Before I can respond, Miles appears from his room, dressed and composed as if this is a normal workday rather than day three of being trapped with an Omega approaching heat. His gaze slides from Adrian to me, assessing, calculating.
“I heard,” he says simply. “No suppressants.”
Adrian turns to him. “How did you?—”
“The walls aren’t that thick,” Miles replies with a shrug. “And I make it my business to know things.”
“Well, since we’re all caught up on Elle’s private medical situation,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice, “maybe we should discuss this somewhere other than outside her door?”
For once, Adrian nods in agreement. The three of us move to the living room by unspoken consensus, maintaining careful distances from each other as we position ourselves in the space. Adrian by the windows, watching the storm. Miles in an armchair, posture perfect, expression unreadable. Me, perched on the arm of the sofa, deliberately casual despite the tension thrumming through my body.
“This changes things,” Adrian says finally, breaking the silence. “Without suppressants, Elle’s heat will hit fully within 24 hours. Maybe less.”
“More like 12,” Miles corrects, clinical and precise. “The environmental triggers are accelerating her cycle. Multiple Alphas in close proximity, stress, tropical climate. All catalysts.”
Adrian and I both look at him with identical expressions of surprise and suspicion.
“I have sisters,” he explains flatly. “Two are Omegas. I know the signs.”
Of course he does. Miles fucking Harrington, the walking encyclopedia of useful information, complete with practical Omega experience.
I want to dislike him for it, but instead, I find myself oddly grateful for his knowledge.
“So what do we do?” I ask, directing the question to both of them, but mostly to Adrian. This is his assistant, after all. His responsibility, at least professionally.
Adrian runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the small gesture revealing more about his state of mind than anything else could. “We help her. However she wants to be helped.”
“Agreed,” Miles says immediately.
I nod, finding myself in the unusual position of being completely aligned with my two biggest corporate rivals. “Whatever she needs.”
Adrian’s eyes meet mine, searching for sincerity. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, because he nods once, a sharp acknowledgment of our unexpected alliance.
“She has options,” he continues. “This villa has excellent security. She could lock herself in her room, ride it out alone. It won’t be pleasant, but it’s possible.”
The understatement makes my chest tight. Omega heats without suppressants or Alpha assistance are excruciating—not just uncomfortable, but genuinely painful.
Days of fever, cramping, desperate need with no relief. The thought of Elle suffering through that alone while we sit on the other side of a door makes something primitive and protective rise in my throat.
“Or?” I prompt, knowing there must be alternatives.
“Or she chooses one of us to help her through it,” Miles states matter-of-factly. “Medically, Alpha pheromones and physical assistance significantly reduce heat symptoms and duration.”
The clinical way he phrases it doesn’t disguise what he’s suggesting. One of us, in Elle’s bed, for the duration of her heat. The image sends a hot rush of want through me that I immediately try to suppress. This isn’t about what I want. For once in my life, this has to be about someone else’s needs entirely.
“Or she chooses none of us and suffers unnecessarily,” Adrian says, his voice tight. “It has to be her choice. Completely.”
“Obviously,” I agree, slightly offended that he thinks I’d suggest otherwise. “But we should make sure she knows we’re available. Without pressuring her.”
Miles’s mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. “Smooth, Rios. Very altruistic.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m trying to help.”
“We all are,” Adrian says, and for once, I believe him completely. The three of us, corporate rivals, Alpha competitors, temporarilyunited by concern for one Omega woman none of us has any claim to.
The sound of a door opening makes us all turn.
Elle emerges from her room, dressed in another impeccable outfit—navy pencil skirt, white silk blouse, hair pulled back in a severe bun. Professional armor, donned despite the circumstances. Despite the flush on her cheeks and the slight tremor in her hands that betrays her biological state.
