Page 49 of Marked

A knock at the door made me jump. “Kai?” Caleb’s voice. “I’ve got some options for you.”

I opened it a crack, clutching the actually appropriate-sized towel they’d provided. All three brothers stood there, each holding clothes.

Because, apparently, this was my life now.

“I, uh…” My eyes darted between their offerings. Marcus held what looked like designer casual wear. Derek had a Henley and jeans that would swallow me whole. Caleb…

“Mine will fit better,” Caleb said, earning twin growls from his brothers. “I’m closest to his size.”

He wasn’t wrong, though “closest” was relative. I grabbed the soft t-shirt and jeans he offered, along with… was that silk underwear? Whatever, better than nothing.

The underwear was loose but manageable. The jeans, however…

“Um,” I called out after several failed attempts to make them stay up. “The pants are a no-go unless you want me to flash everyone.”

A series of strangled sounds came from the hallway.

I ended up in just Caleb’s t-shirt and the borrowed underwear. The shirt fell to mid-thigh—thank God—but the collar kept slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times I adjusted it. My still-wet hair dripped occasionally, making the white fabric cling in ways that were probably indecent.

When I emerged, all three brothers froze. Their eyes tracked a water droplet as it ran down my neck and disappeared under the collar.

“Breakfast,” Derek managed, though it sounded painful.

“Oh, I usually just have ramen—”

All three brothers stared at me with identical expressions of horror. “Ramen?” Marcus looked personally offended. “For breakfast?”

“It’s quick!” I defended. “And cheap. And—”

“No,” all three brothers said at once.

As they herded me toward their kitchen, I was very aware of how the shirt rode up with each step. A man I could only assume was their personal chef—because of course they had a personal chef—took one look at me. Tall and fit from constantkitchen work, with salt-and-pepper hair and features that still broke hearts, he radiated the confident energy of someone who ruled his kitchen with both iron discipline and warmth. His warm brown eyes crinkled with laugh lines as he assessed the scene: me in bare legs and wet hair, drowning in Caleb’s shirt, with three brothers hovering like overprotective satellites. Then he burst out laughing.

“This is Jorge, our cousin,” Caleb said, grinning. “He’s been our family chef forever. Best chef in three states.”

“Dios mío,” Jorge muttered something I assumed was Spanish, shaking his head with a knowing smile. He gestured at me, then at the brothers, continuing in rapid Spanish that made Caleb chuckle and Marcus clear his throat. I might not understand the words, but given my current state—wearing just Caleb’s shirt after a failed shower attempt—and this whole bizarre morning, I could only imagine what he must be thinking about this strange situation.

“Sit,” Derek growled, pulling out the center chair at the kitchen island. The way the brothers were hovering, I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out their planned seating arrangement. Three apex predators, and I was about to be the filling in their overprotective sandwich.

I managed two steps before stumbling over my own feet—because apparently being watched by three intense pairs of eyes did nothing for my coordination. Three pairs of hands reached for me, but Derek was closest. I found myself caught against his chest for the second time that morning.

“Careful, little mate,” he rumbled, and were his eyes actually glowing now?

“You know,” I said breathlessly, “people usually wait for at least three dates before they start using pet names.”

A sharp intake of breath came from behind me—Marcus? Then warm hands were on my waist as someone—Caleb—steadied me.

“Three dates?” Caleb’s voice held something dangerous. “Is that what you want, baby? Three dates?”

Wait, what?

Jorge chose that moment to save me by loudly setting down a plate stacked with pancakes, eggs, and bacon. “Please, enjoy,” he said warmly, adding another serving of bacon to my plate with a friendly smile.

I was guided to my chair, very aware of how the shirt rode up as I sat.

“Coffee?” Caleb offered, already at the expensive machine, though his eyes kept darting to where the shirt had slipped again.

“Please,” I managed, trying not to notice how Derek had positioned himself between me and the exit or how Marcus kept finding reasons to brush against my bare legs as he “helped” set the table.

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