It has to be.
three
. . .
Elle
The airin the cabin thickens with each passing minute. Three Alphas, one pressurized tube, and me—trying to breathe through my mouth so I don’t catch their scents mixing like volatile chemicals.
It doesn’t work.
Even through industrial-grade blockers, I can sense them—Adrian’s sharp cedarwood authority, Caleb’s warm spiced rum invitation, Miles’s grounding coffee intensity. My skin prickles with awareness, and I hate it. Hate how my body betrays me by noticing, cataloging, responding.
This is exactly why Rule Number One exists. But rules weren’t made for being trapped at 40,000 feet with the three most aggressively successful Alphas in the tech industry.
I focus on my spreadsheet, fingers clacking against keys with more force than necessary. Numbers. Data. Work. These are safe territories. Not the way Adrian’s knee occasionally brushes mine when he shifts in his seat. Not how Caleb’s eyes keep findingme across the cabin. Definitely not the weight of Miles’s silent attention that I can feel without even looking up.
“Ms. Park,” Caleb breaks the tense silence that’s fallen since takeoff, “you must have some fascinating stories after working with Adrian for—how long has it been?”
“Fourteen months,” I answer without lifting my eyes from the screen. “And client confidentiality agreements prevent me from sharing any ‘fascinating stories,’ Mr. Rios.”
“Call me Caleb, please.” His voice drops half an octave, warm honey poured over gravel. “We’re going to be sharing recycled air for the next four and a half hours. Might as well get comfortable.”
I feel rather than see Adrian stiffen beside me. His scent sharpens—cedarwood taking on notes of something darker, more territorial. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, but I’ve spent enough time in close quarters with him to recognize when his Alpha instincts are flaring.
“I prefer to maintain professional boundaries,” I reply, finally looking up to meet Caleb’s amber-flecked eyes. “Especially when traveling for business.”
Caleb leans forward, elbows on his knees. His open-collar shirt reveals a sliver of bronze skin at his throat, and I refuse to acknowledge the way my gaze tries to linger there.
“Professional boundaries,” he repeats, rolling the words like he’s tasting them. “Admirable. Though I’ve always found that the most productive business relationships have room for... flexibility.”
The innuendo hangs in the air like cigarette smoke. Miles snorts from his corner, not bothering to disguise his disdain this time.
“Some of us are trying to work, Rios,” he says, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. It’s the first complete sentence he’s uttered since Adrian and I boarded. “Not everyone considers flirtation a business strategy.”
“That’s because you wouldn’t know flirtation if it bit you on your very serious ass, Harrington.” Caleb grins, unrepentant. “Some might call it charisma. You should try it sometime.”
I take advantage of their bickering to sneak a glance at Adrian. His jaw is tight, a muscle twitching beneath the perfectly smooth skin. I know that look—it’s the same one he gets when board members suggest cutting corners on product quality for faster release dates. A dangerous look.
“Elle,” he says, my name clipped and precise on his tongue. He never calls me Elle unless we’re alone working late or he’s particularly irritated. Right now, it’s definitely the latter. “The neural interface specs need adjustment before the presentation. Can you pull them up?”
It’s not a question, despite the phrasing. I nod and switch screens, bringing up the technical documents he’s already reviewed at least three times since yesterday. This is busywork, a transparent attempt to create a bubble of professionalism around us, separate from Caleb’s charm offensive and Miles’s brooding presence.
I play along because it’s easier than acknowledging the current of tension crackling through the cabin. A tension that has nothing to do with corporate rivalries and everything to do with biology—stupid, inconvenient biology that doesn’t careabout professional boundaries or career aspirations or the fact that these three men are the last people on earth I should be registering as anything other than colleagues.
“The response time on interface B is still showing latency issues,” Adrian says, leaning closer to point at my screen. His shoulder brushes mine, and a jolt of awareness zips down my spine. I hate that my body does this—reacts to him on a cellular level despite all my mental fortifications.
“We can adjust the parameters here,” I respond, highlighting a section of code. “The test group showed improvement when we recalibrated the neural pathways.”
Adrian nods, satisfied. I can feel his breath, warm against my temple, as he studies the screen. He smells like expensive coffee and control—a scent I’ve become attuned to over countless late nights and early mornings working side by side. It shouldn’t be comforting. It shouldn’t be anything at all.
“Fascinating stuff,” Caleb interjects, and I realize he’s somehow materialized next to our seats, peering over my shoulder at the screen. His proximity sends my blockers into overdrive, struggling to filter the potent waves of spiced rum and honey emanating from him. “NovaDyne’s neural interface technology is impressive, I’ll give you that. Though our quantum processor would make those response times instantaneous.”
Adrian shifts, subtly angling his body between Caleb and me. It’s an instinctive, protective gesture that I should find irritating but instead sends a treacherous warmth blooming in my chest.
“The neural interface isn’t compatible with quantum architecture yet,” Adrian replies, his voice cool and controlled. “And shouldn’t you be on the other side of the cabin, Rios?”
“Just stretching my legs,” Caleb shrugs, but makes no move to retreat. “Five hours is a long time to sit still. Don’t you think, Elle?”
