And, God help me, protected.
As they all settle, as their bodies relax around me, I feel it. The frantic, agonized energy that had been pouring off them in waves starts to recede. I can feel the tension bleeding out of their muscles, the harshness of their breathing evening out into a slower, deeper rhythm.
Diego’s death grip on my blouse loosens. Tristan’s perpetualrestlessness stills. Dane’s breathing deepens. And Rett looks like a man who’s finally come up for air after nearly drowning.
The storm is calming. I am the eye.
“Is it... better?” I ask cautiously, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” Rett breathes, his eyes closing briefly in profound relief. “It’s... quieter. When you’re close, it’s... bearable.”
I feel a strange mixture of emotions at that confession. Pride that I can help them, resentment that this is what they need me for, and something deeper, more complicated that I’m not ready to even think about.
“I’m sorry,” Diego murmurs, his face still pressed close to mine. “We didn’t want to... to need this from you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “I couldn’t just... leave you like that.”
Tristan’s arm tightens around me. “Our beta,” he says, the words holding a weight I can’t quite decipher. “So strong. So stubborn.”
“So necessary,” Dane adds quietly, the words rumbling through the mattress.
Rett doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, his blue eyes intense and unreadable in the dim light. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my lower lip in a gesture that feels almost reverent.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and the words are so full of raw, desperate gratitude that it makes my throat tighten.
I want to remind them that I’m just their temporary fix. Their living aspirin. But the words die in my throat.
When I finally, eventually, drift into a dreamless sleep, it’s with the undeniable, terrifying realization that I’m not just their aspirin.
I’m their anchor.
And I’m not sure I ever want to pull away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Zoe
The claiming marks on my neck burn, a familiar, insistent heat that yanks me from another one of those dreams.
I blink into the darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs, a phantom touch still lingering on my skin. It’s always the same. Four pairs of hands, four mouths, four low growls vibrating through me. I press my thighs together, a traitorous ache coiling low in my belly.
The glowing numbers on the bedside clock read 3:17 AM. It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since the night Tristan dragged me back here, since I saw the true, devastating cost of the static. Three weeks since I was literally a human anchor in a storm of four alphas.
I remember waking up that next morning, just like this, surrounded by a tangle of their sleeping bodies. I remember the bone-deep peace on their faces, the raw, unguarded vulnerability that had made my chest ache. I remember thinking that I was in way over my head.
I was right.
In the twenty-one days since, I’ve learned a few things.
Rett doesn’t give advice; he provides solutions. Last week, I complained that the morning sun was too bright in my room. I came back from a walk to find a team of technicians installing smart-tinting on my windows, now controllable from a panel by my bed. When I tried to protest, he just said, “Problem solved.”
Diego’s love language is food. If you look even vaguely stressed, a plate of perfectly sliced fruit or a warm empanada will materialize in front of you. It’s his way of saying “I’m here” without having to use words. It’s both incredibly sweet and completely disarming.
Tristan’s jokes have gotten…weirder. In a good way. Before, he’d just yell something obnoxious to get a reaction from everyone. Now it’s different.
The other night, Rett was going on about market projections or whatever, using that voice he saves for people he thinks are morons. Tristan leaned right into my space, his breath tickling my ear, and whispered, “He’s using his ‘explaining fiscal policy to idiots’ voice. Nod slowly and try to look impressed.”
