Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Zoe
“Where to, miss?”
The cab driver’s cheerful voice snaps me from my panic as I slam the door behind me, heart racing like I’ve just outrun a pack of, well, alphas. My actual alphas, if biology has anything to say about it.
“Just drive,” I gasp, sliding down in the seat. “Anywhere that’s not here.”
He chuckles, pulling into traffic. “That’s not exactly a destination I can punch into the GPS.”
My eyes dart to the rearview mirror, searching for signs of pursuit. Four tall, gorgeous men running down the street after me like the final chase scene in an action movie would be hard to miss. But the traffic behind us flows normally.
“Sorry,” I say, gathering my wits as I give him my address.
“Running from someone?” He glances at me in the mirror, taking in my disheveled appearance and—oh god—the marks on my neck. His eyes widen slightly. “Or several someones, by the look of it.”
I yank at my dress collar, a futile attempt to hide the evidence. “Just... a misunderstanding.”
“Must’ve been some misunderstanding.” His tone is light, but not judgmental. “Those are alpha marks if I’ve ever seen them. And I’ve seen plenty in my day.”
Great. Now I’m getting relationship advice from a cab driver. Just what this morning needs.
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, staring out the window as we merge onto the main boulevard.
The city is waking up around us. Delivery trucks are double-parked outside bakeries, spilling the warm, sweet scent of fresh bread into the air.
A florist sets up buckets of bright, dew-kissed flowers on the sidewalk.
It's all so painfully, beautifully normal.
The cab driver follows my gaze, a wry, knowing smile on his face.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Looks peaceful, doesn’t it? All that normal.” He shakes his head slightly. “Always is... right before the alphas get involved. My daughter’s a beta. She dated an alpha last year. Nice enough chap, but lord, the drama.”
As he chatters on about his daughter’s love life, I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
The familiar landmarks of Sweetwater slide by.
The old clock tower, the sprawling public garden, the historic district with its cobblestone streets…
but my mind is stuck in a penthouse fifty floors above the city.
Last night’s gala had been important for the gallery.
It was the annual Sweetwater Arts Foundation fundraiser, and this year, we were the primary beneficiary.
The city’s elite showed up to pretend they cared about modern art while really just looking for an excuse to wear designer clothes and drink free champagne.
As assistant curator, I was the gallery’s point person on the floor, tasked with making sure our patrons felt seen and the new donors felt. .. inspired to bid.
And it had been going smoothly. Until the Sterlings arrived.
I’d noticed them immediately. It was impossible not to.
They moved through the crowd like sharks through water, commanding attention without trying.
Rett was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that made his broad shoulders look even broader, his brown hair expertly styled, his jaw set with an authority that was both intimidating and ridiculously hot.
Tristan, all easy charm in midnight blue, a killer smile that showed off a single dimple.
Diego, effortlessly elegant in deep burgundy, his warm light-brown eyes seeming to miss nothing.
And Dane, intimidating in classic black, his pale blond hair almost white under the chandeliers, his light-blue eyes watchful and intense.
But I hadn’t had time to stare. We’d had a crisis with the silent auction displays, and I was rushing to fix it before anyone noticed.
“Excuse me,” I’d said, brushing past Rett Sterling without a second glance. “Coming through with priceless art.”
I’d felt his eyes on me as I hurried by, carrying a small sculpture that had been knocked askew. But I didn’t have time for alpha posturing. Not when I was trying to save my boss from a meltdown.
Ten minutes later, crisis averted, I’d been rewarding myself with a glass of champagne when a deep voice behind me said, “That was impressive.”
I’d turned to find Rett Sterling watching me, his blue eyes so intense they pinned me in place.
“What was?” I’d asked, taking a sip of my drink.
“The way you handled that situation. Quick, efficient, no drama.” His gaze had moved over my face with undisguised interest, lingering for a moment on my lips before meeting my eyes again. “Most people would have panicked.”
“Most people aren’t responsible for several million dollars’ worth of art on a nightly basis,” I’d replied with a shrug. “You develop a certain immunity to panic.”
A slow smile had spread across his face, transforming his expression into something devastatingly handsome. “I’m Everett Sterling,” he’d said, extending his hand. “Friends call me Rett.”
“I know who you are.” I’d taken his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine. “Zoe Clarke. Assistant curator.”
“Zoe,” he’d repeated, like he was tasting my name. “Would you like another drink? That one seems to be disappearing quickly.”
I’d glanced down at my nearly empty glass. “Are you implying I drink too fast, Mr. Sterling?”
“Not at all. Just that I’d like the excuse to keep talking to you.”
That should have been it. Polite small talk, then we’d both move on. That’s how these things usually worked.
Instead, Rett Sterling planted himself right there and said, “So what’s the story with that sculpture you just rescued?”
I blinked. Most donors wanted to know which pieces would impress their neighbors or hold their value. “You actually want to know about the art?”
“Crazy concept, I know.”
So I told him. And he listened. Actually listened, asked follow-up questions that weren’t stupid, and when I mentioned how the artist played with space, he made some comment about building design that actually made sense.
“Huh,” I said. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Sometimes you need an outside perspective,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made me look at him more closely.
That’s when another Sterling appeared with a fresh glass of champagne. “Diego,” he introduced himself. “Mind if I steal a second? I wanted to ask about that bronze piece in the corner.”
Great. Now there were two of them.
Except... it was actually fun. They both knew their stuff, asked smart questions, and didn’t try to mansplain art history to me.
Diego had opinions about metalwork that were surprisingly insightful, and when I disagreed with him about the artist’s technique, he actually listened instead of getting defensive.
“Well, well,” a new voice said. “Are you two hogging the pretty curator?”
Sterling brother number three materialized beside them, all charm and dimples. “Tristan. I’ve been watching you guys have all the fun from the cheese table.”
“We’re discussing art,” Rett said.
“Sure you are.” Tristan’s grin was pure trouble. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I felt my cheeks warm. “I should probably make the rounds—”
“Do you need to?” Diego asked. “I mean, look around. Everyone’s having a great time without you hovering.”
He was right. The event hummed with conversation, people moving between pieces. No one needed me to hold their hand.
“Besides,” Tristan added, “we’re having an artistic emergency that requires your expertise.”
“An emergency?” I couldn’t help smiling.
“Life or death,” he said solemnly. “Diego thinks that weird twisted thing over there is about the meaninglessness of existence, but I’m pretty sure the artist just threw some metal together and called it deep.”
I laughed. “You’re both wrong. It’s about transformation.”
“Transformation,” Rett repeated, and something in his tone made my stomach do a little flip.
The way he said it, the way they were all looking at me... suddenly the crowded event felt very small and very warm.
That’s when the fourth one showed up.
I didn’t see him coming. One second, there were three Sterlings; the next, there were four, and holy shit, this one was intense. Tall, broad, pale hair, and eyes like winter sky. He didn’t introduce himself, just nodded when Rett said, “Dane. Security.”
“You know who I am,” I said, not really a question.
“I know everyone,” he said simply.
“Dane’s our strong, silent type,” Tristan announced. “Very mysterious. Drives people crazy.”
The man in question just looked at Tristan like he was considering violence.
“Don’t mind him,” Diego said. “Tristan thinks life should be more like a reality show.”
“Some of us like drama.” Tristan shrugged. “Some of us like quiet.”
Dane’s pale eyes found mine. “Quiet’s not always better.”
“No,” I heard myself say, “it’s not.”
Something passed between us, some kind of understanding that made no sense but felt real anyway.
“Careful,” Tristan grinned. “Keep agreeing with him, and he might actually smile.”
The air around us felt charged, like right before a thunderstorm. Four men, four sets of eyes all focused on me, and I felt... powerful. Wanted. Like I was the most interesting person in the room.
“We should get dinner,” Rett said suddenly. “After this. All of us.”
It wasn’t really a request. But it wasn’t an order either.
I looked around at them, at four faces waiting for my answer, and felt something reckless rise in my chest.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do that.”
And that had been it. The beginning of the end of my normal life.
“You still with me, miss?” The cab driver’s voice pulls me back to the present. We’re stopped at a red light, and he’s looking at me in the rearview mirror with concern.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Just... thinking.”
“Must be some thoughts. You went a million miles away.” He smiles kindly. “We’re about ten minutes from your place, by the way.”