Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Zoe
The claiming marks on my neck burn, a familiar, insistent heat that yanks me from another one of those dreams.
I blink into the darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs, a phantom touch still lingering on my skin. It’s always the same. Four pairs of hands, four mouths, four low growls vibrating through me. I press my thighs together, a traitorous ache coiling low in my belly.
The glowing numbers on the bedside clock read 3:17 AM. It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since the night Tristan dragged me back here, since I saw the true, devastating cost of the static. Three weeks since I was literally a human anchor in a storm of four alphas.
I remember waking up that next morning, just like this, surrounded by a tangle of their sleeping bodies. I remember the bone-deep peace on their faces, the raw, unguarded vulnerability that had made my chest ache. I remember thinking that I was in way over my head.
I was right.
In the twenty-one days since, I’ve learned a few things.
Rett doesn’t give advice; he provides solutions.
Last week, I complained that the morning sun was too bright in my room.
I came back from a walk to find a team of technicians installing smart-tinting on my windows, now controllable from a panel by my bed.
When I tried to protest, he just said, “Problem solved.”
Diego’s love language is food. If you look even vaguely stressed, a plate of perfectly sliced fruit or a warm empanada will materialize in front of you. It’s his way of saying “I’m here” without having to use words. It’s both incredibly sweet and completely disarming.
Tristan’s jokes have gotten…weirder. In a good way. Before, he’d just yell something obnoxious to get a reaction from everyone. Now it’s different.
The other night, Rett was going on about market projections or whatever, using that voice he saves for people he thinks are morons.
Tristan leaned right into my space, his breath tickling my ear, and whispered, “He’s using his ‘explaining fiscal policy to idiots’ voice. Nod slowly and try to look impressed.”
I almost snorted my wine right onto the rug.
It’s like that all the time now. He’s not performing for the room anymore. He’s telling secrets, just to me.
And Dane. I’ve learned that the silent, intimidating wall of muscle is actually my shadow.
He never says a word, but whenever I leave the penthouse for a walk, a trip to the bookstore, anything, he is suddenly just..
. there. A few paces behind me on the street, or sitting in a black, unassuming car parked across from the cafe.
He thinks I don’t notice. He thinks he’s invisible.
He’s not. He’s a constant, steady, and strangely comforting presence at the edge of my vision.
I’ve learned their rhythms, their habits, their quiet, unspoken rules.
I’ve learned how to navigate this house full of alphas.
What I haven’t learned is how to navigate the air between us, which has become so thick with unspoken things, with simmering, unresolved tension, that I feel like I’m wading through it.
It’s in the way Rett’s eyes follow me when I walk through a room. It’s in the way Tristan’s jokes now always have a sharp, flirty edge meant only for me. It’s in the way Diego’s casual touches linger a heartbeat too long. It’s in the loaded silence of my morning coffee ritual with Dane.
It’s a constant, low-level hum of awareness that leaves my skin feeling too tight and a persistent, traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.
And maybe that’s why I’m noticing the other thing.
They’ve been trying to hide it, but I can tell the static is getting worse. They leave for work in the morning looking immaculate, controlled, basically every inch the powerful alphas they are. But they return haggard, tension lining their faces, shoulders tight with pain.
Until they see me. Until they breathe me in.
The change is immediate. The tightness around their eyes eases. Their breathing slows. The rigid set of their shoulders relaxes. It’s like watching someone in pain finally get relief, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make something warm bloom in my chest.
It makes me feel... needed. In a way I’ve never experienced before.
But it’s temporary. All of it. I remind myself of this fact daily, hourly. I’ll leave the penthouse eventually, once it’s safe again. Once they catch whoever vandalized the gallery. And the marks, the static... We’ll figure that out when we get there.
Right?
Right.
I turn over in bed, staring at the wall, a lump in my throat I don’t want to swallow down. I’m about to roll over and try to get comfortable again when a soft sound outside my door pulls me from my thoughts. A shuffle. A sigh. Then silence.
I sit up, frowning into the darkness. Was that a footstep? My heart rate kicks up a notch.
I slip out of bed, tugging my oversized sleep shirt down over my thighs. Silently, I pad to the door and press my ear against it.
Nothing.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just the wind outside the massive windows. But then—there it is again. A soft thump, like someone leaning against the wall.
Before I can think better of it, I turn the handle and pull the door open.
Rett is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall beside my door.
He’s still in his work suit, though the jacket is gone and his tie hangs loose around his neck.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing powerful forearms corded with tension.
His head is tipped back, eyes closed, but his posture is anything but relaxed.
His phone is clutched in his hand, the screen dark, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.
“Rett?” I whisper, my voice barely audible in the silent hallway.
His eyes snap open, and for a split second, they’re wild, pure alpha instinct flaring before he blinks it away, schooling his features back into the controlled mask I’ve grown familiar with.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
Instead, I step into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. I crouch beside him, concern overriding my usual caution. His cedarwood is so steady, but it’s stronger now, almost suffocating.
“It’s bad tonight, isn’t it?” I ask quietly. “The static.”
His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The silence is admission enough.
Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers brushing over his raw knuckles. His skin is hot to the touch, almost feverish.
He hisses, his hand flipping to catch mine with startling speed. Our palms press together, and a shock of heat races up my arm. His skin is scorching, like he’s burning from the inside out.
“Zoe.” My name sounds like it’s been torn from his throat.
I should pull away. I should go back into my room and close the door and forget I ever saw him like this. Vulnerable. Hurting. But I can’t.
Instead, I lean in, my lips a breath from his ear. “Let me help.”
A shudder rolls through him, violent enough that I feel it where our hands are joined. His free hand rises, hovering for a moment before curling around the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the edge of one of the claiming marks.
The touch sends a bolt of heat straight through me, a gasp tearing from my throat. “Rett—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth crashes into mine, his tongue sliding against mine like he’s memorizing my taste. Like he’s been starving for this.
I moan into his mouth, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His grip on my neck tightens, angling my head to deepen the kiss. Every point of contact between us burns, like our skin is trying to meld together.
“You’re killing me,” he growls against my lips, the vibration sending a shiver down my spine.
I nip at his bottom lip, earning a sound that’s more animal than human. His hands slide down, gripping my waist, and then I’m being lifted effortlessly onto his lap. The hard length of him presses against my thigh, and I can’t help it. I roll my hips, testing, teasing.
“Fuck, Zoe—” He groans, his head falling back against the wall, exposing the strong column of his throat.
His hands slip under my sleep shirt, palms skimming my waist, my ribs, higher. I arch into his touch, desperate for more. That’s when he tears his mouth from mine, pressing his forehead to my collarbone, breathing hard. His hands stop moving, gripping my waist like he’s trying to anchor himself.
“Not like this,” he says, his voice raw. “Not against a fucking wall.”
I freeze, the words hitting me like cold water. Is he... rejecting me? After everything?
But when he lifts his head, the look in his eyes makes me swallow hard. It’s not rejection. It’s restraint. And underneath it all, a fierce tenderness that steals my breath.
“Then how?” I ask softly.
A low, guttural sound is torn from his throat, the sound of a man’s control finally, completely shattering.
He’s on his feet in one fluid, powerful motion, scooping me up into his arms as if I weigh nothing. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, my arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries me.
He doesn’t take me to his room. He carries me back into mine.
He kicks the door shut behind us, the sound echoing in the silent room, and then he’s backing me against it, his mouth crashing down on mine again. This kiss is different. It’s not just hunger; it’s a desperate, frantic search. His tongue tangles with mine, tasting, exploring, claiming.
His hands are everywhere, mapping my body through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt. Up my sides, over my ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, making me arch into him with a whimper.
“Rett,” I breathe, when he finally breaks the kiss to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, lingering on the claiming mark he left there. The touch of his lips on the mark sends a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to my core.