“Or four alphas because you’re incredibly desirable,” Dane murmurs from behind, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
My cheeks heat at that, a reaction I blame entirely on the claiming marks and whatever weird beta-alpha voodoo is happening to my biology.
“This static thing you mentioned back at the bar,” I ask, changing the subject. “You said I make it... quiet. What exactly did you mean by that?”
Rett glances back at me, his pace slowing to match mine.
“It’s... complicated. The static isn’t new. It’s been getting worse for months. Years, really. We’d tried everything. Medical intervention, therapy, even a specialist in Switzerland who deals with rare alpha conditions.”
“Nothing worked,” Diego adds. “It was just getting louder, more disruptive.”
“Then we met you,” Tristan continues. “And it was like... I don’t know, like someone turned down the volume. Not off, but quieter. More manageable.”
“But after the claiming,” Dane says, “silence.”
“Complete silence,” Rett confirms. “For the first time in five years.”
I digest this as we walk, the implications settling over me like a weight. If what they’re saying is true, then I’m not just some beta they claimed on a whim. I’m some kind of... what? Cure? Treatment? Biological off-switch?
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say finally.
Diego gives a small, soft shrug, his warm eyes meeting mine in the dim light. “Así es la vida,” he says quietly. “Some things aren’t meant to make sense. They just... are.”
I touch the marks on my neck. They’re even warmer today, if that’s possible. “Maybe they’ll fade eventually. Maybe this is just... a weird delayed reaction.”
“Maybe,” Rett says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe you’re special.”
“Or maybe you four are just really stubborn,” I counter.
Tristan laughs at that. “Also possible.”
We lapse into silence as we turn onto my street. The pavement is cracked and repaired so many times that it looks like a patchwork quilt. I automatically steer around the familiar pothole near the fire hydrant, the one that’s been there since I moved in. Light glows from behind the blinds of my neighbors’ windows, and I spot an old man on his usual bench, nodding off with his newspaper in his lap. My building is midway down the block, its brick facade warm in the glow of the old-fashioned lamp posts.
As we approach, I see a familiar hunched figure. The neighborhood watch. Otherwise known as Mrs. Grant. She’s clutching the leash of her tiny, shivering Pomeranian, Thanos.
“Mrs. Grant?” I call. “Is everything okay?”
She looks up, her face brightening. “Oh, Zoe! Thank goodness. Thanos is absolutely refusing to do his business. He gets so anxious when there are... strangers.” Her eyes widen as she takes in the four men standing behind me. Thanos lets out a series of high-pitched, furious yaps.
“Hush, Thanos!” she scolds, but she’s not looking at the dog. She’s staring at Dane’s biceps. “You have... very large company.”
“Mrs. Grant, these are... friends of mine,” I say, awkwardly gesturing to the Sterlings. “Mrs. Grant is my neighbor,” I explain to them.
“A pleasure,” Rett says with a polite nod.
Thanos continues to yap, his tiny body vibrating with what I can only assume is rage at these alpha interlopers.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Grant murmurs, her eyes darting between me and my alpha entourage. “Your friends are... very tall.”
“Yes, they are,” I agree, edging past her toward the building entrance. “Have a good night, Mrs. Grant.”
“You too, dear.” She tugs Thanos away, but not before eyeing my neck and giving the Sterlings one last, lingering look. “Very nice to meet you all. Come along, Thanos.”
Well, this is going to come and bite me in the ass later. I bite back a sigh and turn to the alphas at my back.
“This is me.” I gesture at the building.
All four of them look up at the building, and I can practically see them assessing it. It’s both annoying and, if I’m being honest, a tiny bit endearing.
