It’s the reminder I set days ago, before our trip was derailed, to take my suppressants. The ones currently sitting in a customsoffice somewhere, completely inaccessible. The irony makes my throat tight.
Miles notices my expression change. “What is it?”
I turn my phone so he can see the screen. His eyes flick to the notification, then back to my face, understanding immediately.
“You kept to a strict schedule,” he observes. Not a question, just acknowledgment of my methodical approach to controlling my biology.
“Every day at 1 PM,” I confirm, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the panic clawing at my chest. “For the past four years.”
Adrian’s jaw tightens, frustration at his inability to solve this particular problem evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. “I’ll call the resort manager again. There must be something we can do.”
“There isn’t,” I say, a strange calm settling over me as I accept what’s been inevitable since our plane was diverted. “We’ve tried everything. The suppressants aren’t coming in time.”
Saying it aloud should terrify me. Should send me spiraling into panic or denial or rage at the unfairness of it all. Instead, I feel an odd sense of relief. The fighting is over. The inevitable has arrived.
I’m going to go into heat with three Alphas as my only support system, and I’m going to have to make choices I never anticipated making. The only question remaining is how I’ll handle it—with desperate denial or with as much dignity and agency as I can muster.
“So,” I say, reaching for Adrian’s tablet with newfound resolve, “let’s review this schedule of yours.”
Their surprise is evident—Adrian’s eyebrows rising, Caleb straightening in his chair, Miles watching me with that unreadable intensity that somehow sees too much.
“You’re accepting the schedule?” Adrian asks cautiously.
“I’m reviewing it,” I correct. “With amendments.”
“Amendments?” He looks slightly offended, as if I’ve questioned the perfection of his planning.
“Yes, amendments,” I confirm, already making notes in the margins of his document. “For starters, I don’t need three welfare checks per hour. That’s excessive and will just make me more stressed.”
Adrian opens his mouth to argue, but Miles cuts him off with a slight head shake. Smart man.
“What else?” Caleb asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.
“No hovering outside my door,” I say firmly. “If I need something, I’ll text. If I don’t respond to scheduled check-ins, then you can knock.”
“That’s reasonable,” Miles agrees.
I continue through the document, adjusting timelines, striking out the more invasive monitoring suggestions, adding my own preferences.
As I work, I notice the three of them exchanging glances—not competitive or territorial, but collaborative. Adrian nods at Miles’s suggestions for simplifying the temperature monitoringprotocol. Caleb actually contributes useful ideas about food that might be appealing during different stages of heat.
They’re working together. These three men who, under normal circumstances, would be sabotaging each other’s summit presentations and fighting for market dominance, are now coordinating care shifts and debating the merits of different electrolyte drinks.
Because of me. For me.
“What about the sleeping arrangements?” Miles asks, the question slicing through my thoughts like a blade.
I look up from the tablet, suddenly aware of three pairs of eyes fixed on me with varying degrees of intensity.
“What about them?” I ask carefully.
“You’ll be more comfortable in the primary bedroom,” Miles says practically. “More space, better air circulation, ensuite bathroom with the soaking tub.”
I blink, processing the implication. “You’re suggesting we switch rooms?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “I’ll take your room for the duration.”
It’s a practical suggestion. Thoughtful, even. The primary bedroom would give me more space during my heat, more privacy, more comfort. It makes perfect sense.
