“You think?” Tristan hisses, his eyes darting around the crowded space. “This place is?—”
“Perfect,” Rett finishes, a grim understanding settling over his features. “For her purposes, anyway.”
I scan the room, trying to spot Zoe among the sea of faces. The bar is packed, every table occupied, bodies pressed together in a way that would make any alpha’s territorial instincts flare. Which, again, is probably the point.
And then I see her.
She’s wearing a black miniskirt and a simple sleeveless white top, her legs looking impossibly long in a pair of heels that have no business being in a place like this. She looks like a panther that’s wandered into a petting zoo. Sleek, dangerous, and completely in charge.
Her hair is loose, hanging down in dark waves, and as she turns her head—fuck—my gaze locks onto her neck.
It’s exposed.
No scarf. No hiding. Just four stark, vivid claiming marks on her pale skin, glowing like brands under the dim bar lights. She isn’t hiding them. She’sflauntingthem. Daring the world—daringus—to look.
My cock jerks against my zipper, blood roaring in my ears.
“There,” I grit out, nodding toward the corner table. My voice comes out rough. “Corner table.”
As if sensing our attention, she glances up. Her eyes meet mine across the room. There’s no smile, no greeting. Just a slow, assessing stare that makes my pulse kick like a live wire.
“Fuck,” Dane breathes beside me, his usual ‘eloquence’ obliterated.
Tristan lets out a low whistle. “She looks pissed.”
“She looksmine,” I correct, my alpha surging forward before I can leash it. The words come out half-growl, half-possession. Because that’s what this is. A challenge. A claim of her own. And my alpha acknowledges it.
God help me, I’ve never been harder in my life.
“Let’s not keep her waiting,” Rett says, already moving through the crowd with the expectation that people will part for him. They usually do, but not here. Here, he has to weave and dodge like the rest of us mortals, his irritation growing with each step.
I follow, murmuring “Perdón” and “Excuse me” as I navigate through the press of bodies. The closer we get to Zoe, the more the static in my head seems to recede, replaced by a warm, pleasant hum. It’s not the complete silence Tristan described from his bathroom encounter, but it’s better. Manageable.
By the time we reach her table, I’m almost smiling despite the circumstances. Just being in her proximity feels like taking a deep breath after being underwater too long.
“Zoe,” Rett greets her, his voice carefully neutral.
She takes a slow sip of her beer before responding. “Right on time. I’m impressed.”
“We aim to please,” Tristan says, flashing his dimple in what I recognize as his “charm the pants off them” smile.
It doesn’t land. Zoe’s expression remains cool as she gestures to the empty stools around the high-top table. “Have a seat. If you can find room.”
The table is tiny, clearly meant for drinks, not dinner. The stools are backless and look like they’ve survived multiple bar fights. Dane eyes them before lowering himself onto one.
Rett remains standing, his gaze fixed on Zoe. “This isn’t exactly conducive to conversation.”
“Isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow. “I thought alphas were good at adapting. Or does your superior biology only work in penthouse suites?”
Ouch. The barb hits its mark, and I wince on behalf of all of us.
“Fair enough,” I say, taking the stool directly across from her. “We’ll adapt.”
Rett reluctantly sits, immediately reaching for a napkin to wipe down the sticky tabletop. His hand comes away with something unidentifiable clinging to it, and he grimaces.
“Charming place,” Tristan comments, tugging at his silk shirt as he perches on the remaining stool. “Very... authentic.”
“It’s genuine,” Zoe replies. “No pretense. What you see is what you get.”
