Marked shifter mm revers.., p.1
Marked: Shifter MM Reverse Harem Romance (Marked by Alphas Book 1), page 1
MARKED
Marked by Alphas Book 1
Copyright © 2025 Zara Lee
Published by Alexia Praks Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Contents
Marked by Alphas 1: Marked
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Thank you! 🐺
Also by Zara Lee & Bella Chan
About the Author
Marked by Alphas 1: Marked
Three alphas. One mysterious mark. Zero chance of escape.
Rule #1 of surviving as a semi-functional adult: Avoid dark forests at all costs. Thanks for the childhood trauma, Mom.
But here I am, broke and desperate, heading to my late mother’s cottage in Cedar Grove—a town that’s basically a forest with a zip code. I thought my biggest problem would be the sketchy Wi-Fi and distinct lack of take-out options.
Then I met the Stone brothers. Again, apparently.
Three gorgeous, impossibly tall mountain men who’ve been watching me for years—not creepy at all. Marcus, the commanding CEO whose very presence makes me want to bare my throat and submit in ways I can’t explain. Derek, the ex-military bad boy whose possessive growls make me weak in places I shouldn’t mention. And Caleb, the charming youngest whose sweet smile melts my defenses right before his hungry eyes make me forget how to breathe.
That mysterious scar I’ve had since forever? It burns whenever they’re near. And they seem to know way too much about me.
Now strange men with gleaming eyes are stalking the shadows, and my instincts scream danger—except when I’m with the brothers. Something inside me knows I’m safe with them, which makes zero sense because I’ve known them for approximately five minutes.
Turns out Mom’s warnings about monsters in the woods weren’t paranoia after all. She just forgot to mention my protectors might be more dangerous than the things they’re protecting me from.
Marked by Alphas, Book 1: Marked is a MM paranormal reverse harem romance featuring:
A snarky protagonist
Three possessive, protective alpha brothers who don’t like to share (except with each other)
Mysterious marks and fated bonds
Size difference that’ll make you swoon
Forced proximity
Touch-starved tension
A compound in the woods (because where else?)
Book 1 builds the tension with heated kisses and intense chemistry
Series heat level rises significantly from Book 2 onward
Chapter 1
The woods had always watched me.
Which, honestly, rude. You’d think after twenty-two years of me actively avoiding them, they’d have taken the hint and moved on to stalking someone more interested. Like a bird enthusiast. Or a squirrel.
I was staring at the peeling paint in my apartment, noting how it resembled tree bark, because apparently, even my cheap-ass living space was conspiring against me. The lawyer’s letter sat on my counter like a ticking time bomb wrapped in legal letterhead, worn soft from my numerous “maybe if I read it again, the words will magically change” attempts.
Mom’s warnings echoed in my head like a broken record: The woods hide monsters, Kai. They’re waiting for you. They never forgot.
“Thanks for the cryptic death flags, Mom,” I muttered, shoving another ratty t-shirt into my duffel bag. “Really helping with my anxiety here.”
The sum total of my worldly possessions was depressingly modest for a fresh business grad—three duffel bags, two cardboard boxes, and enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo ship. At least it made moving easier. Though “moving” implied having an actual destination in mind, not just “flee to nearest concrete jungle post-cottage-sale.”
My phone buzzed for the hundredth time today. Did you pack the pepper spray I got you? And the emergency beacon? ANSWER ME!
I typed back quickly. Yes, Mom, packed both. Also holy water, silver bullets, and that stake you insisted I whittle.
NOT FUNNY KAI
The beacon’s in my bag, the spray’s in the car. Happy?
No. You could still get murdered
Luke Kim, my half-Korean best friend and former college roommate, had spent all of yesterday helping me pack while dramatically listing every horror movie that started with “innocent person inherits creepy property.” Now he was stuck in some corporate marketing meeting, probably googling murder statistics between PowerPoint slides.
My Honda Civic—a vehicle held together by duct tape, prayers, and spite—groaned as I loaded the last box. The city’s symphony of sirens and car horns felt like a goodbye song, and for once, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I loved this chaos. Give me steel and glass over leaves and branches any day. I was the guy who walked an extra ten blocks to avoid the park’s sad excuse for a forest. The urban jungle was my fortress—predictable, safe, and distinctly lacking in whatever creatures Mom swore wanted a piece of me.
“Two weeks,” I told myself, gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape. “Get in, sort out Mom’s Blair Witch cottage situation, get out. How bad could it be?”
What should have been a three-and-a-half-hour drive had stretched into five thanks to my GPS having an existential crisis every time I hit the mountain roads. “Recalculating” became its favorite word somewhere around hour three, right before it gave up entirely and started showing me driving through what was apparently a void.
The signal bars on my phone played hide-and-seek as the mountains grew closer. Suddenly, Luke’s texts finally broke through. Hello??? Why aren’t you answering?? I swear if you’re already dead in a ditch… Did you take the wrong turn? Google Maps shows like three different routes. DON’T TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.
Still alive, I texted back. GPS having existential crisis. Send help. Or pizza. Actually, just pizza.
NOT THE TIME FOR JOKES came the immediate response. Text me when you get there or I’m calling the FBI.
The roads got increasingly narrow and winding, pavement giving way to gravel more often than I liked. Twice I had to backtrack after dead-ending at “Private Property” signs that hadn’t been on any map.
I’d mastered the art of the ninja pit stop out of necessity. Gas? Paid at the pump. Snacks? Grabbed while power walking through convenience stores. Bathroom breaks? Let’s just say I set new records for speed-peeing. When you’re the only half-Chinese guy in a hundred-mile radius, you learn to move fast.
My phone suddenly erupted with an hour’s worth of missed messages from Luke. Googled Cedar Grove. WHY ARE THERE NO RECENT PHOTOS OF THIS PLACE?? That’s serial killer behavior. If you get murdered by small-town cultists, I’m not clearing your browser history.
I managed to fire off a quick Still alive, just bad reception before my signal died again. Trust Luke to cyber-stalk a town from his desk, probably ignoring his afternoon deadlines.
The stares followed me everywhere. Small-town folks weren’t subtle about their rubbernecking, probably trying to figure out which box to check on their mental racial profile form. My hazel eyes with their weird gold flecks didn’t help—they just gave people another reason to stare. Sorry to disappoint, Karen at the gas station, but “ambiguously ethnic with supernatural-looking eyes” isn’t an option on your census form.
My college fund—or what was left of it after Mom passed when I was eighteen—would keep me afloat until I could sell this cottage and make a break for civilization. Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles—anywhere with more streetlights than trees. I had no job lined up, no brilliant plan beyond “don’t get eaten by whatever lives in these woods.” But hey, I had a fresh business degree and a perfectly honed ability to detect when branches were moving in suspicious ways. That was marketable, right?
Another burst of texts broke through. Getting weird vibes, Kai. Like, BAD weird. Eomma (Mom) is doing that thing where she burns sage and won't tell me why. Call me when you get there or I'm sending a search party. Not kidding. PS: Found more weird stuff about Cedar Grove. Call. Me
Just hit town limits, I texted back. Population seems sus. Will call when I reach the murder cottage, assuming I survive the local welcoming committee.
Passing the Welcome to Cedar Grove—Population 2,187 sign—which might as well have read Welcome to Your Doom—Where Outsiders Check In But Don’t Check Out—my heart skipped several beats. The trees pressed in from both sides like nature’s version of closing walls in a horror movie. Three times I almost turned around. Three times I imagined showing up in Seattle or Bellingham with nothing but my Honda full of regrets and a story about how I chickened out of basic adult responsibilities. But my bank account kept screaming “sell the cottage” louder than my anxiety, so here I was, pushing forward like the world’s okayest adventurer.
The town that materialized through the trees looked like it had been ripped straight from a Hallmark movie set. Red brick buildings lined the main street, their facades decorated with hanging flower baskets. A clock tower rose above the town square, because of course it did. People strolled along pristine sidewalks, carrying shopping bags from stores with names like Thyme After Thyme and The Cozy Corner—places that probably sold more charm than actual merchandise.
I cruised past a coffee shop where patrons sat at outdoor tables, their conversations pausing as I drove by. Their heads turned in unison, following my car like those creepy paintings whose eyes track you across the room. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—my own eyes doing that annoying thing where the gold flecks seemed to dance in the sunlight. Great. Just what I needed—another reason to stand out.
The mountains loomed behind it all, guardians or gatekeepers, I couldn’t decide which. And there it was again—the tingling on my hip where that mysterious scar served as a constant reminder that something wasn’t quite right with my world. Or maybe with me.
“Just get in, sell the cottage, get out,” I reminded myself, ignoring how the trees seemed to lean in closer, as if listening. “No need to make friends, solve mysteries, or discover any life-changing secrets about my possibly supernatural heritage.”
I pulled into the parking lot of what was apparently Cedar Grove’s answer to Walmart, a grocery store that promised everything from arugula to zip ties. The sun was already kissing the tops of the trees, hinting that I’d be navigating the infamous cottage driveway in twilight if I didn’t hurry. The thought of being caught between town and cottage after dark was enough to make me consider braving the stares for a night at the local inn. But the way the townsfolk looked at me—like I was a new exhibit at the zoo—nixed that idea pretty quickly.
“Alright, Kai,” I muttered, grabbing a cart that wobbled like it had one too many on a Friday night. “You’re a man on a mission. First priority: survival supplies. No idea if that cottage even has a working fridge, so let’s think apocalypse prep minus the bunker.”
I pulled out my phone and squinted at my hastily made list. Rice—obviously. Vegetables, but only the kind that wouldn’t die in a day. Canned everything, because who knew about electricity? Dry goods, because a man cannot live on rice alone. Snacks—stress eating was definitely in my future. Basic cooking supplies, assuming the kitchen wasn’t from the stone age. Instant coffee, because civilization. Water, lots of it, because plumbing was questionable at best. Basic cleaning supplies. And emergency supplies: flashlights, batteries, first aid kit, because… woods.
“How hard can it be?”
I stood in front of the canned goods aisle, having an existential crisis over soup varieties. “Why didn’t I do this shopping in Seattle? Oh right, because nothing says ‘warm welcome to spoiled food’ like hours of car ride in summer heat.”
“Excuse me,” an elderly woman called out as I zoomed past. “Are you looking for something specific, dear?”
The exit? My dignity? A town with more than one Asian resident?
“Just browsing, thanks!” I called back, noticing how she and her husband had somehow materialized in every aisle I entered. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about their rubbernecking. At this rate, I was going to end up as the star of Small Town Shopping Network: The Asian Invasion.
The cart gradually filled with my survival kit: canned soups, beans, tuna, and enough instant noodles to get me through college again. I threw in some pasta and jarred sauce, silently apologizing to my mother’s ghost for the culinary sacrilege I was about to commit.
“Sir?” A teenage stocker watched me load up on instant coffee like I was preparing for the caffeine apocalypse. “We have fresher coffee in—”
“Bold of you to assume that cottage has a coffee maker,” I muttered, grabbing another jar. “Or electricity. Or running water. Or isn’t actually a shed with delusions of grandeur.”
The International Foods aisle was a joke waiting for a punchline. One sad shelf of “ethnic” foods that looked like they’d been curated by someone whose most exotic meal was buttered toast.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I stared at the selection of soy sauce—exactly one bottle, featuring a label so stereotypical it made me cringe. “What, no fortune cookies to complete the ‘authentic Asian experience’?”
The rice selection was even more tragic. Three lonely bags sat on the shelf, the kind Mom would’ve used as doorstops rather than cook. “Sorry, Mom.” I sighed, hoisting a bag into my cart. “Desperate times call for desperate grains.”
The cleaning supplies aisle became my next victim. “Bleach? Definitely bleach. All-purpose cleaner? The more purposes the better. Air freshener? Because what’s a potentially haunted cottage without the artificial scent of Summer Breeze?”
In the toiletries section, I had another moment of clarity. “Toilet paper. Oh God, please let there be a working bathroom.” The twelve-pack looked pathetically small, so I grabbed the twenty-four-pack. Then another. I’ve seen horror movies—no one ever thinks about toilet paper until it’s too late.
The snack aisle was my salvation. “Hello, stress eating, my old friend.” Chips, cookies, and enough candy to give my dentist nightmares joined the pile. “Don’t judge me,” I told my cart. “You try facing unknown woods without emotional support chocolate.”
The produce section required strategic thinking. “Okay, what won’t die in a day? Potatoes? You’re in. Onions and garlic? Welcome aboard. Carrots and sweet potatoes? You look sturdy enough.” I eyed the leafy greens with regret. “Sorry, bok choy. It’s not you, it’s my questionable refrigeration situation.”
At least the local produce looked suspiciously fresh. Farm-to-table was apparently alive and well in Cedar Grove, even if authentic Asian ingredients had yet to make it past the town limits.
“Flashlights,” I muttered, wheeling toward hardware. “Batteries. First aid kit because, knowing my luck, I’ll probably need it. Matches. Candles. Is this a survival shopping spree or am I accidentally planning a séance?”
Approaching the checkout felt like the walk of shame after an apocalypse preparation spree. My cart looked like anxiety had gone shopping with a credit card. The wobbling wheel, which had been my constant companion through this ordeal, chose this moment to stage its final protest by getting stuck sideways.
“Come on,” I muttered, wrestling with the cart. “Don’t fail me now. We’ve been through so much together.”
The elderly couple who’d been tracking my progress through the store like amateur anthropologists were still watching. They now had front-row seats to my battle with the cart and my questionable life choices piled inside it. I could practically hear their thoughts: Is he moving in or preparing for doomsday?
At the checkout, I was greeted by the epitome of small-town curiosity: a woman whose nametag read Karen. Of course it did. She scanned my items with the efficiency of a sloth on a bad day, her eyes darting between my purchases and my hazel eyes like she was trying to solve a particularly tricky Sudoku puzzle.
“You just passing through?” she asked, her voice dripping with nosiness. “Those eyes are something else—exotic!”
I forced a smile, mentally counting backward from ten. “Just here on business.”
“Oh? Where’re you from originally? You speak English so well!”
