Mated By Mistake (Sweetwater City Reverse Harem Omegaverse #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Zoe

Iwake to the sensation of being slowly crushed to death.

Literally.

There’s a weight on my chest that’s making it difficult to breathe, and something heavy is pinning my legs to the mattress.

My eyelids feel like they’re glued shut, but I force them open anyway, blinking against the assault of sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows I definitely don’t recognize. Where am I? The first thing I see is an exposed ceiling beam that soars at least twenty feet above me.

What the actual fuck?

I try to move and realize the weight on my chest is an arm. A very muscular, very male arm. The heavy thing pinning my legs is a thigh. Also muscular. Also male.

My mind is trying to buffer the events of the night before on a dial-up connection. All I’m getting is static, a screeching sound, and a few frozen frames.

I remember the art gala. That delicious champagne that kept magically appearing in my hand. Dancing with... someone. Many someones? The Sterling brothers. They offered me a ride home because I couldn’t stand straight. Then nothing.

I turn my head slowly, fighting against what feels like the mother of all hangovers, and come face to face with Rett Sterling—CEO of Sterling Solutions, notorious control freak, and alpha of alphas. His face is relaxed in sleep, all those hard lines softened, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He’s gorgeous. And naked. And wrapped around me like I’m his favorite teddy bear.

Oh…wait, wait, wait. Rewind. Rett Sterling?! Oh shit.

I carefully scan the rest of the king bed I’m trapped in and count three more sleeping men. Each Sterling brother is positioned around me, creating a protective formation that would be touching if it weren’t so fucking terrifying.

Tristan Sterling, their tech and PR genius, is sprawled on his back on my other side, one hand resting possessively on my hip.

Diego, whom I’d pegged as the pack’s anchor, has his face buried in my hair, his body curled behind Tristan.

And at the foot of the bed, Dane, the silent blonde who is the pack’s head of security, has his cheek resting on my thigh, his arms wrapped securely around my calves.

Four alphas. One bed. And me: their apparently communal beta one-night stand.

What the fuck, Zoe?

My heart thunders in my chest as I carefully extricate myself from the tangle of limbs, holding my breath when Rett’s arm tightens momentarily before he rolls onto his other side with a soft grunt. I slip out of the bed like I’m diffusing a bomb.

The cool air hits my bare skin, and I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how sore I am. Everywhere. My inner thighs burn pleasantly, and there’s a delicious ache between my legs that tells me exactly how thoroughly I was enjoyed last night.

By four men. Four alpha men. The Sterling Pack.

In all my twenty-six years, I’ve never—fuck! I should be horrified. I should be grabbing my clothes and running for the door. Instead, something dark and satisfied purrs inside me, and I have to physically shake myself to snap out of it.

Get it together, Zoe. You’re a beta, not some omega who goes into heat at the first whiff of alpha pheromones. You have a life, a job, and standards… I grimace. Standards that definitely don’t include waking up in a pack orgy, no matter how mind-blowingly hot they all are.

I tiptoe across the obscenely plush carpet, searching for my clothes. I find my bra hanging from a doorknob and one shoe under a sleek armchair. The other shoe is mysteriously missing, along with my underwear and dress.

Great. I’ll just add that to the list of mortifications I’ll be processing later.

My eyes dart around the massive room, frantically searching for my dress, for an exit, for anything.

But all I see is expensive taste. Modern art hangs on the walls, and sleek Italian leather furniture is positioned perfectly to take advantage of the floor-to-ceiling view.

This isn’t just a penthouse; it’s a fortress of wealth, and my little black dress is nowhere in sight.

New plan. Bathroom. Now.

I spot a door across the vast space and inch toward it, praying it’s not a closet full of bespoke suits. I slip inside, closing the heavy door behind me with a barely audible click, and lean against the cool wood.

My hand finds the light switch. I flip it on and immediately regret the decision as a spike of pain lances through my skull. Blinking against the sudden glare, I take in the space.

The bathroom, like everything else in this place, is ridiculous. Marble everything, a shower big enough for a basketball team, and a soaking tub that looks like it belongs in a Roman palace.

I stumble toward what looks like a marble altar but turns out to be a vanity with two sinks. I lean over one of the basins, fumbling with the faucet. Cold water rushes over my hands. I splash it on my face, the shock of it a welcome jolt to my foggy brain.

Sighing, I straighten up, pushing my damp hair back from my forehead, and finally meet my own eyes in the mirror.

And that’s when I stop dead, hands on the counter, breath stolen, because staring back at me is my face.

And my throat.

In the mirror, four marks stand out stark against my skin. One at the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. One higher, brushed against the tendon. One just anterior to the collarbone, splayed like a handprint in teeth. One back toward the nape, right where a kiss would be a secret.

Claiming marks.

I lift trembling fingers and hover. The skin is warm to the touch, too warm, like an ember left to smolder. The edges are clean, not ragged. Healed past the point of blood, not yet faded. Fresh.

My knees buckle, and I grab the counter to keep from collapsing. This isn’t possible. Betas don’t get claimed by entire packs. Claimings are for omegas, with their heats and their special pheromones that drive alphas wild. Betas are... well, beta. Ordinary. Me.

Yet here I am, with four distinct claim marks on my neck.

“What did I doooo?” I whisper to my reflection, which offers no answers, just the panicked expression of someone whose life has just imploded.

My fingers hover over the marks. A deep, primal part of me expects to feel revulsion, the horror of being branded.

Instead, a low, traitorous thrum of pure, possessive satisfaction buzzes up through my fingertips and settles deep in my belly.

It’s a disgusting, terrifying, and undeniably thrilling feeling.

What kind of beta enjoys being mauled like some omega in heat?

I splash water on my face, hoping it might wash away the evidence of last night’s bad decisions. It doesn’t help. If anything, the water makes the claiming marks stand out more prominently against my flushed skin.

It’s like seeing them so clearly unlocks the memories, and they come crashing back.

Tristan’s teeth at my throat, his growl vibrating through my body as he marked me.

Diego whispering Spanish endearments against my skin before his bite made me cry out in pleasure-pain.

Dane’s surprising gentleness as he claimed me, his hands holding me like I might break.

And Rett—God, Rett—, looking into my eyes as he asked for permission before completing the claiming, making me part of their pack.

And me... saying yes to each and every one. Begging for it, actually.

What the fuck was in that champagne?

Betas marry betas. That’s the unspoken rule. Stable, predictable, no messy biological bonds. My parents were betas. My college roommate married a beta. Even my best friend Leah, who’s an omega, had sworn off alphas—until her pack came along.

This wasn’t just a mistake. It was a nuclear bomb dropped on my life.

I slide down against the bathroom cabinet until I’m sitting on the cold marble floor, my bra clutched to my chest like some kind of shield. As if lace can protect me from what’s already happened.

That’s when I catch a whiff of something that makes my breath halt in my chest. My skin smells... different. Beneath my usual clean, neutral scent is something richer. Cedarwood. Ginger. Cardamom. Peppermint. Four distinct alpha scents clinging to me like a second skin.

Oh God.

A deep, slow stirring begins in the base of my belly. A low, vibrating chord of pure recognition. A traitorous, undeniable thrum of want.

“This isn’t happening,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “This cannot be happening.”

But the evidence is all over me. In me. Even my body feels different. Sensitized in ways I’ve never experienced before. There’s a constant hum under my skin, like electricity running through me, connecting me to the four sleeping men in the next room.

I try to stand, but my legs are too shaky. My head is pounding, partly from the hangover and partly from the sheer magnitude of what’s happened.

Claiming bites aren’t just some type of kinky love bite. They’re a biological bond. A permanent connection between alpha and omega that alters body chemistry and synchronizes hormones. Creates a literal physiological dependency.

Except I’m not an omega. I’m a beta. Single alphas might choose a beta, under rare circumstances where they fall in love. But an entire pack of alphas? They almost certainly ALWAYS mate an omega.

I force myself up on trembling legs and splash more cold water on my face. Think, Zoe. Think.

Option one: Run and pretend this never happened. I bite my lip, staring at my haunted reflection. At the marks staring right back at me.

That’s not going to work.

Option two: March back in there and demand answers.

Option three: Get the hell out now and deal with this mess when I’m not naked and surrounded by sleeping alphas.

I grip the edges of the sink, forcing myself to breathe.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

It doesn’t help. My reflection is a mess of wild eyes and pale skin, dominated by the intricate marks on my neck.

I can feel them throbbing against my pulse, reminding me with every beat of what I’ve done.

What’s worse is the thought that is truly sending me spiraling: that some traitorous corner of my beta brain is preening at being chosen by not one, but four powerful alphas. At being the center of their attention, their desire, their protection.

That’s not me. I’ve never wanted a pack. Never wanted to be claimed. I’ve built my entire identity around being unbothered by the alpha/omega dynamics that dictate so much of society.

And now, in one champagne-soaked night, I’ve become the claimed mate of the Sterling Pack.

I hear a rustle from the bedroom, the sound of someone turning over in their sleep, and I freeze. They’ll wake up soon. And then what? What do you say to the four alphas who’ve just fundamentally altered your existence?

‘Thanks for the orgasms, but I didn’t sign up for this biological bond’?

‘You know how people say ‘what happens at the Sterling parties stays at the Sterling parties’? Let’s test that theory.’

‘I know we’re bonded now, but I was thinking this should be a one-night stand.’

My breathing becomes erratic again. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I catch another scent. Stronger this time. Cedarwood. Rett. Like he’s somehow reaching for me even in his sleep.

And my stupid, traitorous body responds. My breathing steadies. My muscles relax. The room stops spinning.

What the actual fuck?

“This can’t be real,” I whisper to my reflection, but the claiming marks don’t disappear. If anything, they seem to darken as the minutes pass, settling into my skin like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there.

I need to get out of here. I need to think, to breathe, to process this catastrophe somewhere that doesn’t smell like a cocktail of alpha pheromones specifically designed to short-circuit my brain.

But my legs won’t move. It’s like they know something my panicking mind doesn’t. That running from this is impossible. That I’m connected to those four men now in ways I can’t escape.

I slide back down to the floor, my back against the cabinet, and put my head between my knees. The bathroom spins around me, reality shifting on its axis.

Four alphas. One beta. A claim that shouldn’t be possible.

And me, trapped in their bathroom, having an existential crisis while they sleep peacefully in the next room, unaware that they’ve just destroyed my carefully constructed life with their teeth and their scents and their goddamn perfect bodies.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?