“We know,” Rett says, his voice softer now, some of the command leached out of it. “We’re not asking you for anything, Zoe. We’re not expecting you to... to fix this.” He gestures vaguely at his head, indicating the static. “We just wanted you to know the truth.”
I study him, really look at him, for what feels like the first time. Beyond the powerful alpha, beyond the CEO, beyond the commanding presence, I see the man. The vulnerability in his eyes, the slight tremble in his hands that he’s trying so hard to hide, the way he’s sitting just a little too stiffly to mask the pain he’s in.
And then I look at the others. At Diego, his warm brown eyes filled with a gentle hope despite the suffering etched into his face. At Tristan, his usual restless energy contained in a tense, rigid posture that must be costing him dearly. At Dane, his pale gaze never leaving my face, as if memorizing every detail.
These four men, these powerful, arrogant, frustrating alphas, love me. Me. A beta gallery assistant with a secondhand couch and a collection of art history books.
“You should rest,” Rett says, mistaking my silence for exhaustion. “We’ve tired you out.”
“I’m not tired,” I argue, though it’s only partly true. I am tired, but it’s a different kind of tired. The kind that comes fromhaving your entire worldview shifted in an instant. “I’m just... processing.”
He nods, understanding in his eyes despite the pain I can see he’s fighting.
“We’ll go,” he says, starting to rise. “Give you some space.”
“No!” The word is a raw, guttural sound, ripped from my throat with a force that surprises even me. All four of them freeze. “No,” I repeat, softer this time. “Stay. Please.”
Rett sinks back into the chair, relief and confusion warring on his face. “Zoe...”
“I don’t know what this means,” I say honestly. “I don’t know what happens next. But I don’t want you to go.”
A cautious hope dawns in Diego’s eyes. “You don’t?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
Rett’s throat moves as he releases a slow breath. “Then we’ll stay,” he says simply.
I nod, suddenly exhausted, the emotional weight of the last few minutes catching up with me. I sink deeper into the pillows, my eyelids growing heavy.
“Rest,” Rett says. “We’re here.”
As I drift off, I’m aware of them settling around me. Diego, moving to sit at the foot of the bed once more, his hand resting lightly on my ankle. Tristan, stretching out on the window seat, his eyes not focused on the view of Sweetwater below, but on me instead. Dane, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, his long legs stretched out before him.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Zoe
Three days later, I finally feel human again.
The fever is completely gone. My strength is returning, though I still feel a bit shaky if I move too quickly. But the hollow emptiness where the bond used to be? That’s still there, a strange absence I can’t quite describe.
I’ve spent most of the last three days in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, gradually piecing together what happened. The bond broke. The static returned. And somewhere in the midst of all that chaos, four alphas confessed they’re in love with me.
That part still feels like a fever dream. Did they really say it? Did I imagine it? The memory is hazy, colored by exhaustion and the lingering effects of my illness.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I study my reflection. My skin has lost the unhealthy pallor of fever, though I’m still paler than usual. My hair needs a good wash, and there are shadows under my eyes that speak of restless nights.
My hand goes to my throat, fingers tracing the smooth, unmarked skin. No evidence remains of the claiming marks, not even the faintest silver trace. It’s as if they were never there at all.
But they were. And now they’re gone. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
I shower, the hot water a small miracle after days of sponge baths. I wash my hair twice, realizing they must have brought my cherry blossom shampoo from my apartment and relishing in the familiar scent of it. When I’m done, I dress in comfortable leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder. I don’t bother with makeup.
It’s time to face them. All of them. Together. Not just the brief, careful interactions we’ve had over the past few days, with one of them always at my bedside.
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and open the bedroom door.
The penthouse is quiet. Not completely silent, though. I can hear the faint sounds of movement, a low murmur of voices, but the sounds are subdued.
