Chapter 5
five
. . .
Elle
I close the bedroom door and lean against it, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
The storm howls outside, rain lashing against floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a churning ocean and angry sky. But the real tempest is inside me—a cyclone of panic, frustration, and something else I refuse to name.
Three Alphas. One villa. And me, an Omega with exactly 36 hours of industrial-strength blockers left before my carefully constructed professional facade comes crashing down around me.
The bedroom is obscenely luxurious—king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, bathroom with a rainfall shower large enough for three people, private balcony that would be paradise if not for the apocalyptic weather. Under any other circumstances, I might appreciate the tasteful luxury.
Right now, it feels like a gilded cage.
I push off the door and move to the en-suite bathroom, rummaging through my carry-on for my emergency blocker kit.
Every Omega who works in Alpha-dominated industries keeps one—a travel-sized arsenal of scent suppressants, pheromone neutralizers, and emergency heat deterrents. Mine is medical-grade, expensive, and absolutely essential.
I uncap the blocker and apply another layer to my pulse points, wincing at the chemical sting. The skin on my neck is already irritated from repeated applications, red and slightly raised.
Miles was right about the ingredients. Not that I’d give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
Three more applications left in this bottle. Maybe four if I’m conservative. Enough to get through one night and part of tomorrow, assuming the storm passes quickly. After that...
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, expecting another email about the summit rescheduling. Instead, it’s a notification that makes my blood freeze:
CUSTOMS ALERT: Luggage held for inspection. Medical substances require clearance. Estimated processing time: 72+ hours.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word sharp and alien in my throat. I rarely swear—control extends to vocabulary—but if ever a situation warranted profanity, it’s this.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, mind racing.
My checked bag contains my full supply of suppressants—enough to last through the summit and my approaching heat cycle.
Industrial-strength, prescription-only Omega blockers that apparently trigger customs flags because they contain controlled substances.
Seventy-two hours. Three days minimum before I can access my suppressants. The math is simple and terrifying. I have enough in my emergency kit for maybe 36 hours, stretching it thin. After that...
After that, I’ll be an unblocked Omega in confined quarters with three of the most powerful Alphas in the tech industry. The thought sends a hot rush of something—fear, I tell myself firmly—down my spine.
This can’t be happening. I’ve built my entire career on control, on never being “just an Omega” in the workplace. On being Elle Park, competent professional, not some biology-driven trope featured in romance novels.
I stand abruptly, squaring my shoulders.
This is a logistics problem. I solve logistics problems every day.
I’ll contact the hotel concierge, find a pharmacy on this island, get emergency suppressants delivered.
There must be other Omegas staying at a resort this exclusive. Alternatives exist. They have to.
When I emerge from my room, composed and professional despite the tornado in my chest, I find the three men have staked out territories in the common area.
Adrian paces near the windows, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp as he negotiates with summit organizers.
Miles has positioned himself in a corner with sight lines to all entrances, methodically checking window latches and door locks.
And Caleb has made himself at home on the sofa, legs stretched out, drink already in hand despite it being barely past noon.
“Ah, she returns,” Caleb announces, raising his glass in my direction. “Just in time. Adrian’s about to have an aneurysm trying to bend time and space to his will.”
Adrian shoots him a glare but continues his call. “No, that’s unacceptable. NovaDyne’s presentation slot cannot be moved to the final day. We’re unveiling revolutionary technology, not participating in a closing panel.”
I move to the kitchen, needing water and distance. My throat feels parched, and I can’t tell if it’s from stress or the beginning of blocker withdrawal. I fill a glass from the filtered tap and gulp it down, trying to ignore how Caleb’s eyes follow me across the room.
“Everything alright in paradise?” he asks, his voice pitched low enough that Adrian can’t hear over his call. “You look a little tense, Elle.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I reply automatically. “Just adapting to our unexpected circumstances.”
“I’m very good at helping people adapt,” he says, the innuendo clear in his dark eyes.
Before I can formulate an appropriately cutting response, Adrian ends his call with a sharp “Fine” and turns to face us all.
“The summit has been rescheduled,” he announces, as if declaring a natural disaster. “Our presentation slot is now in three days, assuming the storm clears by then.”
Three days. My stomach drops. Coinciding perfectly with my suppressant shortage. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“Three days in paradise,” Caleb muses, gesturing widely at the luxurious villa. “However will we pass the time?”
“By maintaining absolute professionalism,” Adrian says sharply. “This is still a business trip, albeit a disrupted one. We need to establish clear parameters.”
“Parameters,” Caleb repeats, rolling the word around like he’s tasting fine wine. “Sounds kinky.”
Miles finally speaks, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “The villa’s secure. Two entry points—main door and patio. Electronic locks, but the power system has backup generators. We shouldn’t lose security even if the storm worsens.”
All three of us turn to look at him. He shrugs, unapologetic. “Habit.”
I’m momentarily distracted from my own crisis by curiosity. What kind of life does Miles Harrington lead that security assessments are instinctive? What is he always watching for? But the question dissolves as Adrian begins pacing again, clearly building to something.
“We need a code of conduct,” he declares. “Clear boundaries. This situation is unprecedented and potentially complicated.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says this, but I feel the weight of his meaning. An Omega. Three Alphas. Biological imperatives that good blockers and corporate etiquette usually keep in check.
Without saying it outright, he’s acknowledging the elephant in the room.
“I agree,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Professional boundaries are essential, especially given our competing interests at the summit.”
Adrian nods, seemingly relieved that I’m supporting his position. “Common areas are neutral territory. No work calls without warning others, so sensitive information isn’t overheard. Meals can be taken privately or together, but no business discussion at the table.”
“Separate bathrooms, separate bedrooms,” Caleb contributes, his tone mockingly serious. “No sleepovers without written consent forms in triplicate.”
Adrian ignores him. “And most importantly, no biological manipulation.”
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. My face heats despite my best efforts to remain impassive. He’s talking about pheromones. About scenting. About the very thing I’m terrified will happen when my blockers run out.
“No fun-scenting before breakfast,” Caleb adds with a lazy grin. “It’s uncivilized.”
“This isn’t a joke, Rios,” Adrian snaps. “We’re all adults with biological responses that can be distracting in close quarters. Blockers should be maintained. Personal space respected.”
Miles watches this exchange with unreadable eyes, then adds quietly, “The resort stocks suppressants in the gift shop. Basic commercial grade. Not medical strength, but better than nothing in an emergency.”
My head whips toward him. How does he know this? And more importantly, how did he know it might be relevant? Has he already detected weakness in my blocker regimen? My heart races painfully in my chest.
“Good to know,” I say, fighting to keep my voice casual. “Though I doubt any of us would forget something so basic.”
Miles holds my gaze a beat too long, something like understanding flickering in his cool blue eyes. He knows. Somehow, he knows I’m in trouble. I look away first, unnerved by his perception.
“Any other ‘rules’ we should establish?” Caleb asks, clearly amused by the entire conversation. “No running with scissors? No touching Adrian’s hair products? No loud music after ten?”
“How about no deliberate antagonism?” I suggest, giving him a pointed look.
He grins, unrepentant. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“This isn’t about fun,” Adrian interjects. “It’s about surviving three days in close quarters without incident.”
“Define ‘incident,’” Caleb challenges, leaning forward. Something dangerous glints in his eyes—not aggression exactly, but intent. Purpose. Like he’s playing a game the rest of us don’t fully understand. “Are we talking corporate espionage? Competitive sabotage? Or something more primal?”
The word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning. Primal. The antithesis of everything I’ve built my professional identity around. Control. Reason. Intellect over instinct.
“All of the above,” Adrian says tersely. “We maintain professional distance, respect privacy, and control our baser impulses.”
“Sounds boring,” Caleb sighs, but there’s something calculating beneath his casual demeanor. “But fine. I can play by the rules. For now.”
I notice Miles has moved, positioning himself near one of the windows, back to the wall, gaze sweeping methodically from Adrian to Caleb to me.