“With less stalking,” Tristan promises.
“And more communication,” Dane finishes.
Zoe looks at each of us in turn, her expression guarded but not outright hostile anymore. Progress, indeed.
“And if I say no?” she asks, the question hanging heavy between us. “If I walk away right now?”
The static in my head pulses in warning at the mere thought, and I see my brothers wince slightly, feeling the same surge. But it’s not just the static that makes my chest tighten with dread. It’s the thought of never seeing her again, never knowing Zoe Clarke, never learning all the stories behind those doodles in her planner.
“Then we respect your decision,” Rett says, though the words seem to cost him. “But I hope you don’t.”
“I know this is all wrong. The claiming, the planner, all of it. We’ve been acting like brutes.” A self-deprecating smile touches my lips. “But when you find something... rare... you forget your manners. I hope you’ll give us a chance to remember them.”
Zoe’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think I see a flicker of the same longing I feel. But before she can respond, Dave returns to our table, this time with his own bottle of beer, which he promptly sloshes across the table as he sets it down too hard.
“You know,” he says, his voice louder and slurrier than before, “I’ve been thinking. Never took you for the type to need four alphas, Zo. One not good enough for you?”
Rett’s jaw clenches. “This conversation is over.”
“I’m talking to Zoe,” Dave insists, poking a finger in her direction. “Since when do you let alphas speak for you, huh? You always said you didn’t need one. Now you’ve got four? What changed?”
“Dave,” Zoe says, her voice hard. “Go back to your friends.”
“Just wondering,” he continues, either oblivious to or ignoring the danger signals emanating from our side of the table. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing with these stiffs anyway? They don’t look like they know how to show a girl a good time.”
I feel it before I hear it. A low, collective growl building in the chest of each Sterling brother. It vibrates through the table, through the floor, cutting through the noise of the bar like a hot knife through butter.
Dave finally seems to register the threat, his bleary eyes widening as he takes in the four alphas now half-standing, united in a single purpose.
“Whoa,” he says, taking a stumbling step backward. “Calm down, fellas. Just making conversation.”
“No,” Dane says simply. “You weren’t.”
Zoe stands abruptly, her hands flat on the table. “Enough. All of you.”
Her voice cuts through the tension like a bucket of cold water. We freeze, all four of us, caught between the instinct to protect and the command in her voice.
She turns to Dave first. “You. Back to your table. Now. Or I’m telling Sam about the time you tried to skip out on your tab.”
Dave blinks, then nods, backing away without another word.
Then she turns to us, her expression a mixture of exasperation and something else I can’t pinpoint. “And you four. Outside. Now.”
“But—” Tristan begins.
“Now,” she repeats, already grabbing her planner and heading for the door.
We exchange glances, then follow, weaving through the crowd after her like ducklings following their mother.
As we step out into the cool night air, I can’t help but wonder if we’ve just made things better or worse. But one thing is clear: Zoe Clarke is not a woman to be underestimated.
And somehow, that makes me want her even more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Zoe
The night air feels like a slap to the face after the stuffy heat of The Anchor. I inhale deeply, letting the coolness clear my head as I stride ahead of my...alphas? Stalkers? Claimants? God, I don’t even know what to call them.
