Something in my chest contracts painfully. I’ve wanted to hear those words from her for longer than I care to admit, but not like this. Not when her biology is driving the need rather than genuine desire.
“Elle,” I begin, not sure what I’m about to say.
The door opens again, Caleb appearing with an armful of supplies—more cooling packs, bottles of water, a stack of clean towels. His usual casually rumpled appearance is gone, replaced by tense alertness that seems foreign on his features.
“Heard the crash,” he explains, eyes widening slightly as he takes in the scene—Elle trembling on the bed, me gripping her hand, Miles pressing cooling packs to her neck and wrists. “Shit. It’s happening now, isn’t it?”
“Eight hours,” Miles confirms, checking his watch. “Right on schedule.”
Caleb’s eyes meet mine over Elle’s head, a silent communication passing between us. For once, there’s no antagonism in his gaze, just shared concern and something deeper that I’m not ready to name.
“I brought everything I could think of,” he says, setting the supplies on the nightstand. “Resort kitchen’s sending up more ice and those electrolyte popsicles.”
Elle makes another sound, this one closer to a sob, and curls tighter into herself. Her hand in mine is burning hot, her pulse racing beneath my fingertips.
“It hurts,” she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it. “God, it hurts.”
The three of us freeze, identical expressions of Alpha distress crossing our faces. An Omega in pain triggers something primitive and protective in Alpha biology—the need to fix, to heal, to provide relief at any cost. I feel it like a physical ache in my chest, and I know from their expressions that Caleb and Miles do too.
“What can we do?” Caleb asks, his usual flippant tone nowhere to be found. “Elle, tell us what you need.”
She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know. I’ve never—my suppressants usually—” Another wave of heat visibly washes through her, making her arch off the bed, a cry escaping through clenched teeth.
Miles moves with practiced efficiency, rearranging the cooling packs to target her pulse points. “Physical contact with a compatible Alpha can provide temporary relief,” he says, eyes finding mine, then Caleb’s. “Scent exposure, skin contact.”
“I’m not leaving her,” I say immediately, grip tightening on Elle’s hand.
“Neither am I,” Caleb counters, moving to sit on the bed near her feet.
Miles’s expression doesn’t change, but a muscle in his jaw ticks slightly. “It would be more effective if?—”
“If what?” I challenge, feeling my Alpha instincts rise to the surface. “If she chooses one of us? If we fight it out like animals to see who gets to help her?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Miles says evenly.
Elle makes a pained sound, pulling her hand from mine to press it against her abdomen. “Stop it,” she hisses. “All of you. Stop acting like I’m not here.”
Chastened, I reach for a cooling pack, activating it and offering it to her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She takes it with trembling fingers, pressing it to her forehead. “It’s getting worse,” she says, voice steadier than I would have thought possible given her condition. “And I need—I need help. But I can’t?—”
She breaks off, another wave of heat visibly washing through her. Her scent spikes, overwhelming the room with notes of vanilla and coconut and something citrusy that makes my mouth water. Beside me, I hear Caleb inhale sharply, and even Miles’s composed expression cracks slightly.
“One of you should stay with her,” Miles says after a moment, his voice carefully controlled. “The others should?—”
“I’ll stay,” I say immediately.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Caleb counters, his usual easygoing tone edged with Alpha steel.
Miles’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t helping her. Three Alphas projecting territorial pheromones will only make her symptoms worse.”
“He’s right,” I admit reluctantly, hating to agree with Miles but unable to argue with the medical logic. “Elle needs?—”
“What Elle needs,” she interrupts, pushing herself up on trembling arms, “is for you all to stop talking about me like I’m not here.”
Her dark eyes move between the three of us, fever-bright but suddenly clear with purpose. Her hair has come loose from its usual severe bun, falling around her face in wild waves I’ve never seen before. Even in the throes of heat, sweating and disheveled, she manages to command the room with a presence that has nothing to do with Omega pheromones and everything to do with who Elle Park fundamentally is.
“I need help,” she continues, each word precise despite the visible effort it costs her. “My heat is—it’s too much. I can’t handle it alone. Not without suppressants.”
