Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Diego
Itug at the collar of my plain white shirt, already regretting the choice. It’s not even the fanciest thing I own, but based on Zoe’s text, I have a feeling I’m still overdressed.
“Wear something uncomfortable,” she’d said. As if we needed help with that. The static alone is enough to make any outfit feel like a straitjacket.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask as Rett pulls up to the curb.
Through the window, I can see a weathered wooden sign swinging in the evening breeze. THE ANCHOR, it proclaims in faded blue letters. Below it, a neon sign flickers: LIVE MUSIC! $2 OYSTERS! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
That last part doesn’t seem like a joke.
“This is it,” Rett confirms, checking his phone. “The address matches.”
Tristan peers out the window, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Looks... charming.”
“It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen,” Rett mutters.
I take a deep breath, catching the scent of salt water, fried food, and beer that wafts from the open door as a group of laughing people stumble out. “At least it’s popular.”
“So is the plague,” Tristan quips, but he’s already opening the door, straightening his shirt as he steps onto the sidewalk.
We follow, a procession of overdressed alphas approaching what looks like a pirate ship that ran aground and decided to serve beer.
Rett leads the way, of course, his perfectly tailored coffee blazer looking ridiculously out of place against the bar’s peeling paint.
Tristan is right behind him, wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt over a crisp white tee.
His look might scream ‘effortlessly cool’ on a rooftop bar, but just looks ‘effortlessly lost’ down here.
And me? My plain shirt feels like a starched billboard advertising my own poor judgment.
Only Dane looks remotely prepared for this.
He’s in a cream colored, sleeveless muscle tee, his arms on full display.
He doesn’t look like he’s here for a fight, but he definitely looks like he’d finish one.
We must look ridiculous. Which, I’m starting to suspect, is exactly what Zoe intended.
As we approach the entrance, a burly beta with more tattoos than visible skin gives us a once-over and snorts. “Bachelor party take a wrong turn?”
“We’re meeting someone,” Rett says, his voice clipped.
The bouncer shrugs and waves us in. “Your funeral, rich boys.”
The moment we step inside, my senses are assaulted from all directions.
The smell hits first. A potent mixture of stale beer, fried seafood, sweat, and something musty that might be decades of spilled drinks soaked into the wooden floors.
It’s not entirely unpleasant, just... intense. Overwhelmingly so.
Then comes the noise. A jukebox in the corner blares what sounds like Arctic Monkeys competing with the shouts of patrons trying to be heard over it. Glasses clink, chairs scrape, and somewhere, someone is laughing so hard they’re wheezing.
“Dios mío,” I mutter, fighting the urge to cover my ears.
The static in my head, which had been a persistent but manageable hum on the drive over, suddenly cranks up to eleven. It’s like someone flipped a switch, turning a background buzz into a full-blown symphony of chaos. Based on the wincing from my brothers, they’re experiencing the same thing.
“Sensory overload,” Dane murmurs, his jaw tight.
“You think?” Tristan hisses, his eyes darting around the crowded space. “This place is—”
“Perfect,” Rett finishes, a grim understanding settling over his features. “For her purposes, anyway.”
I scan the room, trying to spot Zoe among the sea of faces. The bar is packed, every table occupied, bodies pressed together in a way that would make any alpha’s territorial instincts flare. Which, again, is probably the point.
And then I see her.
She’s wearing a black miniskirt and a simple sleeveless white top, her legs looking impossibly long in a pair of heels that have no business being in a place like this. She looks like a panther that’s wandered into a petting zoo. Sleek, dangerous, and completely in charge.
Her hair is loose, hanging down in dark waves, and as she turns her head—fuck—my gaze locks onto her neck.
It’s exposed.
No scarf. No hiding. Just four stark, vivid claiming marks on her pale skin, glowing like brands under the dim bar lights. She isn’t hiding them. She’s flaunting them. Daring the world—daring us—to look.
My cock jerks against my zipper, blood roaring in my ears.
“There,” I grit out, nodding toward the corner table. My voice comes out rough. “Corner table.”
As if sensing our attention, she glances up. Her eyes meet mine across the room. There’s no smile, no greeting. Just a slow, assessing stare that makes my pulse kick like a live wire.
“Fuck,” Dane breathes beside me, his usual ‘eloquence’ obliterated.
Tristan lets out a low whistle. “She looks pissed.”
“She looks mine,” I correct, my alpha surging forward before I can leash it. The words come out half-growl, half-possession. Because that’s what this is. A challenge. A claim of her own. And my alpha acknowledges it.
God help me, I’ve never been harder in my life.
“Let’s not keep her waiting,” Rett says, already moving through the crowd with the expectation that people will part for him. They usually do, but not here. Here, he has to weave and dodge like the rest of us mortals, his irritation growing with each step.
I follow, murmuring “Perdón” and “Excuse me” as I navigate through the press of bodies.
The closer we get to Zoe, the more the static in my head seems to recede, replaced by a warm, pleasant hum.
It’s not the complete silence Tristan described from his bathroom encounter, but it’s better. Manageable.
By the time we reach her table, I’m almost smiling despite the circumstances. Just being in her proximity feels like taking a deep breath after being underwater too long.
“Zoe,” Rett greets her, his voice carefully neutral.
She takes a slow sip of her beer before responding. “Right on time. I’m impressed.”
“We aim to please,” Tristan says, flashing his dimple in what I recognize as his “charm the pants off them” smile.
It doesn’t land. Zoe’s expression remains cool as she gestures to the empty stools around the high-top table. “Have a seat. If you can find room.”
The table is tiny, clearly meant for drinks, not dinner. The stools are backless and look like they’ve survived multiple bar fights. Dane eyes them before lowering himself onto one.
Rett remains standing, his gaze fixed on Zoe. “This isn’t exactly conducive to conversation.”
“Isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow. “I thought alphas were good at adapting. Or does your superior biology only work in penthouse suites?”
Ouch. The barb hits its mark, and I wince on behalf of all of us.
“Fair enough,” I say, taking the stool directly across from her. “We’ll adapt.”
Rett reluctantly sits, immediately reaching for a napkin to wipe down the sticky tabletop. His hand comes away with something unidentifiable clinging to it, and he grimaces.
“Charming place,” Tristan comments, tugging at his silk shirt as he perches on the remaining stool. “Very... authentic.”
“It’s genuine,” Zoe replies. “No pretense. What you see is what you get.”
The implication hangs in the air between us. Unlike us, she means. Or is she referring to herself? The Zoe who showed up tonight certainly seems different from the woman who fled our penthouse.
Before the silence can stretch too long, a harried-looking beta with faded blue hair and an impressive collection of ear piercings that glint under the bar lights appears at our table.
“What can I get you?” they ask, their tone suggesting they’d rather be anywhere else.
“Five beers,” Rett says automatically. “Whatever’s on tap.”
The server blinks slowly. “We have twelve things on tap.”
“The house special, then,” I suggest, offering a smile.
This earns me an unimpressed stare. “The Anchor Ale. Got it.” They start to turn away. “Anything else?”
“We’re good for now,” Zoe cuts in smoothly before any of us can respond. “Thanks, Sam.”
The server, Sam, nods, their expression softening for Zoe before they disappear back into the crowd.
“Friend of yours?” Tristan asks.
“Regular,” Zoe corrects. “I come here a lot.”
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. The place isn’t terrible, but it’s loud, crowded, and smells like the underside of a dock.
She shrugs one shoulder. “It’s real. Unpretentious. Nobody cares who you know or what you do. It’s just... normal people having normal drinks after normal days.”
The emphasis on “normal” isn’t lost on any of us.
“And it’s the last place you’d expect to find us,” Dane adds quietly. It’s the first thing he’s said since we sat down, and Zoe’s eyes flick to him, a flicker of surprise crossing her features.
“There is that,” she admits.
An awkward silence falls over our table, made more noticeable by the cacophony surrounding us. Jukebox Arctic Monkeys has given way to what sounds like Post Malone, and someone at the bar has started an impromptu singing competition.
Rett clears his throat. “We should—”
“You have my planner?” Zoe interrupts, cutting straight to the chase.
Dane reaches behind him and pulls the teal planner from the waistband of his jeans, where it had been tucked securely against the small of his back. He sets it on the table between us. It looks almost comically out of place against the sticky, beer-stained wood.
Zoe’s throat moves, but she doesn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, she studies it, then raises her eyes to meet each of ours in turn. “You read it.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes. I did most of the reading.” I feel a flush creep up my neck. “I’m sorry. That was... invasive.”
“Yes, it was,” she agrees, but there’s no heat in her voice. Just a cool assessment. “What else did you do that was invasive?”
Tristan shifts uncomfortably on his stool. “Define ‘invasive’...”