Chapter 5 #2
Today, the coffee isn’t enough to dull the buzzing static creeping back into my skull. It’s worse now, sharper, like a knife dragging across raw nerves.
And she’s gone.
I set four mugs out on the counter, but my hands itch to do more.
To fix this. To fix us. I glance into the living room, where Rett is pacing like a storm barely held in check.
Dane is stationed near the window now, his pale blue eyes scanning the city like he expects Zoe to suddenly appear on the street below.
Tristan is sprawled on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his face, muttering under his breath.
The energy in the room is suffocating.
I need to move.
As I step out from behind the kitchen island, something catches my eye. A splash of color on the floor, half-hidden under the dark leather skirt of the sofa. It’s a bright, cheerful teal. A color that has absolutely no business being in our dull living room.
Curious, I walk over and crouch down. My fingers brush against something soft, yielding. Not one of our discarded tech gadgets or a misplaced piece of gym equipment. I pull it free.
It’s a book. Small, compact, bound in a soft leather that feels warm and personal to the touch.
Unless Dane has been secretly keeping a journal with all the things he doesn’t say, this is definitely not ours.
A faint, sweet scent clings to it, and I realize immediately that it’s the ghost of the cologne Zoe had been wearing.
My heart gives a painful thud against my ribs. Hers.
“Dios mío,” I murmur, my thumb brushing over the engraving of the year on the cover.
It’s her planner.
“Diego?” Rett’s voice cuts through the static in my head. He’s already striding toward me, his sharp blue eyes zeroed in on the planner. “What’s that?”
“Her planner,” I say, standing and holding it up. “She must have dropped it last night.”
Tristan bolts upright, suddenly engaged. “Wait, her planner? Like, the planner where she writes down her entire life? The one with all her little notes and secrets? That sort of planner?”
I shoot him a look. “It’s not a diary, hermano. It’s her schedule. And yeah, it’s hers.”
Dane steps closer, tilting his head. “Let me see.”
“No.” My voice comes out with a possessive growl that is certainly unnecessary. Dane’s pale eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push.
Rett, of course, does. “Diego, we need to know what’s in there. If there’s anything that can help us—”
“I’ll show you,” I interrupt, my tone softening. “But we’re not treating this like some kind of strategy document. This isn’t a Sterling Solutions project, Rett. This is her. Her life.”
Rett’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “Fine. Show me.”
I flip open the planner, careful with the pages. The inside cover makes me smile despite everything:
Property of Zoe Clarke. If found, please return. If stolen, may your coffee always be lukewarm.
“She’s got a sense of humor,” I say, holding it up for them to see.
“Well, damn,” Tristan mutters, a slow, appreciative grin spreading across his face. “Witty, organized, and she looks like that? Okay, I take it back. This might not be a total disaster after all.”
“Tristan,” Rett warns, but his tone lacks bite.
I turn another page, scanning her neat handwriting. Appointments, gallery events, brunch with her friend Leah, and a reminder to buy cinnamon rolls. There’s another note too that catches my attention: Staff meeting—wear blue blazer & brING MUFFINS.
“She seems to be very busy…” My voice trails off as I notice the doodles in the corners of the pages. A grumpy-looking cat. A coffee cup with steam curling into a heart. A caricature of what must be her boss, with an exaggerated frown and speech bubble saying “But is it art?”
“She doodles,” I say, my voice softer now. “Little sketches in the margins. Look at this.” I hold it up, showing them.
“She’s an artist,” Dane says quietly, his expression unreadable.
“She’s a curator,” Rett corrects.
“Hey, don’t knock the grumpy cat,” Tristan says with a smirk. “That little guy has more personality than half the stuff we saw at the gala last night. She’s got talent.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help smiling. I flip another page, and something falls out. A folded piece of paper. I crouch down to pick it up, unfolding it carefully. It’s a shopping list. Coffee filters. Toothpaste. Wine. And at the bottom, underlined twice: Dark chocolate.
“She likes dark chocolate,” I murmur, almost to myself.
Tristan lets out a low whistle, a look of genuine, almost comical awe on his face.
“Okay, so let’s recap,” he says, ticking points off on his fingers.
“She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s gorgeous, she’s organized, and she has an appreciation for high-quality cacao.
Are we sure she’s not a secret government-designed super-mate? ”
“She’s a person, Tristan,” I correct him gently, my eyes still on the planner.
“She has a life. A whole life. Friends, a job, routines… a whole system we just disrupted.” I trace the doodle of the grumpy cat.
“My abuela used to say that to catch a hummingbird, you don’t use a cage, you use nectar.
” I look up at my brothers. “Dominance is a cage. She’s not an omega.
It won’t work on her. We need a different approach if we want her to come back. ”
“Diego.” Dane’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He nods toward something on the floor. “There’s more.”
I follow his gaze and spot it. A little black rectangle right next to where the planner had been hidden. Her phone.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe, scooping it up. “She left her phone.”
“What?” Rett’s voice sharpens. “Let me see.”
I hold it up, but I don’t hand it over. “It’s locked,” I say, pressing the power button.
The screen lights up, showing the wallpaper.
A picture of the beta who just turned our lives upside down in one night.
It’s just her face. Her hair was shorter when it was taken.
Cut in a pixie cut. She’s looking right at the camera, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and one of them caught between her teeth like a dare.
Joder. My cock jerks. Hard.
Inhaling deeply, I pull my gaze from her face. Her notification bar is full: missed calls, unread texts.
On the message preview, one message reads:
Leah (5:02 am):
Zoe! PACKTRACKR has you on their FRONT PAGE. WHAT DID YOU DO???
“Mierda,” I hiss. “She’s on PackTrackr.”
Rett looms over my shoulder. “Shit. We need her address.”
I switch the phone off and snap her planner shut. “We can’t just show up at her place.”
“Why not?” Tristan grabs for the book. “She’s ours.”
“No,” The word is sharp. “She ran from us. If we storm in like alphas on a fucking conquest, she’ll bolt again. This time, she might not stop. And we are not losing the first quiet we’ve had in years.”
I look from Rett’s hard face to Tristan’s frustration, to Dane’s unreadable calm.
They’re looking at a problem to be solved.
They don’t see what I’m seeing. This woman isn’t some standard-issue omega who will whimper and submit at one sniff of our alpha pheromones.
She’s witty, she’s organized, she’s... rare.
You don’t use a sledgehammer on a priceless piece of art.
You handle it with care, or you shatter it forever.
Rett
I look at my brothers, each dealing with the situation in their own way. Diego, heart on his sleeve, gently holding her planner like it’s made of glass. Tristan, hiding behind humor to mask his genuine distress. Dane, gathering intelligence like the security specialist he is.
And me? I’m fighting a war on two fronts: against the static that’s threatening to split my skull, and against my own alpha, who is screaming at me to hunt Zoe down and bring her back where she belongs.
But she doesn’t belong to us. Not really.
The claiming marks on her throat might say otherwise, but those were made in a moment of mutual madness. Four alphas, driven by instinct and the promise of relief from the static. One beta, caught up in a whirlwind of sensation and champagne.
“Diego’s right,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. “We can’t stalk her home or her workplace.”
“So we just... what? Wait for her to come back?” Tristan asks incredulously. “Because I’m betting that’s not happening, Rett. You saw her face. She looked like she didn’t give a single shit about any of us. She just wanted out.”
“That’s not true,” Diego murmurs, shaking his head. “She was just... overwhelmed.”
“Right,” Tristan narrows his eyes. “The point is, she ran from us. Literally ran. Into traffic. To get away from us.”
“And chasing her will only make her run further,” Diego counters. “We need to give her space.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes. The only problem is the static…”
“We’ve lived with it for years,” Diego says. “We can handle it a little longer.”
The others exchange glances. They know as well as I do that it’s different now. The contrast between the blessed silence of this morning and the current cacophony makes it nearly unbearable. But what choice do we have?
“So we... wait?” Dane asks.
“No,” I say, my eyes falling on the teal planner. “We don’t wait. We... pivot.”
Three pairs of eyes stare at me as if I’ve just started speaking another language.
“Pivot?” Tristan repeats, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Dude, I’ve seen that episode. It ends with a couch cut in half. Let’s maybe aim for a better outcome than that.”
I meet his gaze. “There’s no other option. All we have left is... whatever the hell this is.” I gesture vaguely, encompassing the planner, us, and the general mess we’ve made. “She thinks we’re possessive brutes? So we prove her wrong. We show her there are…benefits to accepting our claim.”
“Benefits?” Tristan asks, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I can think of a few.”