Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zoe
The elevator ride to the penthouse is excruciating.
The thing itself is huge. Polished steel…
recessed lighting…it’s probably bigger than my first studio apartment.
But it feels suffocatingly small with the four of them inside.
I stand in the center, my small suitcase between my feet like some pathetic island of independence, while the four of them surround me in their usual diamond formation.
The tension in the air is almost visible, like heat waves rising from hot pavement.
I nod but don’t trust myself to speak. My stomach is doing backflips, and it’s not just from the elevator’s rapid ascent.
What am I doing? Moving in with them because of a break-in?
This is the kind of decision that gets you featured on one of those true crime podcasts where the host says, “And then she made a choice that would change her life forever...”
The elevator slows, then stops with a soft chime. The doors slide open to reveal a sleek foyer that I only vaguely remember from our champagne-soaked arrival two nights ago. Has it really only been two nights? It feels like a lifetime.
Rett steps out first, doing that alpha thing where he scans the area. The others follow, with Dane bringing up the rear, my suitcase again in his hand despite my protests that I can carry it myself.
I step into the penthouse, and my breath ceases in my chest. In the harsh light of sobriety and full awareness, the place is even more intimidating than I remember.
Soaring ceilings with exposed beams. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the glittering city below.
Everything is sleek, modern, and overwhelmingly masculine. All dark woods, leather, and chrome.
It’s beautiful. It’s impressive. It’s terrifying.
“Welcome home,” Tristan says, spreading his arms wide with a flourish that’s clearly meant to lighten the mood. “Again.”
I give him a look that says “too soon,” and his grin falters slightly.
“Let me show you to your room,” Rett says, already moving down a hallway to the left.
I follow, hyperaware of the slight squeak of my suitcase wheels as Dane rolls it behind me. Every step feels like I’m walking deeper into some elaborate trap, but I can’t figure out who set it or why.
The hallway branches off, and Rett stops in front of a door, pushing it open. “This is one of the guest suites. It has its own bathroom. And a lock,” he adds, pointing to the deadbolt on the inside of the door.
I peek inside, and my eyes widen. “Guest suite” is a ridiculous understatement.
The room is bigger than my entire apartment.
A king-sized bed dominates one wall, draped in what looks like ridiculously expensive sheets.
Another wall is mostly windows, offering the same spectacular view as the living room.
There’s a sleek desk, a sitting area with a small sofa, and—
“Is that a fireplace?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“Gas,” Rett explains. “All the bedrooms have them.”
Of course they do. Because why wouldn’t every bedroom in a penthouse have its own fireplace? These men live in a completely different universe than mine.
“The bathroom is through there,” Diego says, pointing to a door on the far wall. “There should be fresh towels, but if you need anything else...”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but I need to establish some boundaries immediately. “Thank you.”
Dane sets my suitcase by the bed, then steps back, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease. “Security panel by the door,” he says, nodding to a small touchscreen I hadn’t noticed. “Controls the room temperature, lights, privacy settings for the windows.”
“Privacy settings?”
“They can go opaque,” Tristan explains. “For when you don’t want the neighbors watching you dance around in your underwear.”
Diego elbows him, and Tristan winces. “What?”
I ignore the underwear comment. “The nearest building looks about half a mile away,” I point out, gesturing to the view.
“Telescopes exist,” Dane says matter-of-factly.
Great. Now I have to worry about pervy astronomers, too?
“You must be hungry,” Diego says, changing the subject. “I can make something if you’d like. Or we can order in.”
The mention of food makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch, and it’s now well past midnight. “I could eat,” I admit.
“Perfect!” Diego’s face brightens. “I’ll put something together. Come out when you’re ready.”
The four of them stand there for a moment, watching me. I wait for them to leave, but they seem frozen in place, like they’re waiting for something from me.
“Um, I’d like to get settled,” I say finally, gesturing vaguely to my suitcase. “Maybe freshen up?”
“Right,” Rett says, snapping out of whatever collective trance they were in. “Of course. We’ll be in the kitchen.”
They file out one by one, Tristan giving me a mock salute as he passes, Diego a warm smile, and Dane a solemn nod. Rett is the last to leave, his hand lingering on the doorknob.
“The lock works,” he says, his voice oddly gentle. “Test it if you want.”
Then he pulls the door closed behind him, leaving me alone in this ridiculously luxurious room.
The moment the door clicks shut, I release a breath. My legs feel shaky, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, the mattress giving just the right amount under my weight.
“What am I doing?” I whisper to the empty room.
The claiming marks on my neck throb in response, a warm pulse that sends a shiver down my spine. I press my fingers against them, tracing the outlines that have become so familiar in such a short time. They’re still there. Still warm. Still real. Still bonding me to four alphas I barely know.
With a groan, I flop back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Get it together, Zoe,” I mutter. “This is temporary. Just until they catch whoever broke into the gallery.”
But even as I say it, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers: And what if they don’t?
I push the thought away and force myself to stand. I need to unpack, to carve out some semblance of normalcy in this bizarre situation.
My suitcase looks pathetically small against the opulence of the room.
I unzip it and begin pulling out clothes, hanging them in the walk-in closet that’s bigger than my bedroom at home.
My t-shirts and jeans look like orphans among the empty hangers, designed for a wardrobe ten times the size of mine.
In the bathroom, I line up my drugstore toiletries on a counter that’s clearly used to hosting much fancier products. The shower has so many jets and nozzles it looks like it could launch into space.
“Don’t get used to this,” I tell my reflection in the massive mirror. “This isn’t your life.”
But my reflection looks unconvinced, her eyes too wide, her cheeks too flushed. A low, persistent heat throbs at the base of my throat, like a pulse that isn’t entirely my own.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock some sense back into my system. It doesn’t help. I still feel unmoored, adrift in a sea of luxury and alpha pheromones.
With a deep breath, I change into clean jeans and a simple t-shirt.
Nothing fancy, nothing that suggests I’m trying to impress anyone.
Just regular clothes for a regular person who happens to be temporarily living with four abnormally attractive, obscenely wealthy alphas who have claimed her in a moment of drunken madness.
Totally normal.
I turn the lock on the door and step out into the hallway. The sound of voices guides me back toward the kitchen, where I find all four of them in various states of…domestic activity.
Diego is at the stove, stirring something that smells absolutely divine.
Tristan is setting plates on the island, whistling tunelessly.
Dane is at the counter, his movements almost hypnotic, the blade of his knife hitting the cutting board with a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump.
Beside him, Rett is opening a bottle of wine; a smooth twist of his wrist and the cork slides out with a barely audible, deeply satisfying sigh.
They move around each other, anticipating each other’s movements without a word. It’s like watching a well-choreographed dance, and I feel like an intruder standing on the edge of the stage.
Tristan spots me first. “Zoe!” he announces, setting down the last plate. “Just in time. Diego’s making his famous midnight pasta.”
“It’s not famous,” Diego says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s just pasta aglio e olio. Simple and fast.”
“And delicious,” Tristan adds. “Trust me, this will change your life.”
I hover at the edge of the kitchen, unsure where to place myself in this well-established routine. “Can I help with anything?”
“Just sit,” Rett says, gesturing to one of the stools at the island. “You’ve had a long night.”
I just nod, my mind still a chaotic buzz of shattered glass and spray paint. The entire situation feels surreal, like I’m watching a movie of someone else’s life. I perch on the stool, watching as Diego adds pasta to a pot of boiling water with a graceful flick of his wrist.
“Wine?” Rett offers, holding up a glass.
I hesitate, remembering what happened the last time I drank around these four. “Just a little,” I say finally. “It’s been a day.”
He pours a modest amount into a glass and slides it toward me. Our fingers brush as I take it, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. I pull back quickly, nearly sloshing the wine over the rim. I see his own hand jerk back a fraction of an inch.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, though whether he’s apologizing for the touch or for his reaction to it, I’m not sure.