“She was probably just confused,” Diego offers, ever the optimist. “The claiming was... unexpected.”
That’s an understatement. None of us had planned to claim anyone last night, let alone a beta. But there had been something about Zoe. Something that called to all four of us simultaneously in a way that defied explanation.
And when the moment came, there was only a raw, possessive spike of instinct. A simple need to bite down. To mark. To leave our scent so deep in her skin no one else would ever mistake who she belonged to. At that moment, it felt as necessary as breathing.
Apparently, Zoe hadn’t felt the same way.
“We should split up,” Dane suggests, his eyes constantly scanning the street. “Cover more ground.”
I shake my head. “No. We stay together. She’s our pack mate now. We find her as a pack.”
The three of them nod, accepting my decision without question. Whatever our differences, in this, we are united: we need to find Zoe.
We continue down the street. People instinctively step out of our way, omega and beta passersby averting their eyes as we pass. Under different circumstances, it might be comical, like the parting of some human sea, but right now, all I can think about is finding our runaway mate.
“Wait,” Diego says suddenly, stopping in his tracks. “What if she’s not running from us? What if she just went home?”
We all freeze, exchanging looks of equal parts hope andchagrin. It’s such an obvious possibility that I’m almost embarrassed we didn’t think of it sooner.
“Do we know where she lives?” Tristan asks.
Dane already has his phone out. “Zoe Clarke,” he says, fingers flying over the screen. “Assistant Curator at Sweetwater Modern.” There’s a long pause. “Her address isn’t listed. Give me some time. I’ll find it.”
“This feels invasive,” Diego says, though he makes no move to stop Dane.
“More invasive than claiming her?” Tristan snorts. “That ship has sailed, hermano.”
“She left her car at the gala. Maybe she’s headed back there?” Dane says, looking up from his phone.
“Let’s go,” I say, already signaling for a taxi.
That’s when I spot her.
Across the street, half a block ahead, a familiar figure in a black dress is frantically waving down a cab. Even from this distance, I can see the marks on her neck stark against her pale skin.
“Zoe!” I call out, forgetting all about subtlety and decorum. “Wait!”
She turns at the sound of her name, and for a split second, our eyes meet. Her expression is one of cold, flinty defiance. It's the look of a woman staring down an obstacle she has no intention of engaging with, only circumventing.
“Shit,” she says, loud enough for us to hear despite the traffic between us. “Shit, shit, shit.”
A cab pulls up beside her, and she dives for the door with grim determination.
“Zoe, please!” Diego calls, already crossing against the light. “We just want to talk!”
But she’s already sliding into the backseat, slamming the door behind her.
“Wait!” Tristan yells, starting to follow Diego into the street.
“Stop,” I command. My voice is low, but it cuts through themorning noise and freezes both of them in place. They turn to me, confused.
“Mierda! Rett, she’s getting away!” Diego says, gesturing wildly at the cab.
I watch as she scrambles inside, slamming the door. I can’t take my eyes off her, not even as the taxi pulls away from the curb and melts into the river of traffic. Gone.
“What the hell, Rett?” Tristan demands, turning on me. “We could have caught her!”
“And done what?” I snap back, turning from the empty space where the cab had been. “Corner her on a public street? Drag her back to the penthouse kicking and screaming? How do you think that would have gone?” I look at them, at their frustrated, panicked faces. “We’d just be proving her right to put distance between us.”
