I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling hard enough to sting my scalp. "Here's my offer. We can be bedmates for this trip. Temporary. Physical. No more knots. No marks. No public displays. When we step on the plane to go back, it ends. We return to work, and you stay on your side of the building. That's the best I can offer. That's the only thing on the table."
Roan's head snaps back like I've struck him. For a long moment, neither of us moves. His chest heaves, controlled, measured, but his eyes—they go wild. "You want to reduce this to a vacation fuck?"
"I want to survive you without letting you destroy what's left of my heart." The admission slips out. I clamp my mouth shut, but it's too late.
The fan above clicks. The waves outside drag at the shore, relentless, indifferent. Then he steps into me. Not touching. Invading. His voice drops to a register that resonates in my pelvic floor, dark and absolute. "I won't be your bed-buddy, Sharma." My name grates out, claimed, furious. "I will find a way to change your mind. I will own you. Body and soul."
I hold his gaze. My heart races, but my spine doesn't bend.
"Maybe," I say. The finality settles over me, heavy as wet sand. "But only my body. My soul will remain mine. You altered my path once, permanently, when I was too young to defend it. I won't give you the chance to do it again."
"That's the thing about chances in life, Sharma. Nobody ever gives you one. You have to take them." The door doesn't slam when he leaves. It closes with a soft stillness that is even more unsettling.
After he's gone, I look at the table. I didn't even notice that he'd brought me food. A tray piled high with enough to feed me for a week. That's what alphas do, my traitorous mind whispers. They take care of their omegas. I drop to my knees. My legs are heavy with the realization that I don't want his food. I just want him.
I don't make it back to the bed. I pull the sheets down, wrap the comforter that still carries his scent around me, and cry in my nest.
Chapter five
Roan
The luau is a fucking success to everyone except me. Sharma's laughter is manufactured for the benefit of the Henderson woman across the table. It rings bright and shiny with falseness. She hasn't looked at me once. Not when the servers brought the whole roasted pig. Not when the fire dancers spun their batons into blurring arcs. Her profile rivals the torchlight like a blade, sharp and unmoving.
My thumb splits the skin of a macadamia nut. The shell crumbles, bitter meat dusting my palm. Around us, the wedding party churns in floral prints and loosened ties, Grayson stalking the perimeter with his phone pressed to his ear—probably checking on his sick kid—and Hunter arguing some legal precedent with the resort manager. Jaleesa sips sparkling water, her hand curved over her stomach in a gesture I've seen Star make a thousand times since the bump announced itself. They're all here, tangled in their bonds, satisfied and suffocating.
Sharma's laugh rings out again, and I want to hurl something. Shout something despicable just to get her attention. But that's how we ended up in this trouble. So I keep quiet.
"You're growling," Liam says. He stands beside me at the bar's edge, one hand flat against Star's lower back as she discusses flower arrangements with the coordinator. His fingers splay wide, claiming the swell of his mate's pregnancy with a territorial ease that makes my molars ache. "And your jaw," he says. "It's ticking."
"Fuck off."
"Charming." He doesn't move. Star shifts, her honeysuckle scent drifting, and Liam tracks the motion with narrowed focus before returning to me. "You've been staring at her for forty minutes. Either grow a pair and apologize, or stop looming like a serial killer."
I crush another nut. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Bullshit."
My head snaps toward him. Liam's expression remains placid, spreadsheets and 15-minute itinerary calm, but his eyes are the steel dagger of a brother who watched me torment Sharma Kinsey for an entire childhood. "You don't know the situation."
"I know you." He steps closer, lowering his voice. Star continues her conversation, oblivious. "I know that look. That's the same look you had at nineteen when you convinced yourself that setting Mom's garden on fire was 'processing grief.' You're cornered, and you're about to do something spectacularly stupid. I'm here as someone who cares about you to say: Don't."
The torchlight wavers. Sharma lifts a drink, and her throat works as she swallows. A bead of condensation rolls down theglass, mimicking the path my tongue traced six hours ago. My cock stirs against my thigh, possessive and insistent.
"I need advice," I say. The unfamiliar words grate. Liam's eyebrows rise. I've never asked him for guidance on anything that didn't involve business. "Shoot," he says, giving me a steady look.
"Star." I gesture at his mate with my chin, keeping my voice low. "When you fucked up. When you hid the engagement, and she found out and left."
Liam's hand stills on Star's back. His fingers curl, knuckles whitening. "What did you do?" I press. "After. To fix it."
Star turns then, sensing the shift, her face softening as she looks at Liam. He meets her gaze, and a soft look passes between them—silent, devastating, the kind of communication that requires no translation. She nods once, returning to the coordinator, and Liam exhales through his nose.
"I begged," he says simply and succinctly. No making it pretty or pretending it was anything other than what it was. "Honestly? I didn't expect her to take me back. Not for months. Maybe not ever."
"But she did."
"Because I was dug in." His voice drops, rough with memory. "I wasn't going anywhere. I showed up. Every day. I proved that I was willing to eat crow for the rest of my life if it meant she might eventually look at me again."
Crow. The word tastes foreign. I've never begged for anything—money, attention, forgiveness. The concept sits in my stomach like spoiled fish.
