“That’s inappropriate,” I manage, voice strained.
“Maybe,” he agrees, leaning closer still. His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “But I can smell how much the idea appeals to you, Elle. Your blockers can’t hide everything.”
Adrian appears in the doorway behind us, his face thunderous. “Rios,” he growls, the single word loaded with warning.
Caleb straightens, hands raised in mock surrender, but his eyes never leave mine. “Just having a private conversation.”
“There is nothing private happening in this villa,” Adrian says, moving forward to physically insert himself between us. “Step back. Now.”
I should be irritated by his high-handedness, by the way he assumes I need protection. Instead, I find myself responding to his presence, to the waves of protective Alpha energy radiating from him. My body recognizes what he’s offering on a level deeper than conscious thought.
“I don’t need a guardian, Adrian,” I say, despite the evidence to the contrary.
His eyes meet mine, gray and stormy. “I know you don’t. But I need you to be safe.”
The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t just about territorial Alpha instincts. This is something else, something I’m not prepared to examine too closely.
“I’m going to my room,” I announce, needing escape. “I’ll return when I’ve collected myself.”
Caleb watches me with knowing eyes as I slip past them both, his amber gaze heating my skin like physical touch. Adrian remains tensed, ready to intervene if Caleb makes another move.
As I retreat down the hallway, I hear Miles’s voice, quiet but firm: “Both of you, back off. She doesn’t need this shit right now.”
I close my bedroom door behind me, leaning against it as my legs finally give way. I slide to the floor, heart racing, skin burning, reality crashing down around me.
The blockers have failed almost completely. My heat is accelerating, responding to the presence of three unmated Alphas, each offering something my biology craves—Adrian’s protection, Caleb’s playfulness, Miles’s steady strength.
“This isn’t happening,” I whisper to the empty room. “This can’t be happening.”
But it is. And all my rules, all my careful planning, all my professional boundaries are crumbling like sand castles before an incoming tide.
The heat is coming, faster than I calculated, stronger than I anticipated. And when it hits fully, there will be nowhere to hide.
Not from them. And not from myself.
eight
. . .
Adrian
I pacethe length of the living room, eight steps one way, turn, eight steps back. Perfect control. Perfect rhythm.
It’s what I do when my mind refuses to settle. When variables I can’t account for threaten to disrupt my carefully constructed order.
Like Elle, locked in her bedroom, her blockers failing, her scent growing stronger with each passing hour.
Like the two Alpha predators under this roof with us, circling, waiting, watching.
Like the storm that refuses to abate, trapping us all in this luxurious prison with no escape route.
I hate variables. I hate feeling powerless. Most of all, I hate that I can’t fix this for her.
Two hours have passed since Elle retreated to her room. Two hours of me wearing a path in the expensive carpeting, checking my watch exactly every seven minutes, and fantasizingabout throwing Caleb off the balcony for that comment about “volunteers.”
As if Elle’s approaching heat is some kind of opportunity. As if she’s not terrified behind that professional mask she wears.
I know her better than they do. I’ve worked alongside her for fourteen months. I’ve seen her handle board members, investors, and technical crises with unflappable composure. I’ve seen her arrive at 6 AM and leave at midnight without a single complaint.
