I grip the edges of the sink, forcing myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It doesn’t help. My reflection is a mess of wild eyes and pale skin, dominated by the intricate marks on my neck. I can feel them throbbing against my pulse, reminding me with every beat of what I’ve done.
What’s worse is the thought that is truly sending me spiraling: that some traitorous corner of my beta brain is preening at being chosen by not one, butfourpowerful alphas. At being the center of their attention, their desire, their protection.
That’s not me. I’ve never wanted a pack. Never wanted tobe claimed. I’ve built my entire identity around being unbothered by the alpha/omega dynamics that dictate so much of society.
And now, in one champagne-soaked night, I’ve become the claimed mate of the Sterling Pack.
I hear a rustle from the bedroom, the sound of someone turning over in their sleep, and I freeze. They’ll wake up soon. And then what? What do you say to the four alphas who’ve just fundamentally altered your existence?
‘Thanks for the orgasms, but I didn’t sign up for this biological bond’?
‘You know how people say ‘what happens at the Sterling parties stays at the Sterling parties’? Let’s test that theory.’
‘I know we’re bonded now, but I was thinking this should be a one-night stand.’
My breathing becomes erratic again. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I catch another scent. Stronger this time. Cedarwood.Rett. Like he’s somehow reaching for me even in his sleep.
And my stupid, traitorous body responds. My breathing steadies. My muscles relax. The room stops spinning.
What the actual fuck?
“This can’t be real,” I whisper to my reflection, but the claiming marks don’t disappear. If anything, they seem to darken as the minutes pass, settling into my skin like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there.
I need to get out of here. I need to think, to breathe, to process this catastrophe somewhere that doesn’t smell like a cocktail of alpha pheromones specifically designed to short-circuit my brain.
But my legs won’t move. It’s like they know something my panicking mind doesn’t. That running from this is impossible. That I’m connected to those four men now in ways I can’t escape.
I slide back down to the floor, my back against the cabinet,and put my head between my knees. The bathroom spins around me, reality shifting on its axis.
Four alphas. One beta. A claim that shouldn’t be possible.
And me, trapped in their bathroom, having an existential crisis while they sleep peacefully in the next room, unaware that they’ve just destroyed my carefully constructed life with their teeth and their scents and their goddamn perfect bodies.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
CHAPTER TWO
Zoe
Sitting on the bathroom floor isn’t solving anything. The longer I stay here, the greater the chances one of them will wake up, find me, and then what? They offer me a polite, pitying smile? Apologize profusely for the ‘misunderstanding’ and assure me these marks will fade? Inform me that it was a huge, drunken mistake and gently ask me to leave?
A cold dread snakes around my heart, colder than the marble beneath me. That’s what I should want, right? An easy out. A get-out-of-jail-free card.
So why does the thought of them rejecting me feel a thousand times worse than the thought of them keeping me?
I need to get out. Now.
I push myself up from the cold marble, determination fueling my shaky legs. First problem: clothes. I’ve got my bra, but that’s not going to cut it for a dignified exit. Or any exit, really.
I crack the bathroom door and peer into the bedroom.
Rett is sprawled on his back, the sheet barely clinging to one sculpted hip, leaving the rest of him shamelessly on display. The hard planes of his abdomen, the thick muscle of his thighs, anddefinitely the heavy, half-hard length of him that makes my mouth go dry.
Diego hasn’t even bothered with the sheet. One leg is thrown wide, his body a warm, shameless sprawl of golden skin, and his cock fully on display. Thick and flushed, the memory of what it did to me last night sends a traitorous pulse between my thighs.
Tristan has an arm slung over his face, but the rest of him is a feast. Broad shoulders, perfect dark skin with a trail of black curls leading down to where his cock lies heavy against his thigh, still glistening from?—
Oh God.
