Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Zoe
Ablast of synthesized music, so loud it vibrates through the concrete floor, makes me wince. I take a half-step closer to Dane, his solid presence a welcome anchor in the middle of the pulsing, chaotic crowd.
“I’m not sure if this is art or if we’ve accidentally stumbled into a high-tech rave,” I shout over the noise.
Tristan, who is standing beside me with a look of pure, unadulterated glee on his face, just grins. “Isn’t it amazing?” he yells back.
He points to a sensor near my wrist that I’d gotten when we came in. Then he gestures to the massive, swirling light display that is currently projected onto the warehouse ceiling. It looks less like art and more like a screensaver from the 90s has achieved sentience.
This is, apparently, what passes for a “relaxing Saturday” in the Sterling pack.
After the quiet, earthy chaos of last weekend’s farmer’s market, Tristan had insisted that this Saturday’s activity be a little more... him. Which is how we ended up here, at the opening of an immersive art exhibit backed by Sterling Solutions’ venture capital fund.
“I don’t get it,” Rett says from my other side, his voice a low grumble of pure confusion. He has to lean in close for me to hear him over the music. “What exactly am I looking at?”
Tristan leans across me, his own voice full of a proud excitement. “Art, brother!” he declares. “Cutting-edge, boundary-pushing, mind-expanding art! You’re welcome!”
When we walk through certain areas, the lights change color. When we speak, the patterns shift and evolve.
It’s utterly bizarre and completely fascinating.
“It’s an expensive light show,” Dane mutters from beside me.
“It’s immersive,” Tristan corrects him. “And it’s going to make us a fortune when we license the tech to theme parks.”
I laugh, watching as a nearby wall pulses with color in response to my voice. “It’s fun,” I say. “Isn’t that enough?”
Tristan beams at me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Exactly! Someone gets it!”
Diego is a few feet away, simply enjoying the display. He moves his hand through a beam of light, watching as it splinters and reforms around his fingers. His face holds a childlike wonder that makes my heart squeeze.
Tristan’s arm tightens around me. “Come on. You have to try the neural interface room.”
Before I can ask what that is, he’s pulling me through the exhibit, navigating the crowd with ease. We arrive at a smaller room where attendants are fitting visitors with lightweight headsets.
“These read your brainwaves,” Tristan explains, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. “The display responds to your thoughts. Well, sort of. Your emotional state, really. It’s still early tech, but it’s mind-blowing.”
I allow an attendant to fit me with a sleek headset. It’s surprisingly comfortable, resting lightly on my temples. Tristan gets one too, and we enter the room together.
The space is dark at first, just the two of us standing in the center of what seems to be a blank canvas. Then, slowly, lights begin to appear. Faint at first, then brighter, swirling patterns that dance across the walls, ceiling, and floor.
“Oh,” I breathe, watching as a spiral of golden light responds to my voice, expanding and contracting with each syllable.
“Think of something that makes you happy,” Tristan says, his voice low and excited beside me.
I close my eyes. I don’t have to search for a memory.
It’s right there, at the front of my mind.
The four of them engaged in a full-blown, deeply serious debate over the proper way to hang a single painting.
The sound of Dane’s patient, rumbling explanation of load-bearing walls clashing with Tristan’s passionate explanation of “aesthetics.” Rett, trying to create a level line with a laser pointer.
Diego, just humming and suggesting they “feel the spirit of the wall.”
The lights around us shift, blooming into a soft, warm, and impossibly bright gold that pulses with a gentle, steady rhythm. It feels like pure happiness.
“Wow,” Tristan breathes. “Okay. Now... something exciting. Something that makes your heart race.”
My mind immediately goes to the grocery store parking lot. To the feel of Rett’s body caging mine against the cold metal of the SUV. The memory of his mouth crashing down on mine, a brand of pure, possessive heat. The raw, possessive growl of “Mine.”
The lights respond instantly, the warm gold shattered by jagged, electric streaks of deep, pulsing crimson and sharp, electric blue. The patterns shift and change with a frantic, almost violent energy that perfectly mirrors the frantic, chaotic hammering of my own heart.
When I finally open my eyes, my breath coming in shallow pants, I find Tristan watching me, not the display.
“What?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Nothing,” he says, a slow smile on his lips. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “Let’s find the others. Dane’s probably convinced himself we’ve been kidnapped by now.”
A week later, the soft, pulsing light of the art exhibit is replaced by the harsh, fluorescent glare of a shooting range.
“Wider stance,” Dane says, his voice a low, deep rumble right in my ear.
His foot hooks around my ankle, dragging my leg into the correct position.
Tristan, it turns out, is a terrible shot. His bullets hit everywhere but the target, much to his chagrin and our amusement. Rett is ruthlessly competitive, determined to outshoot everyone, including Dane. Diego, surprisingly, is quite good, his hands steady and his aim true.
But Dane is in a class of his own. He hits the center of the target every time. Watching him shoot is like watching a master craftsman at work.
Now he’s teaching me, his patience seemingly endless as he corrects my stance, my grip, my breathing. His other hand settles on my hip like a firm, possessive weight, tugging me back until my ass is pressed flush against the hard muscle of his thighs.
My breath hitches.
His large body brackets mine, his chest a solid, hot wall against my back. His arms come around me, caging me in as he adjusts my grip on the handgun. His clean, cool peppermint is a stark contrast to the metallic tang of the gunpowder.
“Relax your shoulders,” he murmurs, and his thumbs press into the tense knots just below my neck, sending a jolt of pure, electric pleasure down my spine. “You’re too stiff.”
No kidding, I think, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s impossible to be this close to this much solid, controlled man and not be stiff.
I am acutely aware of every point of contact: his thighs against my ass, his chest against my back, his breath against my ear, his thumbs on my shoulders.
“Inhale,” he instructs, his voice a low vibration that I feel through his entire body into mine. “Exhale slowly as you squeeze.”
I do as he says, my body moving with his. Inhale. Exhale. Squeeze.
The gun fires, the sound shockingly loud, the recoil pressing me back even further into his solid frame. A small hole appears in the target, respectably close to the center.
“Good,” he says, and I can feel the word, the deep rumble of satisfaction, vibrate through his chest. “Again.”
We repeat the process, and I get better with each shot, but I am barely aware of the target. All of my focus is on the man holding me, on the subtle shifts of his muscles, the heat of his body, the low, steady sound of his breathing.
He seems to realize it, too. When I hit the center ring for the first time, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his grip on my hip tightens for a fraction of a second, and he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You’re a natural,” he whispers, and the words are a hot, possessive caress.
I shiver, my fingers going weak on the gun. “I... I think that’s enough for today,” I manage to say, my voice a breathy, unfamiliar thing.
He pulls back then, but it’s slow, reluctant. The loss of his body heat is immediate and unwelcome.
“We can work on your stamina,” he says, and there is a dark, dangerous promise in his pale eyes that has absolutely nothing to do with my arm strength.
I just swallow hard, unable to form a coherent reply. He gives me a single, slow nod, then turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with trembling arms, a racing heart, and the lingering, clean scent of peppermint in the air.
This has become the new, torturous rhythm of my life.
These intense moments that materialize out of nowhere.
I find myself pulled into one of their orbits, and the world will narrow to just the two of us.
The tension will build until it’s a nearly unbearable hum in the air. Until I can feel it buzzing on my skin.
I’m being seduced by a four-man army, and I am losing the war. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold the line.
Case in point: tonight.
I’m supposed to be relaxing, watching a movie. But how am I supposed to focus when I’m surrounded by the very men who are the source of my own internal combustion?
I’m sandwiched in the middle of the massive couch, a warm, solid wall of Dane on one side and the restless energy of Tristan on the other.
Diego is on the floor, his back against the couch, arranging a cheese board on the coffee table that is a literal work of art.
Rett is in the large armchair that faces the couch, his focus on the critical, high-stakes debate currently raging.
“Not another superhero movie,” Diego groans, sprawling dramatically across the couch. “We watched one last week.”
“That was a completely different franchise,” Tristan argues. “This one has aliens.”
“They all have aliens,” Rett points out, not looking up from his tablet.
“Fine.” Tristan shrugs. “What about that new spy thriller? The one with the car chases?”
“The one where the female lead spends half the movie in a bikini for no reason?” I ask dryly.
Tristan has the grace to look sheepish. “I hadn’t noticed that part.”
“Sure, you hadn’t,” Diego says, throwing a piece of popcorn at him.
I’m only half-listening to their bickering, my attention on the heavy, glossy art book in my lap. It’s a rare volume on Renaissance sculpture, one I’d only ever dreamed of owning. One that appeared, without comment, on my nightstand two days ago.
I feel a gaze on me and look up. Rett is watching me.
“Good book?” he asks, his voice a low murmur that cuts through his brothers’ argument.
My cheeks warm, and I look down at the pages. “It’s... perfect,” I say, my voice soft. “Thank you.”
“I know how much you appreciate the classics,” he says simply.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just offer him a small, sincere smile. He nods once, a slow, satisfied gesture, before turning his attention back to the movie debate.
Eventually, they settle on a film. The lights dim, the movie starts, and we all settle in.
I don’t absorb much of the plot. My mind is too busy.
I glance around the room, at these alphas who have upended my life in the most unexpected ways.
Diego is engrossed in the movie, absentmindedly offering me a piece of chocolate.
Tristan is making running commentary under his breath, making Dane roll his eyes.
Rett’s attention is split between the screen and me, his gaze occasionally flicking to my face, checking my reaction.
And I realize, with a clarity that’s both terrifying and exhilarating, that I’m no longer just attracted to them. I’m no longer just enjoying their company or appreciating their attention.
I’m…falling in love with them.
The revelation should frighten me. Four alphas. A pack bond that failed once already. The complications, the potential for heartbreak.
Instead, I feel a strange sense of peace. As if some part of me has known this was inevitable from the start.
I settle deeper into the couch, into the warmth of Dane beside me, into the comfort of having the others nearby. For now, this is enough. This quiet evening, this easy togetherness.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do with these feelings that are growing stronger by the day. Tomorrow, I’ll worry about what it means to be falling in love with not one man, but four.
Tonight, I’ll just enjoy the warmth.