Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Zoe
The first glow of dawn creeps through the massive windows, painting the room in shades of pale gold. I haven’t slept. Not a single minute. How could I, after what happened?
I’ve spent the last three hours hiding under these ridiculously luxurious sheets, my face burning with mortification, pretending I don’t hear the four alphas breathing on my floor.
Pretending I don’t remember every excruciating second of last night.
Pretending I didn’t have the most intense orgasm of my life in my sleep while dreaming about them and then scream loud enough to wake the entire building.
And worst of all, pretending I didn’t hear Dane’s quiet revelation in the darkness.
“You were calling for Rett. In your dream.”
God, just remembering it makes me want to dissolve into the mattress. I don’t even remember saying Rett’s name, but apparently I did. Loudly. While having a sex dream. With all four of them in it.
From my blanket fortress, I can hear them moving around, trying to be quiet. The soft rustle of fabric. A barely audible yawn. The gentle tap of a phone being set down.
I peek over the edge of my comforter. Tristan is stretching, his back arched like a cat, muscles rippling beneath his skin.
Diego is folding his blanket, his movements careful as if he’s afraid to make too much noise.
Dane is already up, his arms crossed over his bare chest, pale eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance.
And Rett... Rett is sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up, staring directly at my bed. At me. The moment our eyes meet, something electric passes between us, and I duck back under the covers like a startled turtle.
Nope. Not ready for that yet.
But there’s a problem. A very urgent, very human problem that I’ve been ignoring for the last hour.
I need to pee.
Desperately.
There’s no way around it. I’m going to have to get out of this bed, cross the room, and make it to the bathroom. All while four pairs of eyes track my every move, fully aware that I had an explosive orgasm dreaming about them just hours ago.
Maybe if I’m really, really quiet, they won’t notice.
I take a deep breath and slowly, carefully pull back the covers. I slip one leg out, then the other. So far, so good. I ease myself to the edge of the mattress, wincing when it creaks slightly.
Immediately, four pairs of eyes snap to me with laser-like focus.
So much for stealth.
“Morning,” I croak, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
No one responds. Rett continues staring at me with that unreadable intensity, his blue eyes burning into mine.
Diego looks like I just told him his puppy ran away, a mixture of concern and hurt on his handsome face.
Tristan, the man who hasn’t shut up since I met him, suddenly finds the carpet absolutely fascinating, unable to make eye contact.
And Dane... Dane is just watching. Observing.
Like I’m a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.
Right. Bathroom. Focus on the bathroom.
I stand up, acutely aware that I’m wearing only a thin t-shirt and sleep shorts. The claiming marks on my neck feel exposed, and I resist the urge to slap a hand over them.
“I’m just going to...” I gesture vaguely toward the bathroom door, taking a tentative step in that direction.
No one moves, but the tension in the room cranks up another notch. I can practically feel their eyes on me as I shuffle across the plush carpet, my arms wrapped around myself like armor.
When I finally reach the bathroom door, I nearly sob with relief. I slip inside and close it behind me, leaning against it and letting out the breath.
“Get it together, Zoe,” I mutter to my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and my cheeks are still flushed. “It was just a dream. People have dreams all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. That dream felt different. More real. More intense. And the claiming marks on my neck, which I can now see clearly in the bathroom’s bright lights, look redder. Surrounded by a faint, angry red blush, like a bruise that’s decided to deepen instead of heal.
Add that to my list of things to worry about this morning.
I use the toilet, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face, trying to cool the persistent heat in my cheeks.
I consider hiding in here all day, but that would be childish.
And pathetic. And they’d probably break down the door, thinking I’d been kidnapped through the ventilation system or something equally ridiculous.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders and open the bathroom door, prepared to face the most awkward morning-after that never actually happened.
But the room is empty.
The makeshift beds are gone, blankets and pillows vanished as if they were never there. No brooding Rett, no sad-eyed Diego, no embarrassed Tristan, no watchful Dane.
They’re gone.
For a split second, a sharp, traitorous pang of disappointment hits me right in the chest. Oh.
I push it down immediately, smoothing my features into a mask of indifference. “Good,” I say to the empty room. “The whole ‘can’t be far from her’ thing must have worn off. That’s... good.”
I wander back to the bed, sitting on the edge. The space feels too big now, too empty. Which is ridiculous. This is what I wanted. Space. Privacy. Distance from four alphas who make my brain short-circuit and send an unwanted, insistent pulse straight to the space between my thighs.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I snatch it up, desperate for a connection to the normal world. It’s a text from Leah.
Leah
Morning! Survived the night? Need me to stage a rescue mission? I can bring bagels and my meanest-looking alpha.
I let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-groan. If only she knew.
Me
It’s so much worse than you think. The gallery was robbed last night.
Her reply is instant, the three dots popping up before I’ve even put my phone down.
Leah
WHAT?? OMG ARE YOU OKAY??
Me
I’m fine. Physically. But the thieves targeted my office, stole my computer, and left a personal threat. So now the Sterling pack has decided I’m a high-value asset in need of protection.
Leah
Wait... what does that mean? Protection how?
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and type the most insane sentence of my life.
Me
It means I’ve temporarily moved into their penthouse.
The pause on her end is so long, I actually check to make sure the message sent. Finally, the dots appear again, typing for what feels like an eternity.
Leah
You... are shitting me. You’re in the billionaire alpha den RIGHT NOW? As in, you woke up there?
Me
Multi-millionaires, apparently. And last night was... a lot. And I really, really don’t want to talk about it.
Leah
OMG, what happened?? Did you “accidentally” walk in on one of them naked? Please tell me it was the quiet one with the arms.
Me
LATER. I am going to shower now before my brain melts. Also, how do you know about Dane’s arms??
Leah
Honey, the entire omega population of Sweetwater knows about Dane Sterling’s arms. They practically have their own Instagram account.
Seriously, though, are you okay? Like, really?
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering. It’s the question I don’t know how to answer.
Me
I don’t know. It’s... a lot. And I think I had another nightmare.
Leah
Oh, honey. Okay. I get it. We don’t have to talk. Just... survive the morning. And call me the second you get a minute alone. I’ll have an emergency care package (aka wine and chocolate) ready.
Me
You’re the best.
Leah
I know. Now go take that shower. A long, hot one. Sometimes you just have to wash the crazy off.
I shake my head, a real, watery smile finally breaking through the mortification. Trust Leah to know exactly what I need to hear. A shower. She’s right. That’s what I need. A long, hot shower to wash the crazy off and help me face the day.
I gather clean clothes from my suitcase—jeans, a loose sweater, and underwear that isn’t soaked from a dream-induced orgasm (and isn’t that just the most mortifying thought I’ve had today).
I set everything to “scalding” and step under the spray, letting the hot water pound against my tense muscles.
As the water cascades over me, I try to make sense of everything that’s happened.
The gallery break-in seems like a distant memory now, overshadowed by.
.. whatever this is. The claiming marks that won’t fade.
The dreams. The way my body responds to them, even when my brain is screaming for caution and for me to remember Rudy Lewis’ warning.
Oh God, I mentally groan.
The thought of him sends a fresh wave of professional shame through me.
Rudy has always been a champion of my work.
He was at the gala. He saw the collection at its peak.
And now... this. He’s probably heard the news by now.
He must be so disappointed. So sorry to hear that the exhibition he praised was destroyed.
The thought of having to face him, to face his professional pity, is a sharp, painful ache in my chest.
I scrub at my skin with the washcloth, as if I could somehow wash away the feeling of failure, of being the curator whose watch saw the gallery’s most important collection dismantled.
What is happening to my life?
I press my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes. “This is temporary,” I remind myself. “Just until they catch whoever vandalized the gallery. Then you can go back to your normal life. And you can fix things.”
But even as I say it, I’m not sure what “normal” looks like anymore.