Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Adrian
I pace the length of the living room, eight steps one way, turn, eight steps back. Perfect control. Perfect rhythm.
It’s what I do when my mind refuses to settle. When variables I can’t account for threaten to disrupt my carefully constructed order.
Like Elle, locked in her bedroom, her blockers failing, her scent growing stronger with each passing hour.
Like the two Alpha predators under this roof with us, circling, waiting, watching.
Like the storm that refuses to abate, trapping us all in this luxurious prison with no escape route.
I hate variables. I hate feeling powerless. Most of all, I hate that I can’t fix this for her.
Two hours have passed since Elle retreated to her room. Two hours of me wearing a path in the expensive carpeting, checking my watch exactly every seven minutes, and fantasizing about throwing Caleb off the balcony for that comment about “volunteers.”
As if Elle’s approaching heat is some kind of opportunity. As if she’s not terrified behind that professional mask she wears.
I know her better than they do. I’ve worked alongside her for fourteen months. I’ve seen her handle board members, investors, and technical crises with unflappable composure. I’ve seen her arrive at 6 AM and leave at midnight without a single complaint.
I’ve witnessed her meticulousness, her dedication, her absolute refusal to be defined by her designation.
And now it’s all unraveling because of biology. Because of three fucking Alphas and a tropical storm.
I check my watch again. It’s been six minutes and forty-two seconds. Close enough.
A sound catches my attention—water running. Coming from the direction of Elle’s room. It’s been running for a while now, the sound just present enough to register as unusual.
My mind catalogs possibilities: shower (unlikely, it’s been too long), sink (possible, but why would she leave it running?), toilet (would have stopped by now).
I move toward her room before I can rationalize myself out of it. Concern overrides protocol. Something might be wrong. She might need help but be too stubborn to ask for it.
I knock on her door, three sharp raps. Precise. Controlled. “Elle? Is everything alright?”
Silence, then rustling. The door opens a crack, and I’m hit with her scent—stronger now, sweeter, like vanilla warmed in the sun. She’s applied more blockers, I can smell the chemical undertone, but they’re fighting a losing battle.
“I’m fine,” she says, but her usual composure is fractured. Her hair is slightly mussed, her blouse wrinkled. She never has wrinkles. Never.
“I heard water running,” I explain, forcing my eyes to stay on her face and not drift to the pulse point at her neck where her scent is strongest.
Her shoulders drop slightly. “The bathroom faucet won’t stop dripping. I’ve tried everything, but it’s just getting worse.”
Of course it is. Because we needed one more problem in this disaster of a situation. The universe apparently thinks trapping an Omega approaching heat with three Alphas isn’t quite entertaining enough.
“I can fix it,” I say immediately. Because I can fix things. It’s what I do. I solve problems. I maintain control. I make things work.
She hesitates, then steps back, opening the door wider. “If you’re sure it’s not an imposition...”
“It’s not.” I step into her room, keeping a careful distance. The space is immaculate despite her obvious distress—bed neatly made, clothes hung precisely, everything in its place. So very Elle.
The sound of running water grows louder as I approach her bathroom. Inside, I find the culprit—the cold water handle on the sink faucet, dripping steadily despite being turned to the off position. I twist it fully closed, but the dripping continues, increasing to a thin stream.
“See? It’s getting worse,” Elle says from the doorway, keeping her distance. Smart. The bathroom is too small, too intimate a space for our current circumstances.
“It’s just a worn washer,” I explain, kneeling to examine the pipes beneath the sink. “Simple fix. I’ll take care of it.”
“Do you need tools?” she asks, her practical nature asserting itself even through her discomfort.
“Probably just a wrench and screwdriver. The resort must have maintenance supplies somewhere.”
“I’ll call the front desk,” she offers, already reaching for her phone.
“No,” I say, too quickly. The thought of some unknown Alpha maintenance worker entering her space, scenting her condition, makes something primitive and possessive rear up in my chest. “No need to bother them. I can handle it.”
She raises an eyebrow, almost smiling. “Are you a secret plumber in your spare time, Adrian?”
“I’m capable of basic household repairs,” I reply, slightly affronted. I’m Adrian Cole. I run a tech empire. I have three degrees. I can certainly fix a leaky faucet.
She steps back, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll let you work your magic, then.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m still kneeling on the bathroom floor, scrolling through a YouTube tutorial on my phone while water sprays in an increasingly concerning arc from the dismantled faucet.
This is... not going according to plan. The tutorial made it look simple.
Remove the handle. Replace the washer. Reassemble. Done.
Except the handle required more force than anticipated. And the washer isn’t the standard size shown in the video. And water is now soaking the front of my shirt and the bathroom floor.
“How’s it going in there?” Elle calls from the bedroom.
“Fine,” I lie, because admitting defeat is not an option. “Just finishing up.”
I hear a knock at her bedroom door, followed by Caleb’s voice—of course it’s Caleb, because this situation wasn’t irritating enough already.
“Elle? Everything okay? I thought I heard water running.”
My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. Before I can intervene, Elle has opened the door, and Caleb’s voice grows clearer.
“Well, hello there. You’re looking... refreshed.”
I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, the barely concealed innuendo. My hands tighten on the wrench until my knuckles turn white.
“Adrian’s fixing my faucet,” Elle explains, her voice admirably professional despite the circumstances.
“Is he now?” Caleb sounds amused. “And how’s that going?”
Before she can answer, a particularly aggressive spray of water hits me directly in the face. I make a sound that is decidedly not dignified, and water splashes onto the floor.
“It sounds like it’s going splendidly,” Caleb says, his voice now closer to the bathroom door. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Yes,” I snap, at the exact moment Elle says, “If you think you can help.”
Caleb appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with undisguised delight—me, soaking wet, kneeling in a puddle, surrounded by disassembled faucet parts. His grin widens to shit-eating proportions.
“Wow, Cole. You’ve really got this under control.”
I resist the urge to throw the wrench at his head. “It’s a non-standard fixture,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m consulting a manual.”
“A manual,” he repeats, eyes dancing with mirth. “Very methodical. Very you.” He rolls up his sleeves, revealing tanned forearms. “Mind if I try the direct approach?”
Before I can protest, he shoulders past me and grabs the pipe directly, giving it a forceful twist. The spray of water instantly doubles, hitting us both.
“Fuck!” Caleb jumps back, water dripping from his perfect hair. “That’s not right.”
“No shit,” I mutter, a small, petty part of me enjoying his failure.
Elle appears behind him, eyes widening at the growing puddle on her bathroom floor. “Should I call maintenance now?”
“No,” Caleb and I say in unison, then glare at each other.
“I’ve got this,” I insist.
“You clearly don’t,” Caleb counters. “Let me try again.”
“Your ‘try’ just made it worse,” I point out.
“At least I’m doing something besides watching YouTube, Professor.”
We’re interrupted by another knock, and Miles’s deep voice cuts through our bickering. “What’s happening in here? There’s water seeping under the door.”
Perfect. Now all three Alphas are crammed into Elle’s personal space. This is exactly the opposite of what she needs right now.
Elle sighs, the sound heavy with exasperation. “My faucet is leaking. Adrian tried to fix it. Caleb tried to help. Now there’s water everywhere.”
Miles appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with his usual unreadable expression. His eyes move from the disassembled faucet to the puddle to Caleb and me, both now thoroughly soaked.
“Move,” he says simply.
There’s something in his tone that makes us both step back without argument. Miles kneels, examining the fixture with methodical precision. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small multi-tool.
“You carry that with you?” I can’t help asking.
“Always be prepared,” he replies without looking up.
He works silently, efficiently, his movements precise. No tutorials, no brute force, just calm competence. Within two minutes—two fucking minutes—the water stops flowing. He reassembles the handle, tests it, and stands.
“It needed a new washer,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. “The old one was worn.”
“That’s what I said,” I point out, feeling ridiculous and juvenile and hating myself for it.
“Yes,” Miles agrees, utterly deadpan. “After you flooded the bathroom.”
Caleb snorts, then covers it with a cough when I glare at him.
“Thank you,” Elle says, directing her gratitude to Miles. “All of you, actually. For trying to help.”
I notice she’s biting her lip, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s trying not to laugh. At me. At this entire ridiculous situation. Three powerful Alphas reduced to squabbling over a leaky faucet while she watches from the doorway.
“Happy to be of service,” Caleb says with an exaggerated bow, water still dripping from his hair. “Always willing to get wet for a good cause.”