Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Zoe
Sitting on the bathroom floor isn’t solving anything.
The longer I stay here, the greater the chances one of them will wake up, find me, and then what?
They offer me a polite, pitying smile? Apologize profusely for the ‘misunderstanding’ and assure me these marks will fade?
Inform me that it was a huge, drunken mistake and gently ask me to leave?
A cold dread snakes around my heart, colder than the marble beneath me. That’s what I should want, right? An easy out. A get-out-of-jail-free card.
So why does the thought of them rejecting me feel a thousand times worse than the thought of them keeping me?
I need to get out. Now.
I push myself up from the cold marble, determination fueling my shaky legs. First problem: clothes. I’ve got my bra, but that’s not going to cut it for a dignified exit. Or any exit, really.
I crack the bathroom door and peer into the bedroom.
Rett is sprawled on his back, the sheet barely clinging to one sculpted hip, leaving the rest of him shamelessly on display. The hard planes of his abdomen, the thick muscle of his thighs, and definitely the heavy, half-hard length of him that makes my mouth go dry.
Diego hasn’t even bothered with the sheet. One leg is thrown wide, his body a warm, shameless sprawl of golden skin, and his cock fully on display. Thick and flushed, the memory of what it did to me last night sends a traitorous pulse between my thighs.
Tristan has an arm slung over his face, but the rest of him is a feast. Broad shoulders, perfect dark skin with a trail of black curls leading down to where his cock lies heavy against his thigh, still glistening from—
Oh God.
Dane has rolled to the edge of the bed, his back a broad, powerful map of shifting muscle and pale skin. The curve of his spine is a deep valley between two thick ridges of muscle that flex even in his sleep. One shift, and he’d be just as exposed as the others.
They’re like a Renaissance painting of sin and temptation. And somehow, impossibly, they’re all mine.
No. Not mine. This was a mistake. A champagne-fueled glitch in the matrix that we’ll all laugh about someday. Maybe. In fifty years. When I’ve recovered from the trauma.
I scan the room for any sign of my little black dress. Nothing. Which means I need to venture further into alpha territory.
Taking a deep breath, I slip out of the bathroom, the plush carpet silencing my footsteps. The bedroom opens into what looks like a massive living area. If I remember correctly from the blurry ride from the gala, that’s where the front door should be.
I inch toward the doorway, keeping my eyes locked on the sleeping pack. One step. Two steps. Three—
Dane shifts in his sleep, rolling toward my side of the bed, and I freeze. His eyelids flutter, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to wake up. But then he settles, burying his face in a pillow.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t wake them all. I’ve read that a truly bonded alpha’s hearing becomes so attuned to his omega that he can hear her whimper from across a crowded room.
Thank god I’m not an omega.
It’s probably the only reason my frantic, jackhammering heartbeat hasn’t already triggered some kind of pack-wide alarm. Another small sign that whatever the hell this bond is, it's definitely bonkers. And, for now at least, that's working in my favor.
I reach the doorway and slip through it, finding myself in a sprawling open-concept living space that belongs in an architectural magazine.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the city that would be breathtaking if I weren’t having an active panic attack.
To my right is a kitchen with gleaming marble countertops.
To my left, a sunken living room with tastefully arranged furniture.
And straight ahead is what I assume is the front door.
But still no dress.
I scan the area frantically. The place is immaculate. No trail of hastily discarded clothing leading from door to bedroom. These alphas are apparently neat freaks in addition to being claiming-happy.
I start toward the living room, hoping my dress was dropped there or something, when a deep, rumbling murmur from the bedroom sends me diving behind the kitchen island. I crouch there, heart in my throat, straining to hear.
“Mine… our beta…” It’s Rett’s voice, thick with sleep, mumbling words that make my skin flush hot despite my panic. “Keep her safe...”
I wait, frozen in place, until his sleep-talking subsides into the rhythm of deep breathing again. Even unconscious, they’re laying claim to me. Great.
I’m running out of time. Any minute now, one of them could actually wake up.
Think, Zoe. Where would my clothes be?
I peek around the island. No dress draped over the couch. No underwear hanging from the chandelier.
Then I see it. A flash of black fabric peeking out from under the edge of the ridiculously large sofa.
I dart across the open space, wincing as my naked feet slap against the hardwood floor.
I drop to my knees and reach under the couch, my fingers closing around the familiar silk of my dress.
I pull it out, and thankfully, my missing shoe comes with it, dragged along in a messy tangle.
My underwear, however, is nowhere to be seen.
From the bedroom comes Diego’s voice, soft and crooning in his sleep. “Carino... come back to bed...”
I freeze, certain I’ve been caught, but his words melt into a sigh. He’s dreaming. Dreaming of me?
My heart hammers as I clutch the dress in my grasp. I pull it on, my arms twisting behind my back as I fumble for the tiny, delicate zipper. My fingers are too shaky; the angle impossible. To hell with it. I grab my shoes and look around desperately for my purse.
There. The strap is barely visible as it hangs off one side of the couch. I lunge for it just as Dane lets out a low, possessive growl in his sleep that raises the hair on my arms.
I pause, one hand on my purse, the other clutching my shoes. My unzipped dress hangs precariously off one shoulder. I strain my ears, listening for any sign that the growl might be followed by footsteps, but there’s only silence.
I release a breath and grab my purse, shoving my feet into my shoes. I’m pantyless, but there’s no going back for them. I’ll leave here with some dignity, even if it means a very... breezy walk of shame.
I’m halfway to the front door, my hand already reaching for the handle, when I stop dead, a low, frustrated growl rumbling in my own throat.
Dammit.
I can’t just disappear. As much as I want to, as much as every self-preservation instinct is screaming at me to become a ghost and never look back, my stupid, over-developed sense of basic human decency is getting in the way.
They’re alphas. Possessive, high-handed, ridiculously attractive alphas who I barely know. But they don't deserve to wake up thinking I was kidnapped or that I fell off their stupid, penthouse balcony.
They deserve... something. An explanation. Even if it's a brief one.
My gaze lands on the sleek, minimalist desk near the door. On it, there is a single, elegant notepad and a heavy, expensive-looking fountain pen. Of course.
I move to the desk, my hand trembling slightly as I pick up the pen. What do you even write to four alphas you accidentally bonded with?
I take a deep, shuddering breath and start to write, my handwriting a messy, frantic scrawl.
To the Sterling Pack,
No, too formal. I crumple the paper and start again.
Rett,
I know what happened. I see the marks. This was a mistake. A huge, catastrophic, champagne-fueled mistake. I'm a beta. You know what that means. Whatever this is, it can’t happen.
Please, don’t come after me.
Zoe
I fold the note, my fingers clumsy, and leave it propped against the pen holder on the desk where they will be sure to find it.
There. It's done. I've said my piece.
I reach for the door handle, and that’s when I realize I have a new problem. The front door has an electronic lock. The kind with a keypad that requires a code. Or worse, fingerprint recognition.
“Fuck,” I whisper, staring at the gleaming metal panel next to the door.
I glance back at the bedroom doorway. Still no movement.
Of course. Trapped in a penthouse with a sleeping pack, and my escape is being foiled by a door that’s too smart for its own good.
Just as I’m contemplating whether jumping from the balcony would be survivable (it wouldn’t), I notice a small button beneath the keypad. An exit button?
I press it, and the lock clicks open with a soft beep that sounds like a foghorn to my panicked ears.
I freeze again, waiting for the thunder of alpha feet, but nothing happens. Slowly, carefully, I turn the handle and open the door just enough to slip through.
The hallway is empty—thank every deity that might exist. I close the door as quietly as possible behind me, then realize I should have checked whether it would lock automatically.
Too late now. If they wake up and track me down because I left their multimillion-dollar penthouse unsecured, that’s just one more thing we’ll have to discuss during our inevitable “so about those claiming marks” conversation.
I press the elevator button, doing the pee dance even though my bladder is bone dry. My body is a live wire of pure adrenaline. The numbers above the elevator tick down with agonizing slowness as something shifts in the air behind me. A subtle change in pressure, a hint of scent. Cedarwood.
I whip around, expecting to see Rett Sterling standing in the hallway, but there’s no one behind me. It’s just my imagination. Or worse, my newly claimed body playing tricks on me, already attuned to the presence of my... alphas.
The elevator dings, and I practically dive inside, jabbing the lobby button repeatedly until the doors close. Only then do I allow myself to collapse against the wall, my legs finally giving out.