Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dane
Detective Forbes sits on our couch like he’s afraid it might break under him, his massive hands dwarfing the coffee mug Diego insisted on offering.
“We’ve been going through the gallery’s client list,” he says, glancing down at his notepad. “Looking for anyone with a grudge. But so far, nothing stands out.”
I stand against the wall, arms crossed, watching.
Observing. It’s what I do best. Rett is in the armchair opposite Forbes, his posture casual but his eyes sharp.
Tristan leans against the fireplace, and Diego hovers near Zoe, who sits on the edge of the couch, her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap.
“What about former employees?” Rett asks. “Rejected artists? Competitors?”
Forbes shakes his head. “We checked. Most of the gallery’s operations are remarkably drama-free.” He looks directly at Zoe. “Which brings us to our current theory.”
She tenses, almost imperceptibly. “Which is?”
“That this wasn’t about the gallery at all,” Forbes says, setting down his mug. “It was about you.”
The room goes quiet. I feel my brothers shift, a subtle realignment like planets adjusting their orbits. Protecting her. Surrounding her without moving an inch.
“Me?” Zoe repeats, her voice small. “But I don’t have enemies. I’m an assistant curator. The most controversial thing I’ve ever done is suggest we hang a modernist piece in the classical wing.”
Forbes’s mouth quirks in what might be a smile on anyone else. “Sometimes it’s not about what you’ve done, Ms. Clarke. It’s about who you’re connected to.”
His eyes flick meaningfully around the room, taking in the four of us.
“So, you think this is about us?” Rett’s voice is controlled, but I can hear the edge in it.
“I think,” Forbes says carefully, “that when four prominent alphas suddenly claim a beta, people notice. Some of those people might not be happy about it.”
“Such as?” I ask, my voice a low, flat line. I need names. Not theories.
He shrugs. “Rivals. Competitors. Maybe someone who feels threatened by your... unusual arrangement.”
“This is ridiculous,” Zoe says, her voice stronger now. “No one would vandalize a gallery just because they’re upset about my personal life.”
“You’d be surprised,” Forbes counters. “Claiming bonds can trigger all kinds of reactions. Especially when they involve powerful figures like the Sterlings.”
I watch Zoe’s face. The flash of doubt. The worry that creases her brow. She’s blaming herself. Taking this on. My hands tighten into fists at my sides.
“So what’s your plan?” Rett asks, his voice all business now.
“We keep investigating,” Forbes says, standing. “In the meantime, I suggest Ms. Clarke remain here, where it’s safe. At least until we know more.”
Zoe nods, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. Another chain binding her to this place. To us.
“We’re already increasing security,” I say.
Forbes nods to me, a professional acknowledging a fellow professional. “Good. I’ll be in touch when we have more.”
Diego shows him out, the perfect host even in a crisis. The moment the door closes, Zoe slumps, the rigid posture vanishing as if her strings have been cut.
“So I’m the target,” she says, her voice hollow. “Because of... this.” She gestures vaguely to her neck, to the claiming marks that are still vivid against her skin.
There’s a pause when her words land. For once, my brothers seem lost for words.
“If it is about us,” Rett finally says, “then we’ll handle it. No one touches what’s ours.”
I see her stiffen at his words. At the possessiveness in them. The claim.
“I think I need some space,” she says, standing abruptly. “To process.”
None of us tries to stop her as she walks to her room. We understand the need for space, for distance. For the illusion of control when everything seems to be spiraling.
When she’s gone, Rett turns to me. “I want eyes on her at all times when she’s not in this penthouse.”
I nod. It’s already done. Was done the moment I walked into that gallery and realized she was the target.
“I’ll work on that cover story for the press,” Tristan says. “Liaise with the office to make it official.”
“And I’ll make dinner,” Diego adds, moving toward the kitchen. “She’ll need to eat.”
I nod, easing off the wall as I head to my private bedroom. But I’m not thinking about security procedures. I’m thinking about the look on Zoe’s face when Forbes said it was about her. The flash of fear she tried so hard to hide.
My job has always been simple. Protect the pack. It’s always been logical problems with logical solutions.
But this isn’t a logical problem.
A faceless, nameless threat has now caused a specific, measurable amount of pain to Zoe. And my reaction to that is not logical. It’s a white-hot, silent rage at the thought of anyone hurting her. A rage that makes me want to tear this city apart with my bare hands.
This has nothing to do with the static. The quiet she brings is a relief, yes. But this feeling... this all-consuming need to stand between her and the rest of the world... this is new.
And it’s a thousand times more complicated than a simple break-in.
I wake at 4:53 AM, seven minutes before my alarm.
The penthouse is silent and dark as I pad toward the kitchen. These early morning hours are mine. The calm before the others wake. The space to breathe before the day closes in with its demands and complications.
Today’s ritual: coffee.
I move through the kitchen, setting up my station. Scale. Freshly roasted beans. Burr grinder set to a medium-fine consistency. Water heated to exactly 205 degrees Fahrenheit. French press cleaned and warmed.
Thirty grams of coffee for 500 milliliters of water. A ratio I’ve perfected myself. I pour the beans into the grinder, the soft whirring filling the quiet kitchen as they transform into grounds of uniform size.
I’m just measuring the water when I hear it. Soft footsteps on the tile. A slight change in the air. A scent that’s becoming as familiar to me as my own.
Zoe.
I don’t turn, just continue my preparations. But every nerve in my body is suddenly alert, aware of her presence in a way that goes beyond normal senses.
“Morning,” she says, her voice soft and sleep-rough. “You’re up early.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s standing at the edge of the hallway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hits mid-thigh and reveals long, bare legs that make my mouth go dry. Her eyes are still heavy with sleep, and there’s a crease on her cheek from her pillow.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Always am,” I respond, turning back to my coffee. Keep it simple. Keep it controlled.
“Mmm,” she hums, moving into the kitchen. I can feel her getting closer, the heat of her, the scent. Clean and warm and just Zoe. “Coffee?”
“Soon.”
She peers around me at my setup. “What’s all this?”
“Coffee.”
She snorts, a soft, amused sound. “I can see that. But you’re not using Rett’s fancy coffee machine. What’s with all the... equipment?”
I finally turn to face her. She’s standing closer than I thought she was, close enough that I can see the flecks of tan in her brown eyes.
“It’s a process,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow, a small, challenging smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Is it? It’s just coffee.”
Just coffee. As if anything worth doing isn’t worth doing right.
I turn back to my station, adding the grounds to the warmed French press. “Go back to bed,” I suggest. “I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready.”
Instead of leaving, she steps up beside me, her arm brushing against mine as she reaches for the bag of coffee beans. The contact sends a jolt through me.
“I think I’ll make my own,” she says, that smile still in her voice. “I have my own method.”
I pause, watching as she scoops beans directly into a separate grinder without measuring, without weighing.
I fail at keeping the horror from my voice. “What are you doing?”
She looks up, blinking with an innocent look on her face. “Making coffee.”
“That’s not how—” I stop myself, take a breath. “You need to measure.”
“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’ with a grin. “I just scoop until it feels right.”
Feels right. My eye twitches. “Coffee is a process.”
“Coffee,” she counters, “is art. Intuition. Feeling.”
She starts the grinder, the sound drowning out any response I might have made. I watch, physically pained, as she grinds the beans for what seems like a completely random amount of time, then dumps the grounds into a pour-over cone without even a cursory shake to level them.
This is madness.
I turn back to my own coffee, pouring the hot water over my precisely measured grounds in a slow spiral. I time the bloom. Exactly 30 seconds. Then the rest of the water, maintaining the perfect ratio.
From the corner of my eye, I see her pour water haphazardly over her grounds, not even using a gooseneck kettle for control. The water temperature is almost certainly wrong. The grounds are unevenly saturated. The entire process is a coffee crime scene.
I press the plunger on my French press with slow pressure. Four minutes of steeping. Not a second more or less. The coffee that emerges is dark, rich, with a perfect crema on top. A testament to my method and care.
Her pour-over finishes dripping at almost the same time. The coffee looks... fine. But it can’t possibly have the depth that comes from proper technique.
We stand side by side, two coffees between us. A silent standoff.
She reaches for a mug on the top shelf, stretching up on her toes. Her shirt rides up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the curve where thigh meets ass. My hand tightens on the French press, a lump in my throat that I force down.
I force my gaze away, reaching for my own mug. But when I look, it’s not where I left it. All the mugs have been rearranged.
“Did you move these?” I ask. The words come out as a low, thick growl, my voice strained with the effort of speaking while every ounce of blood in my body rushes south.
She glances over, all wide-eyed innocence. “Hmm? Oh, I reorganized a bit yesterday. By color rather than size. More aesthetic.”
Aesthetic. I grind my teeth, forcing my thoughts away from my rising cock. I select a different mug and pour my coffee. The aroma is perfect. I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction.
Until I feel her watching me, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, reaching for the sugar bowl. “Just wondering if you calculate the optimal angle for pouring, too.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She’s teasing me. Deliberately provoking me.
And it’s working.
She turns to pour her own coffee, and I can’t help but notice again how that oversized shirt drapes over her curves, how her hair falls in soft waves just across her shoulders.
The claiming mark I made on her neck should be visible just beneath those strands.
I remember the taste of her skin under my teeth, the way she gasped when I bit down, the way her body yielded to mine.
The memory sends a wave of heat through me, making that tent rise higher in my pants. I shift, trying to focus on the coffee, not on the way she moves or smells or how fucking good she looks in the morning.
She turns back, mug in hand, and reaches across me for the spoon resting near my elbow. Her arm brushes mine, a light, fleeting touch that should be nothing. Means nothing.
Except it isn’t nothing. It’s everything.
A static shock jumps between us. But it’s not just electricity. The touch sends a jolt straight to my shaft, igniting something raw and hungry.
A growl escapes me before I can stop it. Rumbling up from a place I keep carefully contained. Her eyes widen, her pupils dilating as her lips part on a small, shocked inhale.
We freeze, suspended in the charged space between us. Her breathing is ragged, matching mine, the spoon forgotten between us.
I could take her right here. Lift her onto the counter. Push that shirt up her thighs. Taste every inch of her until she’s writhing and begging. Mark her again, deeper this time.
The thought hits me with such force that I have to step back, breaking the connection. Her eyes are still wide, her chest still rising and falling too quickly. The scent of her arousal hits me then, mingling with the coffee, creating something that makes my mouth water.
“Dane?” she whispers, and my name on her lips is almost my undoing.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. To regain control. When I open them again, she’s still watching me. Her throat moves as she swallows hard.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” I manage, my voice a rough scrape.
She blinks, glancing down at the mug in her hands as if she’d forgotten it existed. “Right. Coffee.”
I take my own mug, needing the distraction. The coffee is good. Perfect, as always.
But then, without warning, Zoe holds out her mug to me. “Try mine.”
I stare at the offered cup. At her hand wrapped around it. At the expectation in her eyes.
I take it, our fingers brushing again before I bring the mug to my lips and taste.
It’s... surprisingly good. Really good. Different from mine, but delicious in its own way. Not what I expected.
Not what I expected at all.
“Now you,” I say, offering my own mug in return.
She takes it, her eyes never leaving mine as she sips. I watch her throat work as she swallows, the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks.
“Oh,” she says, surprise coloring her voice. “That’s... that’s really good.”
“So is yours,” I admit.
We stand there, holding each other’s mugs.
“Maybe,” she says slowly, a small smile forming, “there’s room for both methods.”
“Maybe,” I agree, unable to stop my own lips from curving up at the corners.
She sets my mug down on the counter, taking hers back from my hands. “I should... get ready for the day.”
I nod, watching as she turns to leave. But halfway down the hallway, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asks, and there’s something in her eyes that makes my heart beat faster.
“Same time,” I confirm.
She smiles, a real smile that reaches her eyes, then disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the lingering scent of her and the taste of her coffee on my tongue.
Tomorrow, we’ll do this again.
And maybe next time, I won’t step back.