It was a physical crash. My knees turned to water. The room tilted violently to the left. The granite table, the view of London, the three predatory men, it all blurred into a grey smear.
I swayed. My folio slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a flatthwack.
"Whoa," a voice said.
I didn't hit the floor.
An arm, practically as thick as a tree branch, wrapped around my waist. Another hand, massive and warm, cupped the back of my head. I was hauled up against a chest that felt like a heated riot shield.
"I’ve got her," Mateo said.
"She’s bottoming out," Stephen’s voice, concerned now. "Sugar crash?"
"Adrenaline withdrawal," Mateo diagnosed. "She’s been running on cortisol since the show last night."
He didn't wait for instructions. He steered me. One arm around my waist, lifting me so my toes barely scraped the carpet. We left the boardroom. We left the view.
The corridor was dimly lit. Quiet. The silence was heavy, muffling the sound of my ragged breathing.
"I'm fine," I mumbled, trying to push away from him. My hands slipped on his jacket. "I just need... water. A spreadsheet. Something with grid lines."
"Stop talking," Mateo ordered, all Alpha.
He maneuvered me against the wall. He stepped in close, trapping me between the wood paneling and his own body. He wasn't crushing me, but he was encompassing me.
"You're vibrating," he said. "Your nervous system is misfiring."
"I'm a Beta," I slurred, fighting the darkness at the edges of my vision. "We don't... misfire."
"You're human," he corrected. "Permission to ground you."
It wasn't a question. It was a request for access codes.
I looked up at him. The scar through his eyebrow. The espresso-dark eyes that looked at me not with pity, but with a terrifying, absolute competence.
"Permission... granted," I whispered.
Mateo moved.
His hands, heavy, heavy hands, settled on the crest of my shoulders. He pushed down. Not painful, but intense. A downward compression that forced my heels into the floor, that forced my spine to align.
"Breathe," he commanded.
He slid one hand up to the nape of my neck. He squeezed the tension knot there, his thumb digging in.
It was like he flipped a switch. The spinning stopped. The grey blur sharpened. The physical pressure gave my brain a coordinate,You are here.
"Better," he rumbled, watching my pupils contract.
Then, he leaned down.
"Physical calibration," he murmured.
He kissed me.
It wasn't romantic. It was medical. It was an Alpha asserting biological dominance over a chaotic system. His lips were firm, hot, and tasted of coffee grounds. He pressed into me, stealing my breath, replacing it with the heavy, grounded scent of rain on asphalt.
It shocked my system into a reboot. The anxiety wasn't so much soothed as it was smothered by his sheer presence.
