38. Elena
Chapter thirty-eight
Elena
The air hums with the focused hush of the final, while my skull pounds with the same relentless headache that kicked in the moment I woke up.
The alphas’ pointed warnings about my impending heat are on a cruel loop in my mind. Their words, which I’d dismissed with all the bravado I could muster, now feel like prophecies chiseling themselves into my very bones.
Sweat, cold and unwelcome, prickles my forehead despite the crisp morning air. My last pill, swallowed two hours ago, feels less like a shield and more like a single daisy in the path of a hormonal hurricane. Between the headaches and the insistent cramping in my belly, the party’s really starting.
With a deep breath, I scan my surroundings, witnessing a blend of steely determination and barely concealed terror.
James stands at his own station, his usual peacock swagger noticeably subdued.
Our eyes snag for a nanosecond before I snap my gaze back to my dough, shaping it into a perfect sphere with overkill ferocity.
Not today, Satan. Or James. Or any other distracting alpha.
I measure flour (250 grams, exactly ) into a chilled bowl. The cloud of white dust that poofs up usually smells like comfort. Today, it’s an olfactory assault against my overwhelmed senses.
"Focus, Elena, focus," I hiss, adding 125 grams of perfectly cubed, chilled butter.
My fingers, now apparently equipped with hyper-sensitive nerve endings, work the fat into the flour and sugar.
The sandy texture develops (a small win), but the rhythmic kneading does unfortunately little to quell the heat simmering beneath my skin.
I swaddle the dough in plastic wrap and put it into the mini-fridge. Timer set. One hour. My hands are definitely shaking as I pull out my notes for the pistachio cream. The headache has cranked itself up to a pulsing, behind-the-eyes rave.
"Hey, Elena."
I nearly jump out of my skin at Cole's voice. He stands a careful distance from my station, his firefighter uniform crisp and formal. His scent wafts over, and my traitorous nose twitches with appreciation as my eyes widen like I’ve just seen dessert.
"Morning," I reply, turning back to my ingredients as a desperate protective strategy, hoping he'll take the hint.
He doesn't. "Listen, I just wanted to—"
"I'm really busy right now," I cut him off, not looking up. "Can this wait?"
The silence that follows makes me glance at him. His expression is a mixture of hurt and resignation that makes my chest tighten with guilt.
"Sure," he says finally. "It's not important."
I can't help but notice how his shoulders drop as he walks away.
Damn, I feel bad, but what am I supposed to do?
My head's all fuzzy and I'm burning up. His scent is just doing unholy things to my concentration.
And great, now my eyes won't stop following him around, like my body's got some kind of homing device locked onto him.
Get a freaking grip, Elena!
Pistachio cream time. The whir of the food processor grinding the nuts feels like it's drilling straight into my brain. 100 grams butter. 100 grams powdered sugar. 100 grams pistachio powder. Symmetrical numbers usually calm me down. But not right now. Everything feels jagged, too loud, too bright. By the time I’m beating in the eggs, another layer of sweat has bloomed on my forehead.
The breeze, which should be a caress, feels like a whisper-thin mockery against my internal furnace.
The timer for the dough chimes. Damn, it's already been an hour?
I roll it out to exactly 1/8 of an inch, a precision I take pride in, even as my body betrays me with tremors and flashes of heat.
I line the dish. Crimp the edges. Hope it holds. I’m just pouring in the baking beans for the blind bake when Judge Chen walks by, eyeing my work.
"Beautiful crimping," she comments.
"Thank you," I reply, forcing a smile.
The first stage goes into the oven, and I check the time. 11:45 AM. Still on schedule, despite the riot happening in my body.
Fuck the alphas were right, I'm definitely going into heat. If I can just push through for a few more hours...
By the time the tart shell comes out golden and perfect, the festival has filled with visitors, the background noise grating against my nerves like sandpaper. I pour the pistachio cream into the shell with hands that no longer feel entirely my own.
Still, I manage to power through.
The tart goes back into the oven. Another timer set. Thirty minutes.
My vision does a little samba as I start prepping the fruit (strawberries, blueberries, vibrant kiwi, sunset-hued mangoes, creamy bananas), each slice a tiny, perfect recruit in my fruity battalion.
The filled tart shell emerges as the timer rings, the pistachio cream a perfect olive hue with a slight dome. Under normal circumstances, I'd feel triumphant. Instead, I'm fighting waves of dizziness as I transfer it to the cooling rack.
Now comes more waiting. The tart needs to cool completely before I can decorate it with fruit. Forty minutes minimum.
I sink onto a stool, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. The headache has evolved into a pulsing beast, and the hollow ache in my belly is transforming into an emptiness demanding to be filled.
No. No. No. Not now.
I open my eyes to find Dorian watching me from across the competition area, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. He knows what's going on. Of course he does, he can probably smell the change in my scent from twenty feet away.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm on my feet and moving toward him.
"I need to talk to you," I say, my voice a low, urgent whisper as I reach his side. "Somewhere private. Now."
His perfectly sculpted eyebrows lift a fraction. "Elena, is everything—?"
"Just come with me," I plead, tugging his arm. He resists for a second, then, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a pending HR investigation, he follows.
I lead him toward the garden where we had our feedback session. It feels like a lifetime ago. Once I'm sure we're out of sight of the other contestants, I whirl on him. "You were right," I practically gasp. "The heat. It’s… it’s starting. And it’s bad."
His expression, a frustrating mix of calm and genuine concern, makes me want to scream. "We need to get you home. The competition isn't worth—"
"No!" The word rips out of me. "I am not quitting. I’ve worked too damn hard.
But I need… I need your help." My voice cracks.
"Like… like that first night. Remember? No strings, no messy emotions, no… complications. Just… relief. Enough so I can think straight, so I can actually finish this damn pie and win." It’s a gamble, I’m basically asking a judge, a billionaire, my sort-of-ex-fling, for a quickie to take the edge off my impending heat.
My cheeks are on fire, but the need is a roaring inferno that burns hotter than shame… (and reduces common sense to ash).
"Just like our first night?" His voice carries a hint of bitterness. "You want to use me and then pretend it never happened?"
"I—that's not what I meant," I stammer, though it's exactly what I meant. "Look, can we—"
"Elena, I don’t think—"
I don’t hear the rest. My hand is already fisting his expensive shirt, dragging him toward the thick cover of the woods. Thought is gone, impulse taking the wheel.
"Elena, wait," he says, even as he allows himself to be dragged. "This isn't—"
I silence him with a kiss that's hungry, unpolished. I press him against a tree, breath ragged, and rub my cheek against the arch of his neck, a desperate, instinctive marking. Mine. For now. Please.
The friction, his scent, his sheer… alpha-ness, it’s like a match to gasoline. He groans, a low, guttural sound, and his hands come up to grip my waist, his fingers digging in almost painfully. This is clearly turning him on. Good.
"Please," I breathe against his mouth. "I need this. I need you."
His resolve visibly crumbles. One moment he's holding back, the next his control snaps like a twig. His hands grip my waist, and his mouth claims mine with a hunger that matches my own.
"The bushes," I pant, spotting a dense thicket of rhododendrons that look private enough. "In there. Quick."
He lets me drag him a few more steps, then digs his heels in, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Elena, this is insane!"
"Please, Dorian," I plead, pressing myself against him, the heat between my legs now a frantic pulse. "I need this. I need you ." My scent is probably screaming ‘take me’ in neon pheromones.
His nostrils flare, his eyes darkening with desire. "Your scent… My God …" he mutters, his voice thick. He’s losing it. And a wicked part of me thrills at the shift.
I lead him deeper, half stumbling into the shelter of the undergrowth. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, tugging at the fabric as I kiss along his throat, wild and breathless. He tastes of power, black coffee, and the promise of oblivion.
His arms crush me to him, and then his mouth is on mine again. The world outside the rustling rhododendron bushes ceases to exist.
Everything is messy. Urgent. Elemental. My body is screaming for release, and Dorian, bless his beautifully tailored, rapidly disheveling suit, is the only answer.
His hands are on my breasts, and my hips are pushing into the bulge in his pants. God he’s so hard. Slick is drooling down my thighs as I claw at his belt, freeing him. His pants hit the ground as I tug my own pants down, baring myself to him.
Dorian spins me around, my hands bracing against robust twigs as he presses his cock against me from behind.
His hands grip my hips, and I arch back, desperate for him.
He doesn’t make me wait. With a low growl, he pushes into me, filling me in one deep, deliberate thrust. I moan, the stretch of him overwhelming and perfect.
Damn that hits the spot.