“Don’t apologize,” he interrupts, the same thing Miles said hours ago. Or was it minutes? “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I almost laugh. Okay. What a concept. I’m trapped in a luxury villa during a tropical storm with three Alphas while my body betrays me in the most fundamental way possible. I’m so far from okay that okay isn’t even on the map anymore.
“I’m managing,” I say instead, because professional Elle Park never admits weakness, even when she’s half-delirious with heat symptoms.
Caleb’s eyes—warm amber with those distracting flecks of gold—study me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “You know what might help? Something my sister taught me.”
“Your sister?” I blink, trying to reconcile this new information with the Caleb I thought I knew—playboy Alpha, corporate charmer, professional boundary-pusher.
“Omega,” he explains, a softness in his voice I’ve never heard before. “She taught me some breathing techniques that helped her during pre-heat. If you’re interested.”
I should say no. I should maintain whatever scraps of professional distance remain between us. But another wave ofheat washes through me, making me shiver despite the sweat beading on my skin, and suddenly distance seems less important than relief.
“Show me,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
Caleb nods, shifting to face me more directly. “It’s about scent management. You’re being bombarded by Alpha pheromones right now—mine, Adrian’s, Miles’—on top of your own changing scent. It’s overwhelming your system.”
I stare at him, momentarily forgetting my discomfort. “How do you know all this?”
A small, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. “Contrary to popular belief, I occasionally read things that aren’t stock reports. Medical journals, Omega health studies. For my sister, originally. But knowledge is knowledge.”
Something warm that has nothing to do with my heat unfurls in my chest. Caleb Rios, corporate playboy, secretly reads medical journals to help his Omega sister. The image doesn’t fit with the man I thought I knew, and that incongruity is oddly destabilizing.
“So,” I manage, swallowing hard, “these breathing techniques.”
“Right.” He straightens, all business suddenly. “It’s about controlled exposure. You close your eyes?—”
I comply immediately, which should worry me. Elle Park doesn’t follow instructions without questioning them first. Except, apparently, when they come from Caleb during heat delirium.
“Now breathe in through your nose, slowly. Count to four.”
I inhale, surprised by how difficult it is to maintain the slow pace when my body wants quick, desperate gulps of air.
“Hold for two,” he continues, his voice dropping to a lower register that makes something deep inside me clench with want. “Now exhale through your mouth for six.”
I follow his instructions, focusing on the numbers, on the deliberate control of my breathing. In for four, hold for two, out for six. Repeat.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the praise sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine. “Now, as you breathe, focus on isolating the scents around you. Identify each one separately.”
I breathe in again, trying to do as he says. The air is thick with competing aromas—the clean cotton of the sheets, the lingering hints of Miles’ cedar and rain scent that even fresh linens couldn’t completely eliminate, the distant coffee from the kitchen, the storm’s petrichor seeping through closed windows.
And Caleb. Spiced rum and honey and sandalwood, warm and enticing, making my mouth water and my core tighten with need.
“I can’t,” I whisper, opening my eyes. “It’s too much.”
“You can,” he insists gently. “Try again. One scent at a time. Acknowledge it, name it, then let it go.”
I close my eyes again, breathing deeply. This time, I force myself to focus, to separate the tangled threads of scent. Cotton sheets. Miles’ cedar. Coffee. Rain. Caleb’s spiced rum.
“I smell you,” I say before I can stop myself. “Spiced rum and honey. Sandalwood.”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. “Good,” he says finally, voice rougher than before. “That’s good, Elle. Now let it go. Move to the next scent.”
“Let it go,” I repeat, closing my eyes again. “Right.”
But I don’t want to let it go. I want to drown in it, to press my face against his neck and inhale until his scent is all I know. The realization is shocking in its clarity, cutting through the fog of heat like a blade.
I force myself to continue the exercise, identifying scents one by one, trying to control my body’s desperate response to Caleb’s proximity. It helps, marginally. The overwhelming cacophony of stimuli recedes slightly, allowing me to think more clearly.
