Page 196 of Unmarked

And the worst part?

I wanted this. I asked for this. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos - between the heat and the instincts and the terrifying tidal wave of want - I reached.

And they reached back.

I didn’t know what to expect - what it would feel like to be tangled up in four different Alphas. It’s weird. Kind of overwhelming. Surreal.Nice, now I’m getting used to it.

A little like floating, a little like drowning, and alotlike knowing you’ve just rewritten the rules of your entire life.

Now I’ve got four bonds, zero pants, and a rapidly approaching existential crisis.

But... I’m okay.

I think.

Probably.

Maybe.

God, I hope Kai brought snacks.

*

I’ve showered. I’m clean. I’ve towel-dried my hair into the kind of chaotic tangle that screamsjust fought off three alphas and emotional trauma, and I’m back in the world’s fluffiest robe like it’s emotional armor.

I look like a bath bomb personified, and frankly, it’s the most put-together I’ve been in the past week.

Then the door hisses open.

Slower this time. Less dramatic. No Alpha fury storming in to growl over my scent trail or give me an orgasm and a lecture. No. This is… soup energy.

Theo.

I catch his scent before I see him: warm, calm, that gentle spice that always smells like safety and possibly cinnamon tea. He’s holding a tray full of soup, bread, and water.

Practical and perfect.

My stomach growls so loudly it could qualify as a declaration of war, and he smirks like he heard it from the hallway.

Honestly, I’m not even mad he knew I was hungry before I did. That’s kind of his whole thing, isn’t it?

I’m perched on the edge of the bed like I’m starring in the soft-core drama remake of my own meltdown, and he walks in like this isn’t the exact room where I’ve been thoroughly and repeatedly ruined.

No gawking. No tension. Just him.

Just Theo.

He sees me. Not the mess, not the heat, not the knots and the slick and the chaos, butme.

He sets the tray down, slips his hands into his pockets. “Hi.”

“Did you draw the short straw?” I ask, because my defense mechanism is sarcasm and soup shame.

He smiles, slow and sweet. “No. I rigged the draw.”

God help me, I laugh. Like, actually laugh. Even if it comes out more like a wheeze.

“You’re not here to…?”

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