"I am done listening." She steps back, finding her robe. "You're exactly what I feared. An alphahole who thinks knots solve problems. Who thinks ownership replaces apology."
She walks to the bathroom door, pausing with her hand on the frame. The mate bite on her neck gleams, red and raw, a brand she'll carry until she dies.
"Enjoy your victory," she says. "It's all you'll ever have of me."
The door closes, and the shower turns on. It's just like the suppressant, one more weapon in her arsenal to destroy us.
I stare at the space where she stood, at the empty sheets that still hold the dent of her body. My hand finds the wet spot on the mattress, cooling now, mixed with her slick and my come.
I brought her here. I carried her like prey. I bit her like a claim. And I lost her. "Fuck," I whisper to the empty room. The word hangs there, inadequate, as what I've done settles into my bones, sinking to the marrow. I curse myself again, louder, but it doesn't change anything. The door stays closed. And Sharma Kinsey is showering us away, ridding herself of pieces of me I didn't know I had to lose.
Chapter six
Sharma
Sweat beads along my hairline and drips into my eye. The salt burns. I blink against it, but my arm weighs too much to lift. The ceiling fan cuts the air in lazy circles, each rotation pushing ac's cold breath across my skin. Neither are helping. It's too hot. Always too hot. I stopped checking my temperature six hours ago. Numbers stopped mattering when the burning started in my bones.
A knock cracks against the door. Three sharp raps. "Sharma?" My jaw clamps shut. The sound drills into my skull, sharp as a masonry bit. "Sharma, open up. You missed breakfast and lunch."
The sheets tangle around my legs, damp and clinging to muscle and lace. I haven't shifted position—flat on my back, staring at the blades slicing shadows—since the sun crossed the midpoint of the sky. Maybe longer. Time blurs when the fever spikes. The lock clicks and the knob turns. The Vaughns renteda private island for the wedding, and I can't get any privacy. Footsteps cross the bamboo flooring, quick and light. Vivian's shadow falls across the bed, blocking the ceiling fan's relief.
"Oh god." Her hand covers her mouth. The gesture trembles. "You look—"
"Don't." The word feels like a razor blade slicing my throat. "Don't say awful."
"Not awful." She lowers her canvas bag. It thuds against the floor, and her face is drawn with concern. "You look like you're dying. Is it Jas' flu? The fever?"
I shake my head. The movement sends vertigo spinning through my skull, a vicious carousel that makes my stomach lurch.
"Then what?" Viv perches on the mattress's edge. The shift bounces me slightly. I bite my tongue—trapping the groan that wants to escape. Every nerve ending screams at the contact, too sensitive, too exposed. "Sharma, you're burning up."
Not burning. Dissolving. From the marrow outward. "It's not..." I swallow. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, pasty and useless. "Not flu."
"Then what is it? Food poisoning? The water here—"
"Mate fever, Viv."
Silence slams into the room, heavier than the humidity. Her eyes widen. Dark blue irises flick across my face, my throat, noting the symptoms she suddenly recognizes. The sheen coating my collarbones. The way my hips rock involuntarily against the mattress, seeking friction against the hollow ache. The mark throbbing on my neck that I'm too tired to hide.
"But..." She blinks. Her mouth gapes. "Your suppressants. You said you took your shot before the flight."
"I did." My hand finds my own throat. Fingertips press against the carotid hammering there. "Roan bit me."
Her breath catches. "He what?"
"Last night." The memory surfaces unbidden—teeth breaking skin, the claiming mark planting something permanent under my flesh that no pharmaceutical can neutralize. "It overrode the chemicals. The suppressant can't touch this now."
Viv stares at my neck. Understanding darkens her expression, shifting from confusion to dawning horror. "Shit," she whispers.
"My thoughts exactly."
She stands. Paces to the window, then back. Her curls bounce with the movement—untamed, unlike her usual polished presentation. When she turns, her face has shifted from shock to something harder. Calculated. The beta mind working behind those eyes, strategizing. "So that's it then. You're just going to... suffer?"
"What choice do I have?" I push up on my elbows. The room tilts, coral walls bleeding into white. I collapse back down, panting, the air too thin for my lungs. "He did this. He chose this for me. Just like he chose to torment me when we were kids. Just like he chooses everything."
"Sharma—"
"He bit me knowing I was fighting this. Knowing I didn't want it." My voice rises, cracks like dry earth. "He's the same arrogant asshole who cornered me at your tenth birthday party. Who looked right through me before I presented because hewas too busy screwing models in Barcelona. "The words spill out, carrying years of resentment. "He hasn't changed. He's still cruel."
