It’s exactly as I left it weeks ago. My secondhand furniture. My overflowing bookshelves. My collection of thrift store art prints on the walls. It should feel like home. It should feel like a relief to be back in my own space, away from the sleek, minimalist luxury of the Sterling penthouse.
Instead, it feels... empty. Cold. Like I’ve stepped into a museum exhibit of my former life.
I drop my suitcase just inside the door and stand there, looking around at a place that no longer feels like it belongs to me. Or maybe I’m the one who no longer belongs here.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head. “This is your home. Yourrealhome.”
I force myself to move, to go through the motions of returning. I open windows to air out the staleness. I check the fridge, grimacing at the science experiment that used to be a carton of milk. I sort through the mail that’s accumulated: bills and catalogs and junk.
Normal things. Human things. The kind of things I did everyday before four alphas claimed me in a night of drunken bliss and turned my world upside down.
But the claiming marks on my neck won’t let me forget. They throb insistently, a steady, pulsing ache that seems to grow stronger with each passing minute. I touch them with my fingertips, half-expecting to find them inflamed, maybe even bleeding. They’re slightly raised, warm to the touch, and suddenly tender.
A slow breath releases from my nose.
I need a shower. Need to wash away the scent of them that still clings to my skin, to my hair, to my clothes. I strip down in my tiny bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look... different. Not physically, exactly, but there’s something in my eyes that wasn’t there before. I turn away from the mirror and step under the spray.
The hot water feels good on my skin, but it does nothing for the hollow ache in my chest or the sense of wrongness that persists.
I try to focus on practical things. I need to call Helen. Need to find out when the gallery will reopen. Need to arrange for a new computer, new files. Need to rebuild what Rudy destroyed.
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel that feels scratchy and thin compared to the plush, heated ones at the penthouse. I pad into my bedroom, digging through my dresser for comfortable clothes. I settle on an old NYU t-shirt and leggings, then curl up on my couch with my phone.
No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.
They haven’t even checked to see if I made it home safely. A bitter smile twists my lips. So much for their alpha protectiveness. The moment I walked out that door, I stopped being their problem. Their responsibility. Their claimed beta.
Except for these fucking marks that won’t fade.
I touch them again, wincing at the sharp jolt of tenderness that shoots through them.
Great. Instead of fading, they’re getting more tender and hot to the touch.
I frown, ghosting my fingers over the surface of one. It’s so hot I can feel the heat without directly touching it.
My phone rings, making me jump. I snatch it up, my heart racing, but the name on the screen isn’t Rett or Diego or Tristan or Dane.
It’s Leah.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to inject some normalcy into my voice.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demands, skipping any greeting. “I’ve been texting you for days! I was about to file a missing person’s report!”
I wince. In all the chaos of the last few weeks, I’ve been a terrible friend. “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “It’s been... complicated.”
“Complicated how? The last I heard, you were staying with the Sterling pack because of the gallery break-in. Then radio silence. What gives?”
I take a deep breath, then let it all spill out. Everything about the static, Rudy’s arrest, and my decision to leave. By the time I finish, my throat is raw and tight, and there’s a suspicious wetness on my cheeks.
Leah is silent for a long moment, then: “Holy shit, Zoe.”
A watery laugh bubbles up. “Yeah.”
“So let me get this straight,” she says slowly. “Four insanely hot, wealthy alphas claimed you, brought you into their home, and then couldn’t articulate why they wanted you to stay beyond ‘you make the noise in our heads stop’?”
“That’s... pretty much it, yeah.”
“Men,” she sighs, the single word loaded with disgust. “Alphas or betas, they’re all emotionally constipated idiots.”
