Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Elle
Time dissolves into fever-dreams and half-consciousness. I drift on waves of heat that crash through my body, each one stronger than the last. My skin feels like it belongs to someone else—too sensitive, too needy, every brush of fabric a torment and a tease.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve woken gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, sweat pooling in the hollow of my throat.
The storm outside has become white noise, background to the storm building inside me.
I’m losing control, and for someone who’s built a career on never, ever losing control, it’s terrifying.
And somehow, inexplicably, exhilarating.
“Elle?”
A voice penetrates the fog. I blink, forcing my eyes to focus.
Caleb sits at the edge of the bed—not touching, just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
How long has he been there? Was I sleeping?
I have no idea what time it is, if it’s morning or afternoon or some hazy twilight in between.
“What?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, rough and throaty.
“You were making sounds.” His usual smirk is absent, replaced by genuine concern that somehow makes him even more attractive. Damn it.
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to sit up. The room spins slightly, and I grip the sheets to steady myself. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he interrupts, the same thing Miles said hours ago. Or was it minutes? “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I almost laugh. Okay. What a concept. I’m trapped in a luxury villa during a tropical storm with three Alphas while my body betrays me in the most fundamental way possible. I’m so far from okay that okay isn’t even on the map anymore.
“I’m managing,” I say instead, because professional Elle Park never admits weakness, even when she’s half-delirious with heat symptoms.
Caleb’s eyes—warm amber with those distracting flecks of gold—study me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “You know what might help? Something my sister taught me.”
“Your sister?” I blink, trying to reconcile this new information with the Caleb I thought I knew—playboy Alpha, corporate charmer, professional boundary-pusher.
“Omega,” he explains, a softness in his voice I’ve never heard before. “She taught me some breathing techniques that helped her during pre-heat. If you’re interested.”
I should say no. I should maintain whatever scraps of professional distance remain between us. But another wave of heat washes through me, making me shiver despite the sweat beading on my skin, and suddenly distance seems less important than relief.
“Show me,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
Caleb nods, shifting to face me more directly. “It’s about scent management. You’re being bombarded by Alpha pheromones right now—mine, Adrian’s, Miles’—on top of your own changing scent. It’s overwhelming your system.”
I stare at him, momentarily forgetting my discomfort. “How do you know all this?”
A small, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. “Contrary to popular belief, I occasionally read things that aren’t stock reports. Medical journals, Omega health studies. For my sister, originally. But knowledge is knowledge.”
Something warm that has nothing to do with my heat unfurls in my chest. Caleb Rios, corporate playboy, secretly reads medical journals to help his Omega sister. The image doesn’t fit with the man I thought I knew, and that incongruity is oddly destabilizing.
“So,” I manage, swallowing hard, “these breathing techniques.”
“Right.” He straightens, all business suddenly. “It’s about controlled exposure. You close your eyes—”
I comply immediately, which should worry me. Elle Park doesn’t follow instructions without questioning them first. Except, apparently, when they come from Caleb during heat delirium.
“Now breathe in through your nose, slowly. Count to four.”
I inhale, surprised by how difficult it is to maintain the slow pace when my body wants quick, desperate gulps of air.
“Hold for two,” he continues, his voice dropping to a lower register that makes something deep inside me clench with want. “Now exhale through your mouth for six.”
I follow his instructions, focusing on the numbers, on the deliberate control of my breathing. In for four, hold for two, out for six. Repeat.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the praise sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine. “Now, as you breathe, focus on isolating the scents around you. Identify each one separately.”
I breathe in again, trying to do as he says.
The air is thick with competing aromas—the clean cotton of the sheets, the lingering hints of Miles’ cedar and rain scent that even fresh linens couldn’t completely eliminate, the distant coffee from the kitchen, the storm’s petrichor seeping through closed windows.
And Caleb. Spiced rum and honey and sandalwood, warm and enticing, making my mouth water and my core tighten with need.
“I can’t,” I whisper, opening my eyes. “It’s too much.”
“You can,” he insists gently. “Try again. One scent at a time. Acknowledge it, name it, then let it go.”
I close my eyes again, breathing deeply. This time, I force myself to focus, to separate the tangled threads of scent. Cotton sheets. Miles’ cedar. Coffee. Rain. Caleb’s spiced rum.
“I smell you,” I say before I can stop myself. “Spiced rum and honey. Sandalwood.”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. “Good,” he says finally, voice rougher than before. “That’s good, Elle. Now let it go. Move to the next scent.”
“Let it go,” I repeat, closing my eyes again. “Right.”
But I don’t want to let it go. I want to drown in it, to press my face against his neck and inhale until his scent is all I know. The realization is shocking in its clarity, cutting through the fog of heat like a blade.
I force myself to continue the exercise, identifying scents one by one, trying to control my body’s desperate response to Caleb’s proximity. It helps, marginally. The overwhelming cacophony of stimuli recedes slightly, allowing me to think more clearly.
“This is helping,” I admit, opening my eyes to find him still watching me. “For science, right?”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Exactly. For science. Nothing sexier than controlled breathing exercises.”
But his eyes tell a different story—pupils dilated, gaze heated as it traces over my flushed face. I wonder what I look like to him right now, sweat-dampened and disheveled, so far from my usual perfectly composed self.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“You’re beautiful,” he replies without hesitation, the simple honesty of it more disarming than any of his practiced charm. “Even half-delirious with heat, you’re the most composed woman I’ve ever met.”
I laugh, the sound edged with hysteria. “Composed? I’m falling apart.”
“Gracefully,” he insists. “You’re falling apart gracefully. It’s impressive as hell.”
Another wave of heat washes through me, stronger than before, making me gasp. Caleb’s hands twitch at his sides, clearly fighting the instinct to reach for me.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. “In for four.”
I try, I really do, but the air catches in my lungs as another pulse of need courses through me.
His mouth is right there, lips full and expressive, and all I can think is what that tongue do?
Because if he can talk like that, all smooth and controlled, what else can he do with that mouth?
And god, his hips—I’ve seen him move, the casual grace in his stride.
Those hip thrusts must be devastating in bed.
“Elle,” he says, my name a warning and a question. “Your scent just—”
“I know,” I cut him off, mortified. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says roughly. “Just... keep breathing.”
The door opens then, saving me from whatever inappropriate thing might have come out of my mouth next. Adrian enters, carrying a tray with what looks like tea and more of those blessed cooling packs. His eyes flick between Caleb and me, assessing the situation with his usual precision.
“Everything alright?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Breathing exercises,” Caleb explains, standing and creating distance between us. “For scent management. Seems to be helping.”
Adrian nods, accepting this explanation as he sets the tray on the nightstand. “The resort kitchen sent up some herbal tea. Chamomile and something for the fever.”
“Thank you,” I manage, voice steadier than I feel. “That’s thoughtful.”
His gray eyes study me, taking in my flushed face, the damp hair clinging to my neck. Without comment, he reaches for one of the cooling packs, breaking the seal to activate it.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my forehead.
I nod, not trusting my voice. He sits on the edge of the bed where Caleb was moments ago, and gently, so gently it makes my chest ache, presses the cooling pack to my forehead. The relief is immediate and profound, a soft sound escaping me before I can stop it.
“Better?” Adrian asks, voice rougher than usual.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Thank you.”
A drop of sweat trails down my temple, and before I can brush it away, Adrian does, his fingers cool and precise against my heated skin. The touch is brief, clinical almost, but it sends electricity racing through me all the same.
“Your hair is damp,” he observes, frowning slightly. “It will make the fever worse if it stays against your neck like that.”
Before I can respond, he’s reaching for something on the tray—a hairbrush, I realize with surprise.
“May I?” he asks again, always so careful with boundaries.
I should say no. This crosses every professional line we’ve ever established. But the thought of his hands in my hair, of cool air on my neck, is too tempting to resist.
“Okay,” I whisper.