Page 10 of Marked By Alphas 2: Claimed

I scrolled through her selections, touched by her thoughtfulness. Though I had to laugh at some of the titles: “Ultimate Body Transformation” and “Beast Mode Training” seemed a bit ambitious for someone who currently needed help standing up.

The afternoon drifted by in a haze of YouTube fitness gurus and Maria’s endless tea supply. Anna’s determined dusting reached new heights of obsession—I swear she polished that same vase six times. I was deep in a video about proper squat form—because apparently my dreams of supernatural strength needed proper form, who knew?—when that familiar tingle raced down my spine.

Marcus filled the doorway like some kind of luxury fashion fever dream come to life. Seriously, how did someone make a business suit look like couture runway material? It should be criminal to look that good after hours of alpha politics. He moved toward me with that liquid grace all three brothers shared—part predator, part runway model, all dangerous to my mental health.

The leather couch creaked softly as he settled beside me, and suddenly the spacious living room felt about three sizes too small. His presence wrapped around me like an expensive cologne-scented blanket, making my skin prickle with awareness. Great. Just what my poor gay disaster heart needed—Marcus Stone in full alpha mode at point-blank range.

“I have something for you,” he said in that voice that belonged in a phone sex hotline for the supernaturally blessed. He placed a sleek box in my lap—the latest phone model, because apparently when you’re a Stone, you don’t do anything by halves.

“Marcus, I can’t?—”

His lips brushed my forehead, and my brain immediately went offline. Error 404: Coherent Thought Not Found. “Your numbers are already programmed in—mine, Derek and Caleb, Maria, Jorge, Miguel, Anna. Everyone you might need.” His fingers traced my jaw, tilting my face up, and hello, butterflies in stomach, nice of you to join the party. “You’re our mate, little one. Let us take care of you.”

I swallowed hard, caught between the heat in his eyes and the weight of what had to be the world’s most expensive ‘sorry you got attacked by werewolves’ gift in my lap. “I— That’s not— You don’t have to?—”

“I know I don’t have to,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “I want to. We want to. That’s what mates do—they provide, they protect, they cherish.”

The way he said ‘cherish’ was downright dangerous. Actually, this whole situation was unfair—his proximity, his scent (what was that cologne, Eau de Alpha?), the way his presence seemed to fill the entire room like some kind of supernatural space heater. How was anyone supposed to form coherent arguments against expensive gifts when faced with all… that? It was like trying to debate economics with a Greek god.

“Thank you,” I managed, proud that my voice only shook a little. Though whether that was from the gift or from the way his eyes had gone midnight dark, I wasn’t sure.

His smile was pure satisfaction, like a wolf who’d just cornered particularly tasty prey. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous octave that probably made flowers bloom and small animals swoon. Good thing I was already sitting down because my knees definitely got the memo about turning to jelly. “I think that deserves a proper thank you, don’t you?”

“I already said thank—” The words evaporated like morning mist when his hand cupped my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip again like he was mapping territory. Hello, gay panic, my old friend.

“A proper thank you,” he repeated. “Just one kiss.”

Right. Just one kiss. Like anything with Marcus Stone could ever be ‘just’ anything. But who was I to argue when he was looking at me like that—like I was something precious and edible all at once? I meant it to be quick, just a brief ‘thanks for the ridiculously expensive phone’ peck. But the moment I leaned in, Marcus growled—actually growled—and suddenly ‘quick’ wasn’t even in the same zip code as what was happening.

His mouth claimed mine with the kind of precision that belonged in a tactical operation manual. Chapter One: How to Destroy Your Mate’s Higher Brain Functions in Ten Seconds or Less. His tongue swept inside, and whatever remnants of coherent thought I had left, packed their bags and went on vacation. My hands fisted in his stupid expensive suit as he pulled me closer, practically into his lap. Every stroke of his tongue, every gentle bite to my lower lip sent electricity shooting down my spine like some kind of supernatural defibrillator.

He kissed like he was mapping uncharted territory, claiming every inch, and my traitorous body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm, melting against him with a needy whimper that I’d definitely deny making later. So much for playing it cool. Though honestly? Cool had left the building around the same time Marcus walked in.

When he finally released me, I was dizzier than that time Luke convinced me to try that spinning teacup ride after eating corn dogs. The world had narrowed down to just this—his taste (expensive coffee and pure sin), his touch (devastatingly addictive), and the way his eyes had gone from midnight to total eclipse.

“Always one step ahead, aren’t you, brother?”

I jumped at Caleb’s voice, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. Fantastic. How long had he been watching? And why did that thought send heat pooling in my stomach instead of mortification to my brain?

“Buying our mate a phone to earn kisses?” Caleb pushed off the doorway with the kind of grace that made my heart skip several beats. “Clever.”

He settled on my other side, effectively trapping me between two supernatural space heaters. This was fine. Everything was fine. I was just sandwiched between two impossibly gorgeous wolf shifters.

“It’s not really fair though, is it?” His fingers traced my jaw, turning my face toward him, and oh boy, here we go again. “I think I deserve a kiss too.”

“I— I need a minute,” I managed, still reeling from Marcus’ kiss-induced brain scrambling. “Just to clear my head?—”

“You can clear your head after,” Caleb purred—actually purred. “Right now, I want to taste you.”

His kiss was different from Marcus’—less conquering general, more seductive artist. Where Marcus conquered, Caleb painted, his tongue teasing mine with playful flicks that had me chasing his taste like some kind of kiss-drunk butterfly. His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head for better access as he deepened the kiss. I moaned embarrassingly loud when he sucked on my tongue, my body practically vibrating like I’d mainlined espresso.

By the time he pulled back, I was panting like I’d run a marathon, my head spinning and my body on fire. Both brothers watched me with heated eyes, looking entirely too pleased with themselves. Smug werewolves should not be this attractive. It wasn’t fair.

“I think we broke him,” Caleb observed with the satisfaction of someone who’d just won gold in mate-kissing.

Marcus hummed in agreement, his thumb still stroking my kiss-swollen lips. “Yet he takes it so beautifully.”

I should probably be offended by them talking about me like I wasn’t there, but honestly? My brain had officially checked out, gone on vacation, and left a “sorry we missed you” note on the door. Between Marcus’ conquering general kiss and Caleb’s artistic seduction, I was pretty sure I’d never think straight again. Which, given that I was gay, was probably fitting.

---