Forbes’s mouth quirks in what might be a smile on anyone else. “Sometimes it’s not about what you’ve done, Ms. Clarke. It’s about who you’re connected to.”
His eyes flick meaningfully around the room, taking in the four of us.
“So, you think this is about us?” Rett’s voice is controlled, but I can hear the edge in it.
“I think,” Forbes says carefully, “that when four prominent alphas suddenly claim a beta, people notice. Some of those people might not be happy about it.”
“Such as?” I ask, my voice a low, flat line. I need names. Not theories.
He shrugs. “Rivals. Competitors. Maybe someone who feels threatened by your... unusual arrangement.”
“This is ridiculous,” Zoe says, her voice stronger now. “No one would vandalize a gallery just because they’re upset about my personal life.”
“You’d be surprised,” Forbes counters. “Claiming bonds can trigger all kinds of reactions. Especially when they involve powerful figures like the Sterlings.”
I watch Zoe’s face. The flash of doubt. The worry that creases her brow. She’s blaming herself. Taking this on. My hands tighten into fists at my sides.
“So what’s your plan?” Rett asks, his voice all business now.
“We keep investigating,” Forbes says, standing. “In the meantime, I suggest Ms. Clarke remain here, where it’s safe. At least until we know more.”
Zoe nods, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. Another chain binding her to this place. To us.
“We’re already increasing security,” I say.
Forbes nods to me, a professional acknowledging a fellow professional. “Good. I’ll be in touch when we have more.”
Diego shows him out, the perfect host even in a crisis. The moment the door closes, Zoe slumps, the rigid posture vanishing as if her strings have been cut.
“So I’m the target,” she says, her voice hollow. “Because of... this.” She gestures vaguely to her neck, to the claiming marks that are still vivid against her skin.
There’s a pause when her words land. For once, my brothers seem lost for words.
“If it is about us,” Rett finally says, “then we’ll handle it. No one touches what’s ours.”
I see her stiffen at his words. At the possessiveness in them. The claim.
“I think I need some space,” she says, standing abruptly. “To process.”
None of us tries to stop her as she walks to her room. We understand the need for space, for distance. For the illusion of control when everything seems to be spiraling.
When she’s gone, Rett turns to me. “I want eyes on her at all times when she’s not in this penthouse.”
I nod. It’s already done. Was done the moment I walked into that gallery and realized she was the target.
“I’ll work on that cover story for the press,” Tristan says. “Liaise with the office to make it official.”
“And I’ll make dinner,” Diego adds, moving toward the kitchen. “She’ll need to eat.”
I nod, easing off the wall as I head to my private bedroom. But I’m not thinking about security procedures. I’m thinking about the look on Zoe’s face when Forbes said it was about her. The flash of fear she tried so hard to hide.
My job has always been simple. Protect the pack. It’s always been logical problems with logical solutions.
But this isn’t a logical problem.
A faceless, nameless threat has now caused a specific, measurable amount of pain to Zoe. And my reaction to that is not logical. It’s a white-hot, silent rage at the thought of anyone hurting her. A rage that makes me want to tear this city apart with my bare hands.
This has nothing to do with the static. The quiet she brings is a relief, yes. But this feeling... this all-consuming need to stand between her and the rest of the world... this is new.
