Their Birthday Omega (A Heat of the Month #4)

1. Nadia

Nadia

My actual birthday is the twenty-fifth. Try getting fifty rich assholes to align their schedules on short notice, though. It's like herding millionaire cats. This weekend was the only slot that worked for everyone, so here we are, tearing it up two weeks early.

I set my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and flag down a bartender for a refill.

My mahogany skin glows under the strobe lights.

I spent three grueling hours in a makeup chair to achieve this specific "I woke up flawless and expensive" look.

My jet-black bob brushes my collarbones right above the neckline of my custom silk dress.

The fabric clings to my curves like a second skin, slit dangerously high up the thigh.

My fresh acrylic nails tap a rhythm against the flute as I grind my hips to the beat, weaving through the packed upper deck.

I flash fake-ass smiles at trust fund babies, crypto bros, and local celebrities.

Honestly, I live for this energy. The noise, the attention, the chaos of a good party. It keeps my mind off the quiet.

Then, a scent cuts through the heavy salt air and the suffocating cloud of expensive designer perfumes.

I stop walking. My high heels practically glue themselves to the deck.

My pulse jumps into a frantic, thumping rhythm against my throat.

It smells like toasted coconut and dark, heavy spiced rum.

For a split second, I try to brush it off as a bartender walking past with an overpriced pi?a colada, but my gut knows better.

It's a rich, intoxicating wave of pure tropical heat, so visceral it literally makes my mouth water.

A heavy, immediate heat pools in my lower belly.

It smells like an Alpha. A really, really potent Alpha.

I scan the crowd, my heart hammering. Bodies press together on the dance floor, grinding and sweating.

People laugh and shout over the deafening music.

The wind shifts off the water, blowing a gust of warm air across my face, and the scent vanishes.

I pull a long, desperate breath through my nose, chasing the rich rum and toasted coconut, but I just get a lungful of cheap, synthetic sunscreen and someone's spilled vodka.

Goddammit.

I down the rest of my champagne in one gulp and force my attention back to my guests. I'm just touch-starved and a little drunk. That's all it is.

I spot Sloane lounging on one of the oversized circular white leather cabanas near the main bar.

She looks like a literal goddess, which is annoying considering she's exhausted.

Her red hair cascades over her shoulders in flawless waves, and her plus-sized frame is draped in a shimmering emerald gown that hugs her pregnant belly.

She holds a glass of sparkling water, looking thoroughly over it.

Bennett and Rhett stand on either side of her, bracketing her in like two wealthy, fiercely territorial guard dogs.

Bennett wears a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, his hair styled into a flawless slicked-back pompadour.

He's got that intense boardroom Alpha energy radiating off him.

Rhett leans against the cabana in a dark navy suit.

He has shaggy brown hair, light blue eyes, and a rugged five o'clock shadow that makes him look like a billionaire lumberjack who could easily snap someone in half.

I slide into the cabana, careful not to crush her dress, and wrap my arms around Sloane’s neck. "How's the tiny human doing?"

Sloane rests a hand on her stomach and groans. "Keeping me awake. Kicking my ribs like they're a punching bag. The usual."

Bennett immediately leans in, handing her a fresh linen napkin to set her water glass on. His brow is furrowed. "She needs to rest. The music is way too loud for the baby. It's stressing her out."

Sloane rolls her eyes at the ceiling, looking like she wants to strangle him. "The baby is encased in amniotic fluid, Ben. He can't hear the damn DJ."

Rhett chuckles, a low, rumbling sound, and rubs his large hand over Sloane’s bare shoulder. "We just want you comfortable, sweetheart. You look exhausted. Your scent is all over the place."

"I am exhausted." Sloane leans her head against Rhett’s arm, melting into his touch. "I love you, Nadia. Happy early birthday. But these two are going to drive me absolute fucking insane if I don't let them take me home to bed."

I squeeze her shoulder, forcing a bright smile. "Get out of here. Go sleep. I appreciate you coming out to deal with this madhouse at all."

Sloane stands up. Bennett and Rhett flank her, their hands hovering near her waist like she's made of fragile glass. It's sickeningly sweet. "We'll do a proper brunch next week," she promises, kissing my cheek. "Just us."

"Count on it." I hug her, extra careful of her stomach. Bennett gives me a curt, respectful nod, and Rhett flashes a tired, genuine smile.

I stay in the cabana for a second and watch the three of them navigate toward the stairs. Rhett keeps a massive hand anchored to the small of her back. Bennett clears a path through the drunk guests, shooting death glares at anyone who gets too close to his Omega.

A tiny, sharp ache throbs in the center of my chest. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, watching them. I push the pathetic longing down, swallow the lump in my throat, turn on my heel, and head straight back to the open bar. I need something a hell of a lot stronger than champagne.

I elbow my way through a cluster of sweaty crypto bros to reach the main bar. The bartender, a guy in a crisp white shirt who looks like he’s questioning his life choices tonight, catches my eye.

"Double shot of Don Julio," I shout over the blaring bass. "No lime. And a Tequila Sunrise."

He nods, sliding the shot glass across the slick mahogany bar a second later.

I toss it back. The tequila burns a harsh, glorious trail down my throat, taking the edge off.

He hands me the tall, icy Tequila Sunrise next.

I wrap my fingers around the condensation on the glass and turn around to merge back into the chaos of the dance floor.

The scent hits me again.

It hits so much harder this time. Rich. Intoxicating.

A heavy, shared base of dark spiced rum hits my sinuses first, anchoring them together.

But now I can pick out two different undertones cutting through the alcohol.

One is that mouth-watering toasted coconut, and the other is a deep, smoky vanilla.

The combination is heavy in the humid air.

Heat rushes across my skin, starting at my nape and flooding straight down into my chest. My lungs tighten up.

A sudden throb flares right between my thighs, making my breath hitch.

It’s a deep ache that leaves my slick core clenching in response.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, fighting a sudden restless itch deep in my muscles.

I run a hand through my bob, fanning the warm summer air against my neck.

It’s just the tequila hitting my bloodstream fast. That’s what I tell myself.

The August heat is brutal tonight, and I'm horny and touch-starved. That’s all.

I take a massive gulp of my fruity drink, welcoming the ice-cold relief, and force myself to push through a group of models.

I find Maeve sitting on a curved teak banquette padded with thick, white leather cushions near the starboard railing.

She is wearing a slinky, forest-green silk slip dress that clings nicely to her curves.

It is a stunning look, but her red hair is tied up in a messy, effortless knot and she is staring blankly at the chaotic strobe lights reflecting off the dark ocean water, rocking a completely glazed, deer-in-headlights expression.

Maeve thrives in a quiet, secluded cabin in the mountains.

This party is her own personal hell. Cillian and Rian flank her on either side.

Both are tall, dark-haired, and exuding a suffocating amount of protective, lethal Alpha energy.

They watch the drunk crowds walking past like they are ready to rip someone's throat out if they step too close to their Omega.

I drop onto the cushions next to her. "You look like you want to murder the DJ."

Maeve manages a weak, strained smile, pulling her eyes away from the water. "I just want to murder the people shouting over the DJ. It's so fucking loud, Nadia."

Cillian shifts closer, his jaw tight. He shrugs out of his custom suit jacket and drapes it over Maeve’s bare shoulders, pulling the lapels together across her chest to keep her warm. "Her social battery ran out an hour ago. We pushed it by staying this long."

Rian brushes a stray curl behind Maeve’s ear, his large hand lingering on the back of her neck. "We're taking her back to the hotel."

"Go." I point my drink toward the main exit. "You made an appearance. That counts. Go order a ridiculous amount of room service and hide under the blankets."

Maeve leans forward and kisses my cheek. "Happy birthday, babe. Pace yourself. Don't let these drunken animals ruin your night."

"I won't."

Cillian and Rian help her to her feet. Rian wraps a steady, possessive arm around her waist, tucking her flush against his side, and guides her toward the gangway. Cillian follows close behind, a terrifying wall of muscle blocking anyone from bumping into her.

I take another sip of my sunrise and scan the perimeter. I need to check on Juno before I lose her in this mess.

I spot her standing near the aft railing. She grips the polished teakwood, her knuckles bone-white. Her long, straight black hair whips in the salty wind. She has this gorgeous mixed Vietnamese-American and White heritage, but right now her usually flawless complexion looks pale and ashen.