Dane has rolled to the edge of the bed, his back a broad, powerful map of shifting muscle and pale skin. The curve of his spine is a deep valley between two thick ridges of muscle that flex even in his sleep. One shift, and he’d be just as exposed as the others.
They’re like a Renaissance painting of sin and temptation. And somehow, impossibly,they’re all mine.
No. Not mine. This was a mistake. A champagne-fueled glitch in the matrix that we’ll all laugh about someday. Maybe. In fifty years. When I’ve recovered from the trauma.
I scan the room for any sign of my little black dress. Nothing. Which means I need to venture further into alpha territory.
Taking a deep breath, I slip out of the bathroom, the plush carpet silencing my footsteps. The bedroom opens into what looks like a massive living area. If I remember correctly from the blurry ride from the gala, that’s where the front door should be.
I inch toward the doorway, keeping my eyes locked on the sleeping pack. One step. Two steps. Three?—
Dane shifts in his sleep, rolling toward my side of the bed, and I freeze. His eyelids flutter, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to wake up. But then he settles, burying his face in a pillow.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t wake them all. I’ve read that a truly bonded alpha’s hearing becomesso attuned to his omega that he can hear her whimper from across a crowded room.
Thank god I’m not an omega.
It’s probably the only reason my frantic, jackhammering heartbeat hasn’t already triggered some kind of pack-wide alarm. Another small sign that whatever the hell this bond is, it's definitely bonkers. And, for now at least, that's working in my favor.
I reach the doorway and slip through it, finding myself in a sprawling open-concept living space that belongs in an architectural magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the city that would be breathtaking if I weren’t having an active panic attack. To my right is a kitchen with gleaming marble countertops. To my left, a sunken living room with tastefully arranged furniture. And straight ahead is what I assume is the front door.
But still no dress.
I scan the area frantically. The place is immaculate. No trail of hastily discarded clothing leading from door to bedroom. These alphas are apparently neat freaks in addition to being claiming-happy.
I start toward the living room, hoping my dress was dropped there or something, when a deep, rumbling murmur from the bedroom sends me diving behind the kitchen island. I crouch there, heart in my throat, straining to hear.
“Mine… our beta…” It’s Rett’s voice, thick with sleep, mumbling words that make my skin flush hot despite my panic. “Keep her safe...”
I wait, frozen in place, until his sleep-talking subsides into the rhythm of deep breathing again. Even unconscious, they’re laying claim to me. Great.
I’m running out of time. Any minute now, one of them could actually wake up.
Think, Zoe.Where would my clothes be?
I peek around the island. No dress draped over the couch. No underwear hanging from the chandelier.
Then I see it. A flash of black fabric peeking out from under the edge of the ridiculously large sofa.
I dart across the open space, wincing as my naked feet slap against the hardwood floor. I drop to my knees and reach under the couch, my fingers closing around the familiar silk of my dress. I pull it out, and thankfully, my missing shoe comes with it, dragged along in a messy tangle. My underwear, however, is nowhere to be seen.
From the bedroom comes Diego’s voice, soft and crooning in his sleep. “Cariño... come back to bed...”
I freeze, certain I’ve been caught, but his words melt into a sigh. He’s dreaming. Dreaming ofme?
My heart hammers as I clutch the dress in my grasp. I pull it on, my arms twisting behind my back as I fumble for the tiny, delicate zipper. My fingers are too shaky; the angle impossible. To hell with it. I grab my shoes and look around desperately for my purse.
There. The strap is barely visible as it hangs off one side of the couch. I lunge for it just as Dane lets out a low, possessive growl in his sleep that raises the hair on my arms.
I pause, one hand on my purse, the other clutching my shoes. My unzipped dress hangs precariously off one shoulder. I strain my ears, listening for any sign that the growl might be followed by footsteps, but there’s only silence.
I release a breath and grab my purse, shoving my feet into my shoes. I’m pantyless, but there’s no going back for them. I’ll leave here with some dignity, even if it means a very... breezy walk of shame.
I’m halfway to the front door, my hand already reaching for the handle, when I stop dead, a low, frustrated growl rumbling in my own throat.
Dammit.
I can’t just disappear. As much as I want to, as much as everyself-preservation instinct is screaming at me to become a ghost and never look back, my stupid, over-developed sense of basic human decency is getting in the way.
