Behind me, I hear the door swing open again, followed by the sound of four sets of expensive shoes hitting the pavement. I don’t turn around, just keep walking until I reach the corner, where I finally stop and face them.
They look ridiculous, the four Sterling brothers, standing in a neat row outside a dive bar like they’re posing for a particularly awkward family portrait. Rett’s coffee-colored blazer has a damp patch where someone spilled beer on him. Tristan’s silk shirt is wrinkled, the collar askew. Diego’s white shirt has somehow acquired a smear of what I hope is wing sauce across one sleeve. Only Dane looks relatively unscathed, though his jaw is clenched so tight I can practically hear his teeth grinding.
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “That was fun.”
“Your definition of fun needs work,” Tristan mutters, running a hand through his curls.
“Please. You walked into a fisherman’s bar looking like the cast of a reality show about billionaire bachelors,” I point out. “One part CEO on a casual Friday, one part musician on his day off, and one part... well, Dane actually looks fine. But the point stands. What did you expect?”
“Not to be challenged by a drunk alpha with boundary issues,” Rett says, his voice still carrying an edge of that growl from inside.
Tristan holds up a single, corrective finger. “Technicality, but we’re actually just multi-millionaires. The ‘billionaire’ status is Rett’s father’s territory. Let’s not give the old man credit where it’s not due.”
I give him a flat, unimpressed look. “Oh, my apologies. Just multi-millionaires. How careless of me. I’ll be sure to use the correct tax bracket for my insults next time.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again. “Dave is harmless. All bark, no bite.” I pause, then gesture to the four of them, a dry, pointed look on my face. “Unlike some people I could mention.”
Tristan actually snorts a laugh before catching Rett’s glare and smothering it.
“He was disrespectful,” Dane says, completely ignoring my joke, his tone flat and final. As if that explains and justifies everything.
“So your solution was to nearly start a bar fight?” I shake my head. “Very mature.”
“We didn’t start anything,” Diego protests, stepping forward. “We were defending you.”
“I don’t need defending,” I say, softer this time. “Especially not from Dave, who I’ve known for two years and who has all the aggressive capability of a golden retriever on sedatives.”
The four of them exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them that makes me feel like an outsider. It’sstrange, that easy intimacy they share, the way they can read each other without words.
“Look,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “I appreciate the... sentiment. But I can handle myself. I’ve been doing it for twenty-six years without an alpha, let alone four of them.”
“We know,” Rett says, surprising me with the quick concession. “That’s part of what makes you... you.”
I blink, thrown off balance by the unexpected compliment. “Well...good.”
A beat of awkward silence follows, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic and the muted thump of music still emanating from The Anchor.
“So,” Tristan says, rocking back on his heels. “That went well.”
Diego elbows him sharply. “It was a disaster,” he corrects, his warm brown eyes finding mine. “But maybe, if you’re willing, we could try again? Somewhere quieter? Where we can actually talk?”
I hesitate, studying them. The sidewalk suddenly feels too narrow with all four of them surrounding me. I cross my arms, my back pressing against the brick wall behind me as if it might offer escape.
Rett steps forward first, his shadow falling across me in the streetlight. His usual polished composure has cracks tonight; I see it in the way his shoulders are rigid, and there’s a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw.
Tristan leans against a lamppost like we’re just having a casual chat, but the usual playful glint in his eyes has sharpened into something more intense. His fingers drum an uneven rhythm against the metal pole.
Dane stands slightly apart, his massive frame blocking the sidewalk’s flow of pedestrians. He doesn’t fidget, but his gaze never wavers from my face, like he’s memorizing every microexpression.
Diego breaks first. “Zoe...” His voice comes out rough, and he reaches for me before stopping himself mid-motion.
A lump rises in my throat.
And then there’s what Diego said inside, about the grumpy cat doodles and the muffins and all the little things that somehow made me feel... seen. Not just claimed or desired, but actually seen.
“Okay,” I say finally. “That was a disaster. But Diego, what you said in there... maybe you’re right. We need to figure this out.”
Relief washes over their faces, so palpable I can almost smell it mixing with their distinct alpha scents.
