A wave of bone-deep relief crashes over me. Because the truth is, I don’t think my alpha would have let me leave this room anyway. The thought of walking out that door, of putting any distance between us while she’s this fragile, is physically impossible.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
I lie down on the bed, my back against the headboard, and gently pull her against my chest. She comes willingly, a soft sigh escaping her as she settles in, her head tucked perfectly undermy chin. My arm comes around her, holding her close, and it feels... right. More right than anything has ever felt.
I begin to stroke her hair, the silken strands soft against my fingers. We lie in a comfortable, healing silence for a long time, the only sound the steady, synchronized rhythm of our breathing.
It’s her who breaks it, her voice a soft, muffled murmur against my shirt.
“Is it... is it quiet now?” she asks, her voice small. “For you?”
I know what she’s really asking.
“Yes,” I say simply. “When you’re close like this...it’s quiet.”
I feel her relax a fraction of an inch against me, a small, almost imperceptible release of tension.
“That’s... that’s good,” she whispers. “I’m glad I can help.”
The words are so simple, so sincere, so focused onusand not herself, that something in my chest tightens. This isn’t a transaction for her. It’s an act of care.
And my response, when it comes, is a pure, unfiltered instinct.
“Zoe,” I say, my voice a low, rough rumble against her ear. “You don’t just ‘help.’ You’re the only thing that works.”
She makes a small, contented sound and snuggles closer, her breathing already starting to even out. Just before she drifts off, she stirs one last time.
“Dane?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I just hold her tighter, the single word “always” a silent promise in my own head.
She’s asleep in minutes. I continue stroking her hair, staring at the ceiling, my mind a quiet, peaceful blank.
The bond may have forced us together. The static may have been the reason.
But this? This feeling of her, safe and asleep in my arms?
This is a choice.
And it’s one I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Zoe
I’m still a little stunned at how quickly Dane solved the gallery case. The police had been investigating for weeks with zero progress, and then he just... figured it out in a single afternoon. With my help, sure, but still. The efficiency is terrifying and, if I’m being completely honest with myself, a little bit hot.
I’m curled up on the massive sectional in the penthouse living room, pretending to read while Diego and Rett discuss something work-related at the dining table. Their low voices create a soothing background hum that I’ve somehow gotten used to over these past weeks. It’s strange how quickly this place, these men, have become familiar to me.
The front door slides open, and Tristan walks in, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He’s staring at his phone, scrolling with his thumb, a strange, grimly satisfied look on his face.
“Well,” he announces to the room, not looking up, “that was fast.”
Diego glances up from his laptop. “What was?”
