Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Caleb
I wake with the taste of guilt on my tongue, bitter and unfamiliar. Last night plays on repeat behind my eyelids—Elle’s scent blooming across the dinner table, her eyes wide with panic, Adrian moving between us like a shield.
My own reaction, primal and unfiltered. The game I’ve been playing suddenly doesn’t seem so fucking entertaining anymore. Not when her fear was real. Not when what was supposed to be harmless needling of Adrian came at her expense.
I’ve been an asshole, and the realization sits heavy in my chest, an unfamiliar weight I don’t know how to carry.
The couch isn’t comfortable, but that’s not why I slept like shit. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling as rain continues its relentless assault on the villa. The storm hasn’t weakened—if anything, it’s intensified overnight. Much like the situation inside these walls.
I’ve always prided myself on being the fun one, the charming Alpha who doesn’t take things too seriously. The anti-Adrian. The guy who knows how to enjoy life while still closing million-dollar deals.
It’s my brand, my persona. People expect it from me.
But Elle’s face when her blockers failed at dinner...Christ.
The naked vulnerability there before she locked it down. The way she fled the room like prey escaping predators.
That wasn’t entertaining. That was fucking terrifying for her.
And I made it worse with my posturing, my deliberate provocations, my shameless scenting of her. What had seemed like harmless flirtation suddenly feels predatory in the harsh light of morning.
I drag myself off the couch, muscles protesting after a night of restless tossing.
Coffee. I need coffee before I can process any more self-recrimination. I’m halfway to the kitchen when I hear voices in the hallway—Adrian’s controlled tenor and Elle’s softer response, strained around the edges.
“—appreciate you tracking it down,” she’s saying, relief evident in her voice.
“The resort staff was very accommodating once I explained the situation,” Adrian replies.
I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt what sounds like a private moment. But then I catch the shift in Elle’s tone, the hope draining away.
“They’re not here?” Her voice sounds smaller suddenly. “But customs said—”
“They flagged them for containing restricted substances,” Adrian explains, frustration bleeding through his usual control. “The local authorities need documentation we don’t have. I’m working on it, but it could take days.”
I move closer to the hallway, curiosity overriding my belated sense of propriety.
Adrian stands at Elle’s door, holding what appears to be her missing suitcase. Elle’s still in her doorway, one hand braced against the frame like she needs the support.
Even from this distance, I can see the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her fingers as she takes the suitcase from Adrian.
“Thank you for trying,” she says, professional mask firmly in place despite the circumstances. “I appreciate the effort.”
“Elle,” Adrian says, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard from him before—something almost gentle. “I’ll make this right. I promise.”
She nods, not quite meeting his eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.”
It’s the biggest lie I’ve heard since my last board meeting.
She won’t manage. She can’t. Her heat is accelerating faster than any of us anticipated, her blockers are failing, and now her suppressants are being held by customs.
It’s the perfect storm, literally and figuratively.
I clear my throat, making my presence known. They both turn, Elle stiffening visibly while Adrian’s expression shutters into its usual impassive mask.
“Morning,” I say, deliberately casual. “Coffee’s calling my name. Anyone else?”
“I need to unpack,” Elle says quickly, already retreating into her room with the suitcase. The door closes with a soft click that somehow feels more final than a slam.
Adrian and I are left standing in the hallway, the ghost of Elle’s fading blockers lingering between us. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid with tension.
“Her suppressants?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head once, a sharp, frustrated motion. “Customs. Controlled substances. The resort doctor can’t prescribe without her medical records, which are in her secure NovaDyne file.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, the gravity of the situation hitting me fully. This isn’t just uncomfortable anymore. This is potentially dangerous—for Elle physically, for all of us professionally.
Adrian’s eyes narrow. “Don’t even think about it, Rios.”
“About what?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Using this situation to your advantage,” he clarifies, voice low and dangerous. “With Elle. With the summit. With any of it.”
The accusation stings more than it should. Is that really how he sees me? Is that the impression I’ve given—that I’d exploit an Omega’s biological vulnerability for corporate gain or sexual conquest?
The worst part is, maybe he’s not entirely wrong. Twenty-four hours ago, I might have seen this as an opportunity. A chance to get under Adrian’s skin, to charm Elle, to create leverage I could use later. The realization makes me feel slightly sick.
“I’m not that much of an asshole,” I say quietly.
Adrian studies me, suspicion warring with something like desperate hope in his eyes. “Prove it.”
Before I can respond, Miles appears from his room, dressed and composed as if this is a normal workday rather than day three of being trapped with an Omega approaching heat. His gaze slides from Adrian to me, assessing, calculating.
“I heard,” he says simply. “No suppressants.”
Adrian turns to him. “How did you—”
“The walls aren’t that thick,” Miles replies with a shrug. “And I make it my business to know things.”
“Well, since we’re all caught up on Elle’s private medical situation,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice, “maybe we should discuss this somewhere other than outside her door?”
For once, Adrian nods in agreement. The three of us move to the living room by unspoken consensus, maintaining careful distances from each other as we position ourselves in the space.
Adrian by the windows, watching the storm.
Miles in an armchair, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
Me, perched on the arm of the sofa, deliberately casual despite the tension thrumming through my body.
“This changes things,” Adrian says finally, breaking the silence. “Without suppressants, Elle’s heat will hit fully within 24 hours. Maybe less.”
“More like 12,” Miles corrects, clinical and precise. “The environmental triggers are accelerating her cycle. Multiple Alphas in close proximity, stress, tropical climate. All catalysts.”
Adrian and I both look at him with identical expressions of surprise and suspicion.
“I have sisters,” he explains flatly. “Two are Omegas. I know the signs.”
Of course he does. Miles fucking Harrington, the walking encyclopedia of useful information, complete with practical Omega experience.
I want to dislike him for it, but instead, I find myself oddly grateful for his knowledge.
“So what do we do?” I ask, directing the question to both of them, but mostly to Adrian. This is his assistant, after all. His responsibility, at least professionally.
Adrian runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, the small gesture revealing more about his state of mind than anything else could. “We help her. However she wants to be helped.”
“Agreed,” Miles says immediately.
I nod, finding myself in the unusual position of being completely aligned with my two biggest corporate rivals. “Whatever she needs.”
Adrian’s eyes meet mine, searching for sincerity. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him, because he nods once, a sharp acknowledgment of our unexpected alliance.
“She has options,” he continues. “This villa has excellent security. She could lock herself in her room, ride it out alone. It won’t be pleasant, but it’s possible.”
The understatement makes my chest tight. Omega heats without suppressants or Alpha assistance are excruciating—not just uncomfortable, but genuinely painful.
Days of fever, cramping, desperate need with no relief. The thought of Elle suffering through that alone while we sit on the other side of a door makes something primitive and protective rise in my throat.
“Or?” I prompt, knowing there must be alternatives.
“Or she chooses one of us to help her through it,” Miles states matter-of-factly. “Medically, Alpha pheromones and physical assistance significantly reduce heat symptoms and duration.”
The clinical way he phrases it doesn’t disguise what he’s suggesting.
One of us, in Elle’s bed, for the duration of her heat.
The image sends a hot rush of want through me that I immediately try to suppress.
This isn’t about what I want. For once in my life, this has to be about someone else’s needs entirely.
“Or she chooses none of us and suffers unnecessarily,” Adrian says, his voice tight. “It has to be her choice. Completely.”
“Obviously,” I agree, slightly offended that he thinks I’d suggest otherwise. “But we should make sure she knows we’re available. Without pressuring her.”
Miles’s mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. “Smooth, Rios. Very altruistic.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m trying to help.”
“We all are,” Adrian says, and for once, I believe him completely. The three of us, corporate rivals, Alpha competitors, temporarily united by concern for one Omega woman none of us has any claim to.
The sound of a door opening makes us all turn.
Elle emerges from her room, dressed in another impeccable outfit—navy pencil skirt, white silk blouse, hair pulled back in a severe bun. Professional armor, donned despite the circumstances. Despite the flush on her cheeks and the slight tremor in her hands that betrays her biological state.