“All of the above,” Adrian says tersely. “We maintain professional distance, respect privacy, and control our baser impulses.”
“Sounds boring,” Caleb sighs, but there’s something calculating beneath his casual demeanor. “But fine. I can play by the rules. For now.”
I notice Miles has moved, positioning himself near one of the windows, back to the wall, gaze sweeping methodically from Adrian to Caleb to me.
There’s something predatory in his stillness—not threatening exactly, but watchful. Assessing. I tell myself he’s just analyzing business rivals, looking for weaknesses to exploit at thesummit. That his occasional glances in my direction are about professional strategy, not the faint traces of Omega that might be seeping through my strained blockers.
“I need to make some calls,” I announce, needing escape from the testosterone-laden atmosphere. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I retreat to my bedroom, phone clutched like a lifeline. Once inside, I immediately pull up the resort’s concierge service on my tablet.
Pharmaceutical delivery services? None on the island.
Local pharmacy? Closed due to storm.
Other guests willing to share suppressants? Privacy policies prevent staff from asking.
Each avenue closes, leaving me with dwindling options and 36 hours of protection against my own biology. I sink onto the bed, allowing myself exactly ten seconds of panic—counting them silently as my heart thunders against my ribs.
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
Four. Five. Six. Think.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Plan.
Ten. Act.
I stand, decision made. I’ll ration my remaining blockers. Apply them only before entering common areas. Stay in my room as much as possible. And if the storm hasn’t cleared by the time they run out, well.
I’ll deal with that crisis when it comes. One problem at a time.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
“Yes?” I call, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
“It’s Miles.” His deep voice is muffled through the wood. “A moment of your time?”
I hesitate, then smooth my blouse and open the door just enough to see him. He stands with perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at ease.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Harrington?” I ask, professional mask firmly in place.
He studies me for a beat, then holds out his hand. In his palm rests a small silver packet—the distinctive foil wrapping of high-grade scent neutralizers. Not as strong as my prescription suppressants, but better than commercial brands.
“These don’t contain parabens,” he says simply. “Less irritation. Decent efficacy.”
I stare at the packet, then at him, uncertain how to respond. Is this a trap? A power play? Or genuine assistance?
“Why would I need those?” I ask carefully.
“Customs often holds medical-grade suppressants,” he replies, face impassive. “Happened to my sister last year in Singapore. Same customs jurisdiction as this island.”
Relief and suspicion war within me. How convenient that he has exactly what I need. How concerning that he’s noticed my vulnerability so quickly.
“That’s considerate of you,” I say slowly, not reaching for the packet yet. “But what makes you think my suppressants were held?”
“Your scent signature is changing,” he says matter-of-factly. “Subtle, but present. The humidity accelerates blocker degradation. Basic chemistry.”
Heat floods my face. Shame and something else—something I refuse to examine—curl in my stomach.
