Page 18 of Marked By Alphas 2: Claimed

“Teaching what?” Caleb demanded, joining his brother in the doorway. “Advanced lap-sitting?”

“Pack history,” I held up the book as evidence. “Very educational. Did you know there’s a whole chapter on?—”

“Don’t encourage him,” Derek cut in, moving into the room with the kind of predatory grace that made my mouth go dry. “He’s already broadcasting enough smugness through the pack bond to give us a headache.”

“You’re just jealous,” Marcus murmured against my neck.

“Obviously.” Caleb dropped onto the sofa beside us, close enough that his thigh pressed against mine. “Some of us had to pack up a cottage while you got to play sexy librarian.”

“I did not—” Marcus started.

“Dinner!” Maria’s voice rang through the manor like a bell, cutting off what promised to be an interesting argument. “Now! Before Jorge’s soufflé collapses and he has another culinary crisis!”

“I heard that!” Jorge shouted. “My soufflés are perfect! I trained in Italy!”

“Then why did the last one look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

“That was artistic interpretation!”

The dining room smelled amazing—a mix of herbs and spices that made my mouth water. Jorge had outdone himself, the table laden with what looked like an Italian feast.

“Your things are in your room,” Derek informed me as Maria began serving. “We can get the rest tomorrow.”

“My room?” I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you should ask before assigning me real estate?”

“You mean the guest room you always use?” Caleb grinned. “The one Anna’s been secretly redecorating for weeks because she knew you’d end up staying?”

“I have not!” Anna called from the kitchen, then immediately contradicted herself. “The curtains just happened to match his favorite color!”

I blinked. “How does she know my favorite color?”

“Anna knows everything,” Miguel said sagely, joining us at the table. “It’s terrifying.”

“It’s efficient,” Maria corrected, setting down what had to be the world’s most perfect lasagna. “And she’s right about the curtains. That shade of blue does suit him.”

The dogs arranged themselves around the table—Shadow at Marcus’ feet but angled toward me, Storm under Derek’s chair with the same tactical positioning, and Scout sprawled dramatically between Caleb and me like he was auditioning for a dog food commercial.

“No begging,” Jorge warned as he brought out more dishes. “I already gave you special treats.”

Three pairs of puppy eyes immediately turned to me.

“Don’t even try it,” I told them firmly. “I am immune to your supernatural charm.”

Caleb snorted. “Says the person who lets all three dogs take over his bed every time he stays over.”

“They get lonely!”

“They're manipulating you,” Derek pointed out. “And you give them the good pillows.”

“Shadow looks depressed if he can’t have the memory foam one! And Storm gets cold.”

“Storm is literally a hundred and fifty pounds of fur,” Caleb laughed. “And Scout just sprawls wherever he wants.”

Marcus’ smile was entirely too knowing. “Our mate has a soft heart.”

“Our mate has been completely conquered by tactical assault units with puppy eyes,” Caleb corrected. “Face it, they’ve trained you well.”

“I am not—” I started to protest, but then Jorge set down a dish of something that smelled divine and temporarily short-circuited my brain. “Okay, what is that and why does it smell like heaven?”

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