Adrian places the remaining cooling packs within easy reach on the nightstand, arranging them with unnecessary precision. “Try to drink at least half this water before morning,” he instructs, tapping one of the bottles. “And text if you need anything. Anything at all.”
Caleb stands, stretching casually to disguise the reluctance in his movement. “Sweet dreams, Elle. Or at least, you know, less sweaty ones.”
She smiles at that, small but genuine. “Goodnight, Caleb. Adrian.” Her eyes find mine last. “Miles.”
My name in her mouth sounds different somehow. Lower. More deliberate. Or maybe that’s just what I want to hear.
We file out, Adrian pulling the door nearly closed but leaving it ajar enough that we’ll hear if she calls out. In the hallway, the three of us stand in awkward triangle, the strange truce of Elle’s room evaporating in her absence.
“I’ll take first watch,” Caleb says, surprising us both. “Since I’m already up.”
Adrian frowns. “The schedule doesn’t call for?—”
“The schedule doesn’t cover 2 AM heat spikes,” I point out quietly. “Caleb’s right. Someone should stay alert.”
“Two-hour rotations,” Adrian suggests after a moment, pragmatic as always. “I’ll take over at 4.”
“And I’ll take 6,” I finish. “That puts us back on the original schedule.”
We nod at each other, this impromptu council of Alphas united by a common purpose. It should feel strange, this cooperation with men I’ve considered rivals for years. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world—this instinct to protect, to care, to provide what Elle needs.
“She’s getting worse faster than we anticipated,” Adrian says, voice low to avoid carrying through the partially open door.
Caleb nods, uncharacteristically serious. “Tonight was just a preview. Tomorrow...”
He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to. We all know what tomorrow brings—Elle in full heat, no longer able to maintain the professional boundaries that have defined her identity. Elle, vulnerable and needing in ways she’s spent her career ensuring she never appears.
“We stick to the plan,” I say firmly. “Her terms. Her choices. Nothing else matters.”
They both nod, agreement passing between us with surprising ease. This is the new shape of our rivalry—not competition against each other, but competition with ourselves to be worthy of the trust Elle has placed in us, however reluctantly.
I return to my temporary room—her former room—where the sheets still carry faint traces of her scent. Professional, controlled Elle Park, who keeps everything and everyone at carefully measured distances. Whose composure is cracking now, revealing something raw and real beneath.
As I lie in the dark, listening for any sound from down the hall, I realize something that should disturb me but instead feels like clarity: I don’t just want to help Elle through her heat because it’s the right thing to do. I want to be the one she turns to. The one she chooses, if choice becomes necessary.
And based on the looks I saw in Caleb’s and Adrian’s eyes tonight, I’m not the only one.
The storm continues its assault on the villa, rain and wind battering against windows and walls. But the real tempest is just beginning—inside these walls, inside Elle’s borrowed room, inside each of us as we orbit around her like planets around a sun, pulled by forces we can neither control nor deny.
thirteen
. . .
Elle
Time dissolvesinto fever-dreams and half-consciousness. I drift on waves of heat that crash through my body, each one stronger than the last. My skin feels like it belongs to someone else—too sensitive, too needy, every brush of fabric a torment and a tease.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve woken gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat. The storm outside has become white noise, background to the storm building inside me. I’m losing control, and for someone who’s built a career on never, ever losing control, it’s terrifying. And somehow, inexplicably, exhilarating.
“Elle?”
A voice penetrates the fog. I blink, forcing my eyes to focus. Caleb sits at the edge of the bed—not touching, just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. How long has he been there? Was I sleeping? I have no idea what time it is, if it’s morning or afternoon or some hazy twilight in between.
“What?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough and throaty.
“You were making sounds.” His usual smirk is absent, replaced by genuine concern that somehow makes him even more attractive. Damn it.
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to sit up. The room spins slightly, and I grip the sheets to steady myself. “I didn’t mean to?—”
