His smile is small. “Maybe, just this once, you don’t have to?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Before I can find one, Dane steps into the room. He doesn’t say a word, just reaches down and takes the handle of my suitcase from my hand. The warmth of his fingers brushes against mine for a fraction of a second, and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm.
“I’ve got it,” his voice is a low rumble that whispers against my ears.
“Okay,” I manage, throat suddenly dry.
The walk to the front door feels strangely long. Dane carries my bag. Tristan has already moved ahead, checking the peephole of the front door before pulling it open. Rett waits by the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe like a silent sentinel. As Ipass, Diego murmurs, “We’ve got you, Zoe,” his voice a low rumble meant only for me.
This is it. I’m actually leaving.
I take one last look around my small, quiet apartment, the only place that’s been truly mine for the last three years. Then I step into the hallway.
Rett closes the door behind me, and I turn the key in the lock. The click of the deadbolt sliding into place is loud in the silence of the hall. Final.
I stare at the closed door, at the four expectant alphas waiting for me, and a single, hysterical thought bubbles up from the chaos in my brain.
What in the ever-loving fuck have I just agreed to?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zoe
The elevator ride to the penthouse is excruciating. The thing itself is huge. Polished steel…recessed lighting…it’s probably bigger than my first studio apartment. But it feels suffocatingly small with the four of them inside. I stand in the center, my small suitcase between my feet like some pathetic island of independence, while the four of them surround me in their usual diamond formation. The tension in the air is almost visible, like heat waves rising from hot pavement.
“Almost there,” Diego says, breaking the silence as we pass the 40th floor.
I nod but don’t trust myself to speak. My stomach is doing backflips, and it’s not just from the elevator’s rapid ascent. What am I doing? Moving in with them because of a break-in? This is the kind of decision that gets you featured on one of those true crime podcasts where the host says, “And then she made a choice that would change her life forever...”
The elevator slows, then stops with a soft chime. The doors slide open to reveal a sleek foyer that I only vaguely rememberfrom our champagne-soaked arrival two nights ago. Has it really only been two nights? It feels like a lifetime.
Rett steps out first, doing that alpha thing where he scans the area. The others follow, with Dane bringing up the rear, my suitcase again in his hand despite my protests that I can carry it myself.
I step into the penthouse, and my breath ceases in my chest. In the harsh light of sobriety and full awareness, the place is even more intimidating than I remember. Soaring ceilings with exposed beams. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic view of the glittering city below. Everything is sleek, modern, and overwhelmingly masculine. All dark woods, leather, and chrome.
It’s beautiful. It’s impressive. It’s terrifying.
“Welcome home,” Tristan says, spreading his arms wide with a flourish that’s clearly meant to lighten the mood. “Again.”
I give him a look that says “too soon,” and his grin falters slightly.
“Let me show you to your room,” Rett says, already moving down a hallway to the left.
I follow, hyperaware of the slight squeak of my suitcase wheels as Dane rolls it behind me. Every step feels like I’m walking deeper into some elaborate trap, but I can’t figure out who set it or why.
The hallway branches off, and Rett stops in front of a door, pushing it open. “This is one of the guest suites. It has its own bathroom. And a lock,” he adds, pointing to the deadbolt on the inside of the door.
I peek inside, and my eyes widen. “Guest suite” is a ridiculous understatement. The room is bigger than my entire apartment. A king-sized bed dominates one wall, draped in what looks like ridiculously expensive sheets. Another wall is mostly windows, offering the same spectacular view as the living room. There’s a sleek desk, a sitting area with a small sofa, and?—
“Is that a fireplace?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
“Gas,” Rett explains. “All the bedrooms have them.”
Of course they do. Because why wouldn’t every bedroom in a penthouse have its own fireplace? These men live in a completely different universe than mine.
“The bathroom is through there,” Diego says, pointing to a door on the far wall. “There should be fresh towels, but if you need anything else...”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut him off, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but I need to establish some boundaries immediately. “Thank you.”
