Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Zoe
Three days later, I finally feel human again.
The fever is completely gone. My strength is returning, though I still feel a bit shaky if I move too quickly. But the hollow emptiness where the bond used to be? That’s still there, a strange absence I can’t quite describe.
I’ve spent most of the last three days in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, gradually piecing together what happened. The bond broke. The static returned. And somewhere in the midst of all that chaos, four alphas confessed they’re in love with me.
That part still feels like a fever dream. Did they really say it? Did I imagine it? The memory is hazy, colored by exhaustion and the lingering effects of my illness.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I study my reflection. My skin has lost the unhealthy pallor of fever, though I’m still paler than usual. My hair needs a good wash, and there are shadows under my eyes that speak of restless nights.
My hand goes to my throat, fingers tracing the smooth, unmarked skin. No evidence remains of the claiming marks, not even the faintest silver trace. It’s as if they were never there at all.
But they were. And now they’re gone. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
I shower, the hot water a small miracle after days of sponge baths.
I wash my hair twice, realizing they must have brought my cherry blossom shampoo from my apartment and relishing in the familiar scent of it.
When I’m done, I dress in comfortable leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. I don’t bother with makeup.
It’s time to face them. All of them. Together. Not just the brief, careful interactions we’ve had over the past few days, with one of them always at my bedside.
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and open the bedroom door.
The penthouse is quiet. Not completely silent, though. I can hear the faint sounds of movement, a low murmur of voices, but the sounds are subdued.
I round the corner into the main living area and pause, taking in the scene.
Rett is at the kitchen island, a stack of papers spread out before him.
He’s trying to read a report, but every few seconds, he rubs his temples, his brow furrowed in concentration or pain—or both.
His hair is disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and there’s a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw.
Tristan is sprawled on the couch, his phone in his hand, but he’s not scrolling through it with his usual rapid-fire interest. Instead, he’s just staring at the screen, his expression blank, as if he’s forgotten what he was looking for.
His usual vibrant energy is muted, contained, like a light dimmed to its lowest setting, and I realize in this moment that… I hate him like this.
Diego is in the kitchen, standing at the stove, but he’s not cooking. He’s just... standing there, staring at the burners as if they might spontaneously ignite if he concentrates hard enough. A cookbook lies open on the counter beside him, but he doesn’t seem to be reading it.
None of them seems to have realized I’ve walked in yet. My gaze shifts around the large space and I find Dane by the windows, his back to the room, his posture rigid. But I can see the reflection of his face in the glass. His eyes are closed, his jaw clenched.
They’re trying so hard to act normal. And they’re failing spectacularly.
Rett notices me first. His head snaps up, and the relief that floods his face is almost painful to witness.
“Zoe,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “You’re up.”
The others turn at the sound of my name, four pairs of eyes fixing on me with varying degrees of hope, concern, and something deeper.
“I am,” I confirm, moving further into the room. “And feeling much better.”
“That’s great!” Tristan says, but his usual exuberance is missing, the exclamation falling flat.
“Really great. You look... not dead. Which is an improvement. Not that you looked dead before. Just, you know, sick. And now you don’t.
Look sick, I mean.” He winces, clearly aware he’s rambling. “I’ll stop talking now.”
“Please do,” Dane mutters from the window.
Diego shakes himself, as if coming out of a trance. “Are you hungry? I was just about to make...” He trails off, glancing at the stove as if he’s forgotten what he was planning to cook. “Food. I was going to make food.”
“Very specific,” I say, unable to help the small smile that tugs at my lips despite the concern growing in my chest. “What kind of food?”
“The... edible kind?” Diego offers weakly.
I move to the kitchen, gently taking the cookbook from the counter. It’s open to a recipe for beef bourguignon that I’m fairly certain Diego is in no condition to attempt.
“How about something simpler?” I suggest. “Toast? Cereal? Something that doesn’t require operating heavy machinery while clearly impaired?”
Diego looks like he wants to protest, but then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Toast would be good.”
I nod, setting the cookbook aside and reaching for the bread. As I do, I notice the slight tremble in Diego’s hands, the way he’s leaning against the counter for support.
My concern deepens. They’re all suffering, that much is clear. But they’re trying to hide it, to act as if everything is normal. For my sake.
“Sit,” I tell him, gesturing to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “I can make toast.”
He hesitates, then obeys, sinking onto the stool with a barely suppressed groan of relief.
I pop bread into the toaster, then turn back to the room, surveying the four of them with a critical eye.
“Okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Who wants to tell me how bad it is?”
Four pairs of eyes blink at me with almost comical synchronization.
A heavy silence falls over the room as they exchange glances.
“It’s manageable,” Dane says finally, though the strain in his voice suggests otherwise.
“Is it?” I challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like the four of you are barely functioning.”
“We’re adjusting,” Rett insists. “It just takes time.”
The toaster pops, making Diego jump. I turn to butter the toast, using the moment to collect my thoughts.
When I turn back, I’ve made a decision. These stubborn, ridiculous alphas are determined to suffer in silence rather than admit they need help.
Well, too bad for them. I may not be their beta anymore—at least not in the biological, bond-marked sense—but I’m still Zoe Clarke.
And Zoe Clarke doesn’t let people she cares about suffer needlessly.
“Right,” I say, placing the plate of toast in front of Diego with more force than strictly necessary. “Has anyone taken an ibuprofen in the last 72 hours?”
Four guilty, pained faces look at me.
“Okay,” I nod, my hands going to my hips. “New plan.”