Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Zoe
Iwake up with the ghost of a kiss on my lips and a sense of impending doom in the pit of my stomach.
It’s been three days. Three days of tiptoeing around this massive penthouse, of sharing tense, polite meals, of trying to pretend that Rett Sterling didn’t publicly brand my mouth as his in the middle of a grocery store parking lot.
We haven’t talked about it. Of course, we haven’t. We’re in a fragile, unspoken truce where we all pretend to be normal roommates, and bringing up the fact that the pack alpha basically dry-humped me against the GLS is definitely not on the “normal roommate” conversation list.
I groan, rolling over and burying my face in a pillow that smells faintly of expensive linen and him. Cedarwood. It’s a constant, low-level assault on my senses. A reminder that I am in their territory.
I glance at the clock: 7:02 AM. I should get up. Get dressed. Go to work. The thought of the gallery, of escaping this super-charged alpha den for the familiar, sane world of art and archives, is the only thing keeping me from having a full-blown meltdown. It’s my lifeline. My exit strategy.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I see Helen’s name on the screen. Finally. I’ve been waiting for her to call with an update on when we can get back inside.
“Hello?” I say, pushing myself up against the headboard.
“Zoe, darling!” Her voice is overly cheerful. “Just wanted to catch you before you left for the day. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I was just about to get ready. I can be there in an hour to help with the inventory.”
“Ah,” she says, and there’s a beat of hesitation. “Well, that’s actually why I’m calling. Don’t bother coming in today. Or for the rest of the week, for that matter.”
My stomach clenches. “What? Why? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says, a little too quickly. “The police have just... requested that the gallery remain an active crime scene for a few more days while they finish their investigation. Insurance protocols, you understand. No one is allowed in or out.”
“For the rest of the week?” I repeat, a feeling of dread beginning to creep up my spine. “But Helen, the Mosseau acquisition—”
“It can wait,” she says, her tone making it clear this is not up for debate.
“Everything is on hold. I’ll call you if anything changes, but for now, just..
. take the time off. Lord knows you’ve earned it after everything.
” Her voice softens with a hint of something I can’t quite place—pity?
Curiosity? “I’m sure your... hosts... will keep you occupied. ”
Before I can respond, she adds a brisk, “Talk soon!” and hangs up.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the blank wall opposite my bed.
No work. For the rest of the week.
My lifeline. My escape route. Gone.
The reality of my situation crashes down on me. I’m not just a guest here. I’m a prisoner. A very well-cared-for prisoner in a luxurious, fifty-story cage, but a prisoner nonetheless. With four alphas as my wardens.
A slow, creeping sense of panic begins to build in my chest. What am I going to do all day? Stare at the walls? Meditate? Learn to knit?
The thought of the long, empty, unscheduled hours stretching out before me in this house, with them, is a thousand times more terrifying than a crime scene.
With a sigh that feels like it comes from the deepest part of my soul, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
I keep the water cold. Painfully cold. Hoping it might shock my system back to normalcy.
It doesn’t work. By the time I’m dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater that feels like a shield, my skin still feels too sensitive, and the world still feels a million miles away.
The penthouse is quiet when I emerge from my room. The sun has long already risen, painting the massive windows with streaks of gold. I pad barefoot toward the kitchen, following the faint scent of coffee.
I find Diego there, his back to me as he glares at the induction stove.
He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that cling to the perfect curve of his ass.
His tanned skin is smooth over the rippling muscles of his back, and as he moves, I see them.
Two small, subtle dimples just above the dip of his lower back.
My mouth goes dry. I should turn around. I should go back to my room and wait until he’s fully dressed. I should—
“You’re burning it again,” I say instead, my voice coming out huskier than intended.
Diego turns, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a warm smile. “Buenos días, bella durmiente.” He gestures at the stove with the spatula in his hand. “This stove is a monstruo.”
I step closer, peering around him at what appears to be smoldering ruins of what might have once been toast. “What did it do to deserve your wrath this time?”
“Exist,” he grumbles, stabbing at the buttons on the control panel. “Manual es para débiles.”
A laugh escapes me. “You used the pasta setting when you made me that delicious meal!”
“Sí, and it was perfecto.” He turns to me with a smirk that makes my stomach flip. “But toast? Imposible.”
I shake my head, a real smile finally touching my lips. “You’re all hopeless. Here, let me.”
I step up to the island, right next to where he’s standing, and reach for the control panel on the stove. “Here, let me hel—”
My words die in my throat. I’m suddenly, intensely aware of how close we are. My arm is brushing against his, the side of my hip pressed against his thigh. I can feel the solid, radiating heat of his body.
He goes completely still beside me. I hear his breath hitch, a sharp, audible sound in the quiet kitchen.
His scent explodes. The warm, inviting cardamom deepens into the aroma of toasted spice, smoky and rich, with a sharp edge that makes my head spin.
My knees wobble, and my free hand instinctively grips the counter to steady myself.
The claiming mark he left on my neck pulses, and a corresponding clench low in my belly makes my underwear instantly damp.
What in the fuck.
Without looking at me, his hand comes down to rest on the counter, just inches from mine. Then the other. He’s not touching me, but he has me bracketed, his large frame a solid wall to my right, his arms creating a cage on either side of me. I am completely, utterly boxed in.
I can feel the tension coiling in his muscles as he holds himself perfectly still, fighting for control.
“Careful, carino,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear. “I don’t read manuals... but I do bite.”
A shiver rolls through me, so intense I can’t suppress the small, needy sound that escapes my throat. My head tips back, exposing my neck on pure instinct. His growl is pure filth, a dark, possessive rumble that vibrates from his chest into mine.
“Diego,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper.
His hands slide from the counter to my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. His lips brush the sensitive spot just below my ear, not quite a kiss, but a promise of one.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “The way you smell? The way you look at me with those big eyes?”
I shake my head, unable to form words. My body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming for his touch. One of his hands slides up, trailing a path of heat from my hip to my waist, then higher, stopping just below my breast. My nipples tighten in anticipation, desperate for his touch.
“I think you do,” he continues, his accent thicker now. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing to all of us.”
His other hand slides lower, his fingers splaying across my lower abdomen, just above the waistband of my leggings. So close to where I need him, yet nowhere near close enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
The toaster dings.
We freeze, the sudden, mundane sound jarring us back to reality. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His hands are still on me, his body still pressed against mine, both of us breathing hard like we’ve been running.
Then Dane materializes from nowhere, reaching between us to snatch the toast from the toaster. He takes a huge bite, crumbs falling as he chews slowly.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice flat but his pale eyes knowing.
Diego and I stare at him, then at each other. Diego’s eyes are black with want, his pupils blown so wide there’s barely any iris left. I can feel his heart hammering against my back, his arousal pressing insistently against my lower back.
I step away from Diego, my legs embarrassingly unsteady. My entire body is still humming with unfulfilled need, the ghost of his hands lingering on my skin.
“I need... coffee,” I manage, moving toward the fancy machine on the counter.
“I’ll make it,” Diego says, his voice still rough. As he passes behind me, he leans in close, his lips barely brushing my ear. “This isn’t over, carino. Not even close.”
The promise in his voice sends another shiver down my spine. I can feel Dane watching us, his expression unreadable, but his eyes tracking every movement.
“I’ll be in the gym,” Dane says finally, dropping the rest of his toast on a plate. “Some of us need to work off... excess energy.”
His gaze lingers on me for a beat too long before he turns and leaves the kitchen, his broad shoulders tense under his tight t-shirt.
Diego moves around the kitchen, grinding beans and preparing the coffee machine. I watch him, trying to ignore the persistent throb between my thighs and the way my body still yearns for his touch.
“Do you regret it?” he asks suddenly, his back to me as he measures coffee grounds.
“Regret what?”
“The claiming.” He turns to face me, his expression serious now. “The bond.”
I swallow hard, my hand automatically rising to touch the marks on my neck. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “It’s all happening so fast.”
He nods, stepping closer again. This time, there’s no heat in his approach, just a gentle concern that makes my chest tighten in a completely different way.
“Too fast,” he agrees softly. “We should have courted you properly. Slowly. Given you time to know us.” His fingers brush mine, just the lightest touch. “But the moment we met you... It wasn’t a choice. It was a recognition.”
I frown. “Recognition of what?”
There’s an unwavering certainty in his eyes as he looks at me. “That you were the missing piece,” he says, his voice a low, rough growl. “The quiet in the noise. The thing our alphas have been hunting for, for years.”
The raw, possessive sincerity in his voice steals my breath.
This isn’t a man talking about a convenient cure for a headache.
This is the language of destiny.
But this was just an arrangement. A temporary situation while I helped them with their static thing, and they protected me from whoever vandalized the gallery.
“Diego...” I start, not sure what I’m going to say.
The coffee machine lets out a loud hiss, cutting me off. Diego smiles, a soft, sad thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Saved by the bell again, no?”
He turns back to the machine, and I’m left with the feeling that I’ve somehow disappointed him. That I’ve failed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
The smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen. Diego grabs a mug from the cabinet and places it on the counter. He fills it with the dark, fragrant coffee and pushes it toward me.
A peace offering. An apology. A silent acknowledgment of the conversation we almost had.
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, the gesture feeling strangely intimate. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He just nods, his back still to me as he begins to wipe down the already spotless counter.
I’m just lifting the mug to my lips, the rich aroma filling my senses, when a sharp, insistent buzzing sound cuts through the quiet kitchen.
It’s not my phone. It’s coming from the living room.
Diego freezes. I see his shoulders go tense.
“What is that?” I ask.
“The line from the lobby,” he says, his voice a low, flat line. “Someone’s buzzing the penthouse.”
I frown. “Is that... unusual?”
Tristan appears from the corridor, his face a grim mask, his phone in his hand. “It is,” he says, “when the person buzzing is a reporter from PackTrackr.”