Page 45 of Marked By Alphas 2: Claimed

“Just remember,” I told myself, pocketing the keys and following Eomma’s determined march toward the café’s entrance, “Kai dealt with all this while running on nothing but anxiety and spite. The least I can do is handle it with the help of overpriced coffee.”

The café was exactly as pretentious as I’d expected—all exposed brick and artisanal everything. The kind of place that probably charged extra for using words like “ethically sourced” and “artfully crafted.” At seven a.m., it was mostly empty except for…

I felt them before I really saw them. Three men who looked like they’d walked off a luxury fashion shoot, all blond and perfectly styled despite the ungodly hour. One was built like an aristocrat—tall and sharp-featured, with platinum-blond hair and ice-blue eyes that should have looked cold but somehow burned. He caught my eye and actually smirked, his whole bearing screaming old money and older power.

I hated him immediately. And I definitely wasn’t noticing how that smirk made something in my stomach flip.

“You’re in the way,” I said, because apparently my mouth had a death wish.

The smirk widened. “Am I?”

His voice was pure privilege, the kind that expected the world to rearrange itself for their convenience. His companions—brothers, they had to be, with those matching golden good looks—turned to watch our exchange like it was the most entertaining thing they’d seen all day.

One was built like a professional fighter, all controlled power barely contained in designer clothes. The other had a tech mogul vibe, younger and leaner but with the same dangerous grace. But it was Ice Eyes who held my attention, much to my annoyance.

“Yes,” I said sweetly. “Some of us actually have places to be.”

“How fascinating.” He stepped closer, and those impossible eyes seemed to see right through me. Warning bells exploded in my head—the same ones that went off whenever Eomma’s “special” clients visited her shop. “And where might you be heading in such a hurry?”

Eomma appeared at my side, her prayer beads clicking softly. She sized up the three brothers with a look I recognized from her shop—the one she used when sensing something not quite normal. “Luke,” she said, “get us table by window. Good sight lines.”

Ice Eyes’ gaze narrowed slightly at her words, like he was trying to place her accent or maybe her face. The youngest one’s attention shifted from me to Eomma, something calculating in his expression.

“Of course, Eomma,” I replied, noting how all three brothers tracked the exchange. Their interest seemed to sharpen at my lack of accent, probably trying to piece together the puzzle of a Korean woman and her clearly mixed-race son.

I steered Eomma toward a sunny corner booth, but not before catching the tech mogul type studying us with undisguised curiosity. The fighter’s eyes followed our movement with an intensity that made my skin prickle, and not entirely unpleasantly.

“Something’s off about them,” I said in Korean once we were seated, trying not to notice how the three men had taken a table with perfect sight lines to ours. The way they moved was too coordinated, too predatory to be entirely human.

“Mmm,” Eomma hummed noncommittally, but her fingers were running over her prayer beads in that way they did when she sensed supernatural energy. “Very interesting family. Very… old presence.”

The waitress, a cheerful blonde with Amy written on her name tag, appeared with menus and coffee. I ordered the biggest breakfast they had—something called the Lumberjack Special that promised enough calories to fuel an actual lumberjack. Eomma spent five minutes photographing her French toast from various angles—“For kakao group chat!”—before adding extra whipped cream and fresh berries.

“Must document American breakfast,” she explained, adjusting the plate for optimal lighting. “Sister-in-law very jealous of travel photos.”

I focused on my mountain of eggs, bacon, and hash browns, trying not to notice how the three brothers seemed to take turns watching our table. Ice Eyes maintained his aristocratic poise while somehow making coffee look like a power move. The fighter demolished a stack of pancakes, his golden eyes occasionally meeting mine with unsettling intensity. The tech mogul typed on his phone but kept glancing at Eomma’s prayer beads with poorly concealed fascination.

“Food good here,” Eomma announced, taking another photo of her perfectly arranged plate. “Though need proper Korean breakfast for strength. Good thing we packed kimchi.”

“Eomma,” I hissed, “we’re not breaking out the kimchi in a diner.”

“Why not? American breakfast need more?—”

The tech mogul chose that moment to approach our table, moving with that same predatory grace as his brothers. His smile was calculated to charm, but there was genuine curiosity in his eyes as he studied Eomma’s prayer beads.

“I couldn’t help but notice your… interesting accessories,” he said, his smile calculated to charm. “Are they religious in nature?”

“She’s not going to curse anyone for you,” I said before Eomma could answer. “At least not without a substantial deposit.”

His green-gold eyes snapped to mine, surprise melting into something far more dangerous. “Curses? I was merely asking about?—”

“The prayer beads, yes,” I cut in, enjoying how my interruptions seemed to both irritate and intrigue him. “Which you noticed because you’re fascinated by religious artifacts, not because you’re hoping to find someone to hex your business competition or that ex who dumped you for your golf instructor.”

Eomma kicked me under the table, but I caught her hiding a smile behind her teacup.

“I’m a shaman,” she told him cheerfully, as if I hadn’t just accused him of seeking supernatural revenge. “From Korea. Very expensive. Very effective. But no curses before nine a.m. Bad luck.”

Ice Eyes had materialized behind Tech Mogul, looking both amused and calculating. “A shaman? How… unexpected in our little town.”

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