"I don't think that'll work," I say.
Liam follows my gaze to Sharma. She's turned slightly, profile illuminated by the tiki torches, and for a moment her composure cracks—a flicker of exhaustion around her eyes, a tightness to her mouth that suggests the suppressants are wearing thinner by the hour.
"If you believe that, then you've already lost," Liam says. "You have to lock in. Take no losses. Give all to gain all." He sounds like a middle school pumping up a losing team.
A commotion erupts near the resort entrance. A valet in coral shorts pushes through the crowd, clipboard in hand, scanning the tables. His gaze snags on Sharma, and he raises his voice above the ukulele music.
"Ms. Kinsey? Ground transport just delivered your delayed luggage. It's waiting at guest services."
The words detonate my control. Fuck no. She's not going back on those damn suppressants. I don't care if I have to toss the damn bag into the ocean.
Sharma's spine stiffens. The glass in her hand trembles. We both know what's in those bags. The chemical barrier she's been hoping for since her baggage was delayed.
Our eyes lock across the luau. "Excuse me," I say to Liam, already moving.
I cut through the dancers, the servers, the inebriated cousins. Sharma sets her glass down and steps away from the table, but I'm faster. I intercept her before she reaches the path, blocking her exit with my body.
"I'll walk you," I say.
"Move."
"Not a chance." I keep my voice low, pleasant, the same tone I use to close million-dollar deals. "Guest services is dark this time of night. Unlit path. Bad footing. You need an escort."
Her nostrils flare. The pulse at her throat ticks visible and fast beneath terra-cotta skin. "I don't need you."
"Probably not." I smile, letting it show teeth. "But you're getting me anyway."
She hesitates. The crowd presses around us, music swelling, and I watch her calculate—public scene versus private capitulation. Her jaw sets, that muscle feathering just below her ear that I've dreamed about biting.
"Fine," she spits. "But stay five feet back."
The path unwinds from the main pavilion in crushed coral and shadows. We walk in silence, our footsteps mismatched—hers clipped and restless, mine deliberately lazy. The luau noises fade behind us, replaced by the mechanical whir of the resort's laundry facility and the wet rustle of palm fronds. Humidity slicks my collar against my neck.
Sharma walks faster. Her shoulders hitch with each breath, the suppressant battle waging visible war beneath her skin. She's sweating. I can smell it—that rich, dark sweetness breaking through with my nearness, the omega beneath the armor screaming for release.
My hands close into fists. Release I could give her. Release I want to give her until we're both raw and ruined.
"Don't," she says, not looking back. Scenting my rising adrenaline. A rush I can't hide when she's within arms reach.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking." Her voice shakes. "You smell like cedar and need, Roan. It's embarrassing."
"You're sweating through your dress."
She stops. Spins. Her eyes glitter in the low light, wet and furious. "Because you won't leave me alone. Because you keep pushing and pushing—"
"I'm not pushing." I close the distance between us in one stride. She backs into the foliage, fronds snapping against her shoulders, and I follow, crowding her against the rigid trunk of a palm. "I'm standing here. I'm existing. I'm breathing the same air as you, Sharma, and you're acting like that's a war crime."
"You're trying to—" She cuts off, her breath hitching.
"Trying to what?" I plant my hands on either side of her head, caging her. The heat radiating off her body sinks into my skin, humid and urgent. "Keep you from drugging yourself into oblivion? Keep you from running from something that might actually be good?"
Her laugh cracks, bitter and broken. "Good? You think this is good? You, throwing your weight around, deciding what I need, when I need it—nothing's changed since we were kids. You're still an arrogant shit. An alpha who thinks omegas exist for your convenience."
The words whip like palm fronds in a violent tempest. I flinch. "I'm not—"
"You are." She pushes against my chest, but her palms linger, fingers curling into my shirt. "You're doing it right now. Pulling me into the dark. Demanding. Always demanding."
