I almost snorted my wine right onto the rug.
It’s like that all the time now. He’s not performing for the room anymore. He’s telling secrets, just to me.
And Dane. I’ve learned that the silent, intimidating wall of muscle is actually my shadow. He never says a word, but whenever I leave the penthouse for a walk, a trip to the bookstore, anything, he is suddenly just... there. A few paces behind me on the street, or sitting in a black, unassuming car parked across from the cafe. He thinks I don’t notice. He thinks he’s invisible. He’s not. He’s a constant, steady, and strangely comforting presence at the edge of my vision.
I’ve learned their rhythms, their habits, their quiet, unspoken rules. I’ve learned how to navigate this house full of alphas. What I haven’t learned is how to navigate the air between us, which has become so thick with unspoken things, with simmering, unresolved tension, that I feel like I’m wading through it.
It’s in the way Rett’s eyes follow me when I walk through a room. It’s in the way Tristan’s jokes now always have a sharp, flirty edge meant only for me. It’s in the way Diego’s casual touches linger a heartbeat too long. It’s in the loaded silence of my morning coffee ritual with Dane.
It’s a constant, low-level hum of awareness that leaves my skin feeling too tight and a persistent, traitorous heat pooling low in my belly.
And maybe that’s why I’m noticing the other thing.
They’ve been trying to hide it, but I can tell the static is getting worse. They leave for work in the morning looking immaculate, controlled, basically every inch the powerful alphas they are. But they return haggard, tension lining their faces, shoulders tight with pain.
Until they see me. Until they breathe me in.
The change is immediate. The tightness around their eyes eases. Their breathing slows. The rigid set of their shoulders relaxes. It’s like watching someone in pain finally get relief, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make something warm bloom in my chest.
It makes me feel... needed. In a way I’ve never experienced before.
But it’s temporary. All of it. I remind myself of this fact daily, hourly. I’ll leave the penthouse eventually, once it’s safe again. Once they catch whoever vandalized the gallery. And the marks, the static... We’ll figure that out when we get there.
Right?
Right.
I turn over in bed, staring at the wall, a lump in my throat I don’t want to swallow down. I’m about to roll over and try to get comfortable again when a soft sound outside my door pulls me from my thoughts. A shuffle. A sigh. Then silence.
I sit up, frowning into the darkness. Was that a footstep? My heart rate kicks up a notch.
I slip out of bed, tugging my oversized sleep shirt down over my thighs. Silently, I pad to the door and press my ear against it.
Nothing.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was just the wind outside the massive windows. But then—there it is again. A soft thump, like someone leaning against the wall.
Before I can think better of it, I turn the handle and pull the door open.
Rett is sitting on the floor, his back against the wall beside my door. He’s still in his work suit, though the jacket is gone and his tie hangs loose around his neck. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing powerful forearms corded with tension. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, but his posture is anything but relaxed. His phone is clutched in his hand, the screen dark, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.
“Rett?” I whisper, my voice barely audible in the silent hallway.
His eyes snap open, and for a split second, they’re wild, pure alpha instinct flaring before he blinks it away, schooling his features back into the controlled mask I’ve grown familiar with.
“Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
Instead, I step into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. I crouch beside him, concern overriding my usual caution. His cedarwood is so steady, but it’s stronger now, almost suffocating.
“It’s bad tonight, isn’t it?” I ask quietly. “The static.”
His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The silence is admission enough.
Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers brushing over his raw knuckles. His skin is hot to the touch, almost feverish.
He hisses, his hand flipping to catch mine with startling speed. Our palms press together, and a shock of heat races upmy arm. His skin is scorching, like he’s burning from the inside out.
“Zoe.” My name sounds like it’s been torn from his throat.
