterious opportunities. My conspiracy theory quota is full for the day.”

The drive back was quiet but not uncomfortable. The Mercedes’ engine purred softly, the heated seats worked their magic, and the rain created a cozy bubble around us. It felt intimate. Too intimate. Like we’d done this a hundred times before.

Marcus pulled up beside my car, but neither of us moved to get out. The silence stretched, filled with things I wasn’t ready to name.

“Thank you,” I said finally, my hand on the door handle. “For everything today. Even the parts that were…” I searched for the right word.

“More?” His smile was knowing.

“Overwhelming,” I corrected, but I was smiling too. “Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t all an elaborate setup to get me to join some weird small-town cult.”

“Not a cult.” His eyes caught mine, intense enough to make my breath catch. “Just Cedar Grove.”

“Right. Because that’s so much better.” I forced myself to open the door before I could do something stupid like ask him what he meant. Or worse, lean closer.

“Kai.” His voice stopped me halfway out of the car. When I looked back, his expression was softer than I’d seen it all day. “Welcome home.”

My scar tingled, a warm pulse that spread through my whole body. I needed to leave. Now. Before I started believing him.

“Goodbye, Marcus,” I managed and fled to my car before I could see his response.

In my rearview mirror, I watched him wait until I’d started my engine before pulling away. The gesture was protective. Possessive. Terrifying in how right it felt.

Six months, I thought, gripping the steering wheel. I just had to survive six months of this. Of them. Of him.

I was so screwed.