LATER. I am going to shower now before my brain melts. Also, how do you know about Dane’s arms??
Leah
Honey, the entire omega population of Sweetwater knows about Dane Sterling’s arms. They practically have their own Instagram account.
Seriously, though, are you okay? Like, really?
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering. It’s the question I don’t know how to answer.
Me
I don’t know. It’s... a lot. And I think I had another nightmare.
Leah
Oh, honey. Okay. I get it. We don’t have to talk. Just... survive the morning. And call me the second you get a minute alone. I’ll have an emergency care package (aka wine and chocolate) ready.
Me
You’re the best.
Leah
I know. Now go take that shower. A long, hot one. Sometimes you just have to wash the crazy off.
I shake my head, a real, watery smile finally breaking through the mortification. Trust Leah to know exactly what I need to hear. A shower. She’s right. That’s what I need. A long, hot shower to wash the crazy off and help me face the day.
I gather clean clothes from my suitcase—jeans, a loose sweater, and underwear that isn’t soaked from a dream-induced orgasm (and isn’t that just the most mortifying thought I’ve had today).
I set everything to “scalding” and step under the spray, letting the hot water pound against my tense muscles.
As the water cascades over me, I try to make sense of everything that’s happened. The gallery break-in seems like a distant memory now, overshadowed by... whatever this is. The claiming marks that won’t fade. The dreams. The way my body responds to them, even when my brain is screaming for caution and for me to remember Rudy Lewis’ warning.
Oh God, I mentally groan.
The thought of him sends a fresh wave of professional shame through me. Rudy has always been a champion of my work. He was at the gala. He saw the collection at its peak. And now... this. He’s probably heard the news by now.He must be so disappointed. So sorry to hear that the exhibition he praised was destroyed. The thought of having to face him, to face his professional pity, is a sharp, painful ache in my chest.
I scrub at my skin with the washcloth, as if I could somehow wash away the feeling of failure, of being the curator whose watch saw the gallery’s most important collection dismantled.
What is happening to my life?
I press my forehead against the cool tile, closing my eyes. “This is temporary,” I remind myself. “Just until they catch whoever vandalized the gallery. Then you can go back to your normal life. And you can fix things.”
But even as I say it, I’m not sure what “normal” looks like anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rett
The moment the bathroom door closes behind Zoe, I’m on my feet. I give my brothers a single look—the one that means “move now, talk later”—and they’re already gathering their blankets and pillows.
“Go,” I whisper, jerking my head toward the door. “Before she comes out.”
The command feels wrong. Every step toward the door is like walking against a heavy, invisible current. A deep, instinctual part of me wants to stay, to stand guard, to remain in the room that is now saturated with her scent—and the scent of her pleasure. Ours.
We manage it, moving in near-perfect silence, each of us grabbing our makeshift bedding and sliding out of the room like thieves fleeing a crime scene. It’s not dignified. It’s not alpha. It’s four grown men running away from a woman who had a sex dream about them. About me, specifically, if Dane’s quiet revelation in the darkness is to be believed.
I’m the last one out, pulling the door closed with a soft click that feels thunderous in the tense silence. The moment itlatches, the invisible current increases in strength. Fuck.Too far.
