Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Zoe
My apartment feels both foreign and too familiar after the luxury of the Sterling penthouse. The worn couch with its coffee stain that never quite came out. The mismatched bookshelf crammed with art books and novels. The kitchen with its single chipped mug sitting in the sink.
Home. Safe. Normal.
Except nothing feels normal anymore.
I’ve already showered twice, scrubbing my skin until it was pink and raw, but their scents cling to me like a ghost. Dane’s peppermint is so thick against my collarbone, I swear he must have been using me as his personal pillow half the night.
What’s worse is I can still feel their hands on my body, their mouths on my skin, the pressure of their teeth as they marked me.
I touch my neck for the hundredth time, tracing the claiming marks with delicate fingers. They’re still there. Hot to the touch, slightly raised, a permanent reminder of last night’s insanity.
“Okay, Zoe, you can wake up now,” I mutter to my empty apartment. I’ve tried everything. Ice, hot compresses, even a generous layer of my most expensive concealer. Nothing works.
I’m pacing the length of my living room when the doorbell rings, sending me into a full-body panic. I freeze, eyes darting to the door.
They found me.
But that’s impossible. They don’t know where I live. Unless... unless they tracked me somehow.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
I grab the oversized scarf draped over my couch and wrap it around my neck, tucking the ends carefully to ensure not a single mark is visible. After that run-in with Mrs. Grant, I’ve learned my lesson.
Moving as quietly as possible, I creep to the door and peer through the peephole.
It’s not the Sterling pack. It’s a delivery guy, looking bored and slightly impatient.
I exhale shakily and open the door just enough to see him properly.
“Delivery for Zoe Clarke?” he says, consulting his tablet.
“That’s me,” I say cautiously.
He hands me a package, a sleek black box tied with a simple ribbon, and a thermos. “Signature required,” he says, holding out his tablet.
I scrawl something that might pass for my name and close the door before he can notice anything odd about me. Like the fact that I’m wearing a wool scarf indoors despite the heat.
I stare at the smooth black box and the thermos in my hands, a deep sense of suspicion coiling in my gut. I'm not expecting a delivery. Who on earth would be sending me anything?
There’s only one possible answer.
The thermos is warm to the touch, and when I unscrew the cap, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills my apartment. Not just any coffee, either. The good stuff. The kind that costs more per pound than I spend on groceries in a week.
I frown, setting it aside to open the box.
Inside is a pastry that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread.
A perfectly flaky croissant, still warm somehow, dusted with just the right amount of powdered sugar.
The logo on the decorative paper tells me it’s from Sweet Omega, my best friend’s bakery.
Whether that’s by coincidence or just them being stalkery, I’m not sure.
But something tells me the Sterlings don’t do anything by “coincidence.”
A small card sits beside it, elegant handwriting on thick, cream-colored stock:
Zoe, we know this is a lot. Please just let us know you’re safe. Your phone is enclosed. We’ll keep your planner safe until we can return it to you in person. - Diego
My stomach does a weird little flip, immediately followed by a flare of indignation. At the bottom of the box, as promised, is my phone, neatly wrapped in tissue paper.
But no planner. My planner. My whole organizational system, my personal assistant, my memory bank. They’re keeping it hostage.
I snatch up my phone, relieved to see it’s at least intact, and immediately see a barrage of texts from Leah.
But before I can process this unexpected gift/ransom situation, my phone buzzes with another incoming text.
I see it’s from Leah, not one of my... alphas.
God, I can’t even think that without cringing.
Leah
ZOEEEE! I’ve been texting you for HOURS! The PackTrackr thing is INSANE! Are you OK? I’m coming over. Now. With reinforcements. Text me if you’re not dead or kidnapped.
Oh no. Leah. I completely forgot she’d be texting me. I type a quick reply.
Not dead or kidnapped. But yes, please come over. I need help.
Three dots appear immediately, followed by:
Leah
OMG YOU’RE ALIVE! Be there in 20. Caleb’s driving. I need DETAILS.
Great. Not only is my best friend coming over, but she’s bringing one of her alphas. Just what I need right now. Another alpha in my space while I’m still processing last night.
I gulp down more coffee and take a stress bite of the pastry. It’s obscenely good, melting on my tongue in a way that makes me close my eyes involuntarily.
But the moment of bliss is short-lived as annoyance surges back. My planner. They kept my damn planner. The little book that contains my entire professional life, and they’re “keeping it safe” like I’m some kind of disorganized child.
Twenty minutes. That’s all the time I have to somehow spin this catastrophic, life-altering, alpha-fueled dumpster fire into a believable, “no big deal” story for my best friend.
I check my reflection in the bedroom mirror, adjusting the scarf. It looks ridiculous. A bulky winter accessory with my tank top and leggings. But it covers the marks. That’s all that matters right now.
The doorbell rings exactly nineteen minutes later because Caleb has never been late a day in his life. I take a deep breath and open the door.
“You’re alive!” Leah launches herself at me, wrapping me in a tight hug that nearly dislodges my carefully arranged scarf. She pulls back, her eyes wide with concern and curiosity. “What the hell happened last night? I’ve been sending messages like crazy!”
She looks radiant. Her hair has grown out of the bob she’d cut it into, now falling in soft waves past her shoulders. There’s a glow about her that only comes from being thoroughly loved and claimed by not one, but three devoted alphas. And balanced out by their beta, Mason.
Behind her stands Caleb. Her pack alpha is tall.
Imposing. His green eyes take in every detail of my apartment with the hypervigilance of an alpha protecting his own.
He’s holding two car seats, one in each hand, containing the newest additions to their pack—twin girls with Leah’s hair and striking blue-green eyes that would make me crumble into oohs and ahhs if they weren’t sleeping right now.
“Are you going to let us in, or are we having this conversation in the hallway for Mrs. Grant’s entertainment?” Leah asks, one eyebrow raised.
I step back, allowing them into my apartment. Caleb nods at me as he passes, his nostrils flaring slightly. I know what he’s doing. Scenting me, picking up the traces of the Sterling pack that cling to my skin despite my best efforts.
His eyes narrow fractionally, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he sets the car seats down carefully on my coffee table, making sure both babies are secure before straightening up.
“I’ll wait downstairs,” he says to Leah, his deep voice rumbling through the small space. “Take your time.”
Leah rolls her eyes affectionately. “You don’t have to go.”
“Yes,” he says, with a pointed look at me, “I do.” His eyes flick to my scarf, then back to my face. “Some conversations need privacy.”
He drops a kiss on Leah’s forehead, then leans down to kiss each of his daughters. “Text me when you’re ready.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me alone with Leah and two sleeping infants.
“Well,” Leah says, dropping onto my couch. “That was his subtle way of saying you reek of alpha, and it’s making him twitchy.” She pats the spot beside her. “Sit. Talk. Start with why you’re wearing a wool scarf indoors.”
I sink down next to her, suddenly exhausted. “It’s... complicated.”
“Zoe Clarke, if you don’t tell me what happened with the Sterling pack right now, I swear I will wake up these babies and leave you alone with them.”
I glance at the sleeping infants, their tiny faces peaceful. “That’s a low blow.”
“I’m desperate! Do you know how hard it is to get twins to nap at the same time? This is a miracle, and I’m wasting it on your crisis, so spill.”
I take a deep breath, then another. “I need to show you something. But you have to promise not to freak out.”
“That’s literally the worst way to start a conversation, but fine, I promise.” She leans forward, eyes bright with anticipation.
With trembling fingers, I unwrap the scarf, revealing the four claiming marks on my neck.
Leah’s eyes widen to an almost comical degree. “Holy. Fucking. Shit.”
“Leah! The babies!” I hiss, glancing at the still-sleeping infants.
“They’re three months old, they don’t understand swear words yet,” she dismisses with a wave. “What they will understand is that their Aunt Zoe got claimed by FOUR ALPHAS IN ONE NIGHT!”
I wince at her volume. “Please keep it down. The walls are thin, and Mrs. Grant already looked at me like I’d grown a second head this morning.”
“Zoe,” Leah says, her voice dropping to an intense whisper. “Those are claiming marks? Actual, real claiming marks?”
“I think so,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Believe me, I’m in shock too.”
“But...” She trails off, clearly struggling for words. “You’ve always been indifferent to alphas. They were, and I quote, “a hot fuck every now and again but too much trouble for the long term”...”
I drop my hands with a groan. “I still stand by that statement.”
Leah’s eyebrows rise, reading into what I’ve left unsaid. She leans closer, examining the marks. “Four distinct marks. One from each of them?” When I nod, she whistles softly. “Damn, girl. When you go off the rails, you really commit.”
Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up from my chest. “This isn’t funny, Leah.”