“Okay,” Tristan says, clapping his hands together. “Who’s cooking dinner?”
There’s a pause. A long, awkward silence.
“I’m ordering takeout,” Rett says, already pulling out his phone.
“Agreed,” Diego says, tossing the box of cereal back onto the counter.
“Definitely not me,” Tristan chimes in, grinning.
Dane doesn’t even bother answering.
I sigh, shaking my head. “Cowards.”
But I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Zoe
Iwake up with the ghost of a kiss on my lips and a sense of impending doom in the pit of my stomach.
It’s been three days. Three days of tiptoeing around this massive penthouse, of sharing tense, polite meals, of trying to pretend that Rett Sterling didn’t publicly brand my mouth as his in the middle of a grocery store parking lot.
We haven’t talked about it. Of course, we haven’t. We’re in a fragile, unspoken truce where we all pretend to be normal roommates, and bringing up the fact that the pack alpha basically dry-humped me against the GLS is definitely not on the “normal roommate” conversation list.
I groan, rolling over and burying my face in a pillow that smells faintly of expensive linen and him. Cedarwood. It’s a constant, low-level assault on my senses. A reminder that I am in their territory.
I glance at the clock: 7:02 AM. I should get up. Get dressed. Go to work. The thought of the gallery, of escaping this super-charged alpha den for the familiar, sane world of art andarchives, is the only thing keeping me from having a full-blown meltdown. It’s my lifeline. My exit strategy.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I see Helen’s name on the screen. Finally. I’ve been waiting for her to call with an update on when we can get back inside.
“Hello?” I say, pushing myself up against the headboard.
“Zoe, darling!” Her voice is overly cheerful. “Just wanted to catch you before you left for the day. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I was just about to get ready. I can be there in an hour to help with the inventory.”
“Ah,” she says, and there’s a beat of hesitation. “Well, that’s actually why I’m calling. Don’t bother coming in today. Or for the rest of the week, for that matter.”
My stomach clenches. “What? Why? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says, a little too quickly. “The police have just... requested that the gallery remain an active crime scene for a few more days while they finish their investigation. Insurance protocols, you understand. No one is allowed in or out.”
“For the rest of theweek?” I repeat, a feeling of dread beginning to creep up my spine. “But Helen, the Mosseau acquisition?—”
“It can wait,” she says, her tone making it clear this is not up for debate. “Everything is on hold. I’ll call you if anything changes, but for now, just... take the time off. Lord knows you’ve earned it after everything.” Her voice softens with a hint of something I can’t quite place—pity? Curiosity? “I’m sure your... hosts... will keep you occupied.”
Before I can respond, she adds a brisk, “Talk soon!” and hangs up.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the blank wall opposite my bed.
No work. For the rest of the week.
My lifeline. My escape route. Gone.
The reality of my situation crashes down on me. I’m not just a guest here. I’m a prisoner. A very well-cared-for prisoner in a luxurious, fifty-story cage, but a prisoner nonetheless. With four alphas as my wardens.
A slow, creeping sense of panic begins to build in my chest. What am I going to do all day? Stare at the walls? Meditate? Learn to knit?
