CHAPTER SIX
Zoe
My apartment feels both foreign and too familiar after the luxury of the Sterling penthouse. The worn couch with its coffee stain that never quite came out. The mismatched bookshelf crammed with art books and novels. The kitchen with its single chipped mug sitting in the sink.
Home. Safe. Normal.
Except nothing feels normal anymore.
I’ve already showered twice, scrubbing my skin until it was pink and raw, but their scents cling to me like a ghost. Dane’s peppermint is so thick against my collarbone, I swear he must have been using me as his personal pillow half the night. What’s worse is I can still feel their hands on my body, their mouths on my skin, the pressure of their teeth as they marked me.
I touch my neck for the hundredth time, tracing the claiming marks with delicate fingers. They’re still there. Hot to the touch, slightly raised, a permanent reminder of last night’s insanity.
“Okay, Zoe, you can wake up now,” I mutter to my emptyapartment. I’ve tried everything. Ice, hot compresses, even a generous layer of my most expensive concealer. Nothing works.
I’m pacing the length of my living room when the doorbell rings, sending me into a full-body panic. I freeze, eyes darting to the door.
They found me.
But that’s impossible. They don’t know where I live. Unless... unless they tracked me somehow.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time.
I grab the oversized scarf draped over my couch and wrap it around my neck, tucking the ends carefully to ensure not a single mark is visible. After that run-in with Mrs. Grant, I’ve learned my lesson.
Moving as quietly as possible, I creep to the door and peer through the peephole.
It’s not the Sterling pack. It’s a delivery guy, looking bored and slightly impatient.
I exhale shakily and open the door just enough to see him properly.
“Delivery for Zoe Clarke?” he says, consulting his tablet.
“That’s me,” I say cautiously.
He hands me a package, a sleek black box tied with a simple ribbon, and a thermos. “Signature required,” he says, holding out his tablet.
I scrawl something that might pass for my name and close the door before he can notice anything odd about me. Like the fact that I’m wearing a wool scarf indoors despite the heat.
I stare at the smooth black box and the thermos in my hands, a deep sense of suspicion coiling in my gut. I'm not expecting a delivery. Who on earth would be sending me anything?
There’s only one possible answer.
The thermos is warm to the touch, and when I unscrew the cap, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills my apartment. Not just any coffee, either. The good stuff. The kind that costs more per pound than I spend on groceries in a week.
I frown, setting it aside to open the box. Inside is a pastry that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. A perfectly flaky croissant, still warm somehow, dusted with just the right amount of powdered sugar. The logo on the decorative paper tells me it’s from Sweet Omega, my best friend’s bakery. Whether that’s by coincidence or just them being stalkery, I’m not sure. But something tells me the Sterlings don’t do anything by “coincidence.”
A small card sits beside it, elegant handwriting on thick, cream-colored stock:
Zoe, we know this is a lot. Please just let us know you’re safe. Your phone is enclosed. We’ll keep your planner safe until we can return it to you in person. - Diego
My stomach does a weird little flip, immediately followed by a flare of indignation. At the bottom of the box, as promised, is my phone, neatly wrapped in tissue paper.
But no planner. My planner. My whole organizational system, my personal assistant, my memory bank. They’re keeping it hostage.
I snatch up my phone, relieved to see it’s at least intact, and immediately see a barrage of texts from Leah. But before I can process this unexpected gift/ransom situation, my phone buzzes with another incoming text. I see it’s from Leah, not one of my... alphas. God, I can’t even think that without cringing.
Leah
