When I turn back, I’ve made a decision. These stubborn, ridiculous alphas are determined to suffer in silence rather than admit they need help. Well, too bad for them. I may not be their beta anymore—at least not in the biological, bond-marked sense—but I’m still Zoe Clarke. And Zoe Clarke doesn’t let people she cares about suffer needlessly.
“Right,” I say, placing the plate of toast in front of Diego with more force than strictly necessary. “Has anyone taken an ibuprofen in the last 72 hours?”
Four guilty, pained faces look at me.
“Okay,” I nod, my hands going to my hips. “New plan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Zoe
“Take these,” I say, dropping two ibuprofen into each of their palms, “and if you argue with me, I’ll make it four.”
They don’t argue. They don’t even try. They just swallow the pills with the water I’ve provided.
It would be funny if it weren’t so concerning.
“And now,” I continue, crossing my arms over my chest, “you’re all going to sit down and rest. No work. No pretending to be fine. Just... sit. And wait for the meds to kick in.”
Diego is already seated at the kitchen island, looking relieved to have been given permission to stop fighting. Tristan doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, but he does set his phone down. Dane hesitates, then moves to sit in one of the armchairs.
Only Rett resists, standing by the kitchen island, his jaw set in that stubborn way that I’ve come to recognize as his default response to being told what to do.
“Rett,” I say, putting just enough steel in my voice to make it clear I’m not backing down. “Sit. Down.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a moment, I think he’s goingto refuse. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he moves to the couch, sinking down next to Tristan.
“Thank you,” I say, letting my tone soften. “Now, I’m going to make some actual food. Something simple but nutritious. And you four are going to sit there and let the ibuprofen work, and then we’re going to talk. Really talk.”
I move back to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to survey the contents. I pull out eggs, cheese, and a variety of vegetables. An omelet. Simple, quick, protein-rich.
As I work, I’m acutely aware of their eyes on me. Four pairs, watching my every move with varying degrees of intensity. It should feel uncomfortable, being the center of such focused attention. Instead, it feels... right. Natural. Like the most normal thing in the world to have these four men silently tracking my movements as I crack eggs into a bowl.
By the time I’ve finished cooking and divided the omelet onto plates, the painkillers seem to be taking effect. The tight, pained lines around their eyes have softened slightly. Their postures are more relaxed, the rigid tension easing from their shoulders.
“Better?” I ask, placing plates in front of each of them.
“Yes,” Dane admits, his voice less strained than before. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I warn, taking a seat across from them. “We still have to have that talk.”
Tristan winces, but it’s more theatrical than pained. “Can’t we just eat our omelets in blissful, non-confrontational silence?”
“No,” I say firmly. “We can’t. We’ve been dancing around this for days, and I’m tired of it. So eat, and then we talk.”
They eat. Not with their usual hearty appetites, but they eat. The static may be diminished by the medication, but it’s clearly still there.
When the plates are cleared, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s start with the obvious. The bond is gone.The marks have faded. And the static is back, worse than before.”
Four grim nods confirm my assessment.
“What I want to know is... what now? Where do we go from here?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications.
It’s Rett who finally breaks the silence.
