“I can be surprising sometimes,” I reply with a small smile, not the full-wattage charm offensive I usually deploy. “Look, I know this situation is hell for you. And I know I haven’t been helping with my... whatever you want to call my behavior.”
“Antagonistic flirtation?” she suggests, one eyebrow raised.
I laugh, the sound genuine rather than calculated. “That’s fair. Very fair.”
She studies me, arms crossed protectively over her chest. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
The question deserves honesty, so I give it to her. “Because I saw your face last night. When your blockers failed. And I realized this isn’t a game for you. It never was.”
She looks away, vulnerability flashing across her features before she composes herself. “No, it’s not.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her quietly. “The suppressants, or whatever you need. Without making you feel cornered. I promise.”
Her eyes meet mine again, searching for sincerity. “Why do you care?”
It’s a fair question. Why do I care? I barely know her, outside of professional encounters where she’s always been Adrian’s perfect, untouchable assistant. But the answer comes more easily than I expected.
“Because nobody should have to face their worst nightmare alone,” I say simply. “And because maybe I’m not quite the asshole I pretend to be.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”
“Fair enough,” I concede, pleased to see even that small lightening of her mood. “I’ll work on proving my case.”
I leave her then, retreating to give her space. From across the room, I watch as she continues to gaze out at the storm, one hand pressed against the glass like she’s testing the barrier between herself and the chaos outside. The irony isn’t lost on me—the real storm is inside these walls, inside her body, and there’s no glass strong enough to contain it.
I’ve spent my career being underestimated. Using my charm as both weapon and shield. Playing the easygoing playboy while making calculated moves that my opponents never see coming. It’s served me well in boardrooms and bedrooms alike.
But none of that matters here. Here, I need to be someone Elle can trust. Someone who will respect her boundaries while offering genuine help. Someone who will put her needs above my own desires or my petty rivalry with Adrian.
It’s not a role I’m familiar with. But as I watch her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever comes next, I know it’s a role I need to learn. Quickly.
Because the storm is coming, and none of us—least of all Elle—can face it alone.
eleven
. . .
Elle
I emergefrom my room after a cool shower that did little to ease the burning beneath my skin. My third shower today, and it’s barely noon. The relief lasts minutes now, not hours, as my body continues its mutinous countdown toward full heat.
I’ve changed into the loosest clothes I packed—linen pants and a flowing blouse that doesn’t cling to my oversensitive skin—but I still feel like I’m suffocating, trapped in a body that’s becoming increasingly foreign to me.
When I step into the living area, I freeze. The three Alphas sit around the dining table, heads bent together over something, their postures for once not radiating competitive tension but something closer to cooperation?
The sight is so unexpected that I stand there dumbly for several seconds, just watching them. Adrian in the center, naturally, with his perfect posture and laser focus, tapping at his tablet. Miles to his right, cool and contained as always, occasionally nodding or offering brief comments. And Caleb, sprawled in his chair but actually paying attention, not performing his usualcasual disinterest. None of them have noticed me yet, giving me a rare moment to observe them unguarded.
“The 4-6 PM block should include hydration checks,” Adrian says, his tone precisely the same one he uses in quarterly planning meetings. “Heat dehydration can escalate quickly.”
“Coconut water’s better than sports drinks,” Miles contributes. “Less artificial ingredients, more electrolytes.”
“We could just bring her actual water and not overcomplicate this,” Caleb suggests, and I can hear the eye-roll in his voice even from here.
“Hydration isn’t just about water,” Adrian counters. “It’s about electrolyte balance, core temperature regulation?—”
“Jesus, Cole, it’s not a NASA mission,” Caleb interrupts. “It’s making sure she doesn’t feel like shit while her body does its thing.”
I clear my throat, unable to bear another second of this bizarre conversation. Three heads snap toward me with identical expressions of being caught doing something they shouldn’t. The synchronicity would be comical if I weren’t the clear subject of their planning.
