Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Miles
I wake to the sound of movement. Not the storm—though it continues its assault on the villa, rain lashing against windows like desperate fingers seeking entry—but something more primal.
A rustling. A shift of bedsheets. A barely contained whimper that cuts through walls and darkness to pull me instantly into full alertness. Elle. The clock on my nightstand reads 2:17 AM.
My body responds before my mind fully processes what’s happening, tensing, scenting the air for changes, for danger, for her. Because even through the walls separating my temporary room from my former primary suite, I can smell it—the sharp spike in her scent as another wave of heat takes hold.
My feet hit the floor before I make the conscious decision to stand.
I pull on sweatpants, not bothering with a shirt.
The air conditioning keeps the villa cool, but my skin runs hot.
Always has. The sound comes again—a soft, distressed noise that makes something tight and protective curl in my chest.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face.
The room swap happened eight hours ago. Eight hours of Elle occupying my space, her scent slowly permeating sheets that resort staff had changed at Adrian’s insistence.
Fresh linens weren’t enough, though. Not when the entire room carries traces of me—in the shower products I left behind, in the lingering notes clinging to the curtains, in the very air that circulated around me for days.
I told myself it was practical. The primary suite has better amenities for someone in her condition—larger bathroom, more space to move, better air circulation.
I told her the same when I helped her relocate, maintaining careful distance as she carried her belongings into what had been my territory.
She was composed then, still clinging to professional poise despite the flush on her cheeks and the tremor in her hands.
“Thank you for this,” she’d said, not quite meeting my eyes. “It’s very considerate.”
“It’s practical,” I’d replied, because that was safer than admitting how much I wanted her scent in my space, how primitively satisfying it was to know she’d be surrounded by traces of me during her most vulnerable moments.
Another sound reaches me—the distinct creak of a door opening somewhere in the hallway. Footsteps, light and quick. Caleb. I recognize his tread, the slightly uneven rhythm of someone moving with urgency but trying to be quiet about it. He’s heading toward Elle’s room.
My room. The room that is now the epicenter of a situation none of us anticipated.
I move to my door, opening it silently as years of situational awareness have taught me. The hallway is dim, emergency lighting casting long shadows along the walls. Caleb’s already at Elle’s door, knocking softly.
“Elle?” His voice is pitched low, concerned rather than the flirtatious one he preferred. “You okay in there?”
A pause, then her voice comes muffled through the wood. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
The tremor in her words betrays the lie. Caleb hears it too; his shoulders tense beneath his thin t-shirt.
“I’m coming in,” he announces, no question in it. “Just to check, okay?”
No response this time, which we both take as acquiescence. He opens the door carefully, disappearing inside. I remain in my doorway, weighing options.
The schedule we created—Adrian’s ridiculous, meticulous schedule that Elle amended and we all agreed to follow—didn’t account for middle-of-the-night escalations. There are no assigned shifts for 2 AM emergencies.
The sound of running water reaches me. Then Adrian appears from his room further down the hall, hair mussed from sleep but expression alert. He’s carrying a tray with water bottles, towels, and what looks like Miles’s cooling packs.
“Is she—” he begins, spotting me in my doorway.
“Caleb’s with her,” I interrupt quietly. “Just went in.”
Adrian’s jaw tightens, that territorial instinct flaring briefly before he locks it down. “Good. That’s good. He’s good with people.”
The admission costs him. I can see it in the slight clench of his fingers around the tray handles.
“He is,” I agree, because it’s true, and because Adrian needs to hear someone else acknowledge it.
We move toward Elle’s door together, unspoken agreement in our synchronized steps. Not rushing, not barging in, but not staying away either. The door stands partially open, light spilling into the hallway.
I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene before me. Elle sits on the edge of the bed, hair dark with sweat and clinging to her neck, wearing a thin tank top and shorts that reveal more skin than I’ve ever seen from her. Her professional armor is nowhere to be found.
Caleb kneels in front of her, one hand holding a wet washcloth to her forehead, the other steadying her shoulder. He’s talking softly, something about an embarrassing story from a conference in Tokyo. Making her smile despite her obvious discomfort.
“And then the translator just stops, looks at me, and says in perfect English, ‘I cannot translate that, sir. It would violate multiple cultural taboos and possibly several local ordinances.’”
Elle’s laugh is weak but genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners despite the glassy heat-flush in them. “What did you do?”
“What could I do? I apologized profusely while the entire room of Japanese executives pretended not to understand English suddenly.” Caleb grins, dabbing the cloth gently at her temples. “Cost me the deal, but I deserved it. Never try cultural jokes in languages you don’t speak fluently.”
Adrian clears his throat softly, announcing our presence. Elle’s eyes dart to the doorway, widening slightly when she sees us both. Something complicated passes over her features—embarrassment, relief, vulnerability.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, trying to straighten, to compose herself. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone.”
“You didn’t,” Adrian says immediately, moving into the room with his tray of supplies. “I was up reviewing presentation notes.”
A lie, transparent and kind. His hair is flattened on one side from his pillow.
“And I don’t sleep much anyway,” I add, remaining in the doorway. I don’t enter fully, maintaining a boundary that feels necessary—for her comfort, for my control.
“The storm gang’s all here,” Caleb says lightly, taking the wet cloth to the bathroom to refresh it. “Regular slumber party now.”
Adrian sets his tray on the nightstand, methodically arranging supplies like he’s preparing for surgery. “Water first,” he says, uncapping a bottle and offering it to Elle. “Small sips. Your body temperature is elevated, and dehydration will make symptoms worse.”
She accepts the water, fingers trembling slightly as they brush Adrian’s. The contact makes him freeze momentarily, his usual composure cracking just enough for me to notice. He recovers quickly, professional mask slipping back into place.
“Thank you,” Elle says, voice rough. She takes a careful sip, then another. “This is ridiculous. I’m sorry you’re all—”
“Stop apologizing,” I interrupt, the words coming out more forcefully than intended. Three pairs of eyes turn to me, surprised by the uncharacteristic sharpness. I modulate my tone. “This isn’t something you need to apologize for.”
“Miles is right,” Caleb agrees, returning with the fresh cloth. “Biology’s a bitch sometimes. Nobody’s keeping score here.”
Adrian nods, already preparing one of the cooling packs. “According to our schedule, your next check-in wasn’t until 6 AM. We should adjust for more frequent monitoring.”
“Adrian,” Elle says, something between exasperation and fondness in her voice. “It’s the middle of the night. We don’t need to revise the schedule right now.”
“Proper planning prevents—”
“Poor performance,” Caleb and Elle finish in unison, sharing a look that makes Adrian blink in surprise.
“You say it a lot,” Elle explains, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “It’s practically your catchphrase.”
Something about this moment—Elle in the throes of pre-heat, surrounded by three Alphas who should be competitors but are instead collaborating on her care—strikes me as surreal.
Adrian with his methodical arrangements of supplies.
Caleb with his gentle humor and careful touches.
Me, watching from the doorway, cataloging every detail, every shift in her scent, every small reaction from my unexpected allies.
“How bad is it?” I ask quietly, the question directed at Elle but my eyes taking in all three of them.
She meets my gaze directly, something I’ve noticed she does more with me than with the others. “Bad enough to wake me up. Not as bad as it will get.”
Her honesty is bracing. No pretense, no professional deflection. Just truth, delivered with the same precision she brings to business negotiations.
“The cooling packs will help,” I tell her. “Apply them to pulse points—wrists, neck, behind knees. It won’t stop the progression, but it can make the symptoms more manageable.”
She nods, accepting the first pack from Adrian and pressing it to the back of her neck. The relief is immediate and visible—her eyes closing briefly, a small sigh escaping her lips. The sound does something to the atmosphere in the room, charging it with awareness that none of us acknowledges.
“Better?” Adrian asks, his voice rougher than usual.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”
Caleb sits beside her on the bed, careful to maintain a respectful distance while still offering proximity. “Want me to tell you about the time I accidentally insulted the crown prince of Norway? It involves salmon, unexpected linguistic cognates, and me being escorted from the building.”
A laugh bubbles from Elle’s throat, unexpected and genuine. “Is every story in your repertoire about you embarrassing yourself internationally?”
“Only the good ones,” he confirms with a grin.