CHAPTER THREE
Rett
For the first time in five years, I wake up to silence.
Not the external kind. The city is still humming forty-nine floors below, and Tristan is snoring softly beside me. But inside my head, where the relentless static has lived for years, there’s... nothing.
Just blessed, perfect quiet.
My eyes fix on the book on the nightstand where a tattered copy of The Odyssey rests. Before the static, I used to read for an hour every morning. For the first time in years, the thought of focusing on a printed page doesn’t feel like an impossible task. I almost weep with relief at the thought of being able to do it again.
I lie still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply in case it triggers the return of that maddening buzz. That biological alarm system that’s been slowly driving me and my pack insane. The static: nature’s not-so-subtle way of telling us we need a mate and time is running out.
But it’s gone. Completely gone.
I inhale deeply, testing the stillness in my mind, and catch ascent that makes my entire body go rigid with recognition. Beta. Female.Ours. The events of last night flood back in technicolor detail.Zoe. The assistant curator at Sweetwater Modern Gallery with the sharp tongue and sharper wit, who’d stood her ground when I’d attempted to commandeer her champagne glass. Who’d gotten Diego so excited talking about the local food scene that he'd actually forgotten to flirt for a full ten minutes. Who’d rendered Tristan momentarily speechless, a feat no one had ever witnessed, simply by asking a sharp, insightful question about his latest project. Who’d somehow coaxed three full sentences from Dane in the span of five minutes.
Zoe, who now carries our marks. All four of them.
My hand instinctively reaches for the space beside me, but I find only cool sheets. I bolt upright, eyes scanning the bed. Tristan is sprawled on his back like a starfish. Diego is curled at the head of the bed like the world’s most pampered house cat. Dane is pressed against the edge of the mattress, his face buried in a pillow.
But no Zoe.
I scent the air again. The manufactured notes are cherry blossom and lavender. Pleasant, but it’s a pale substitute. It can’t mask the fragrance that’s actually hers: the rich, dark note of coffee she loves, the faint scent of old paper from her gallery, and under it all, the sweet, clean scent of the woman herself.
The bathroom. She must be in the bathroom.
Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived. The bathroom door is open, the light off. I focus, listening past Tristan’s snoring for any sound from the bathroom, but there’s nothing. I draw in a slow breath, sorting the scents in the room. Ours are warm, present. Hers is... cool.
“Zoe?”
Silence.
She’s gone.
My alpha roars to life inside me, matched to the rhythm of my suddenly racing heart. I need to wake the others. Now.
“Up,” I bark, alpha command slipping out without conscious thought. “All of you. Up.”
The effect is immediate. Diego jerks awake with a startled “¿Qué pasa?” while Tristan groans dramatically and Dane simply opens his eyes, instantly alert.
“She’s gone,” I say, already moving off the bed, pulling on the first pair of pants I find. “Zoe’s gone.”
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” Tristan sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Like, making coffee gone? Or left the building gone?”
“Left the building gone,” I growl, tossing clothes at each of them. “Get dressed.”
Diego catches the shirt I throw at him, but doesn’t put it on. Instead, he closes his eyes, his expression one of deep concentration. “The static,” he says after a moment, wonder coloring his voice. “Rett, it’s gone.”
“I know.” I pause in the middle of buttoning my shirt. “I woke up and... nothing.”
“Holy shit,” Tristan breathes, pressing his palms against his temples like he’s checking for a fever. “It’s actually gone. Not just quieter or different. Completely gone.”
Dane, who has been standing rigid this whole time, slowly rolls his neck. A small, cracking sound echoes in the room. He opens and closes his fists, as if testing them.
“The pressure is gone,” he says.
For a moment, we all just stand there, four grown-ass alphas having what can only be described as a collective existential crisis in our underwear. The static, that maddening static that’s been slowly driving us to the brink, has vanished overnight.
