Knot Your Sugar

A Cozy Omegaverse Romance

Eve Wolfe

Copyright © 2025 by Eve Wolfe. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form and by any means, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations incorporated in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses. Any unauthorized replica of this work is prohibited.

For permissions, contact: evewolfe.author@gmail.com

Contents

Foreword

1. Elena

2. Elena

3. Dorian

4. Elena

5. Elena

6. James

7. Elena

8. Cole

9. Elena

10. Elena

11. James

12. Elena

13. Cole

14. Elena

15. Elena

16. Dorian

17. Elena

18. Elena

19. Cole

20. Elena

21. Elena

22. James

23. Elena

24. Elena

25. Dorian

26. Elena

27. Dorian

28. Elena

29. Elena

30. James

31. Cole

32. Elena

33. Cole

34. Elena

35. Elena

36. Dorian

37. James

38. Elena

39. Elena

40. James

41. Cole

42. James

43. Elena

44. Elena

45. Elena

46. Dorian

47. Elena

48. Elena

49. Elena

50. Elena

Want more?

Foreword

Welcome to the Snugverse RomCom Omegaverse series!

New to Omegaverse? Here's your quick guide to this alternate reality where humans have evolved into three distinct designations.

Note: This isn't a shifter universe, but animalistic behaviors are deeply wired into all three designations (e.g., they rely heavily on scent for attraction, especially between alphas and omegas).

The Three Designations

Alphas are naturally larger, stronger, and faster than other designations. They possess a knot: a swelling at the base of their penis that locks them with their partner after ejaculation. Alphas can produce commanding barks, aggressive growls, and soothing purrs. They're also particularly drawn to omega pheromones (which manifest as a unique scent for each omega).

Omegas are typically smaller and make up the smallest portion of the population. Every six months, they experience a heat cycle (their only fertile period), which is typically 4-7 days of intense arousal and cramping that's relieved through knotting with one or more alphas. During heat, they release even more powerful pheromones than usual and produce excess slick to facilitate mating. Despite stereotypes of submission, most omegas are anything but meek. Additionally, they can purr to comfort their chosen partners and use a whine that particularly stirs alphas' protective and nurturing instincts.

Betas form the majority of the population and closely resemble normal humans. They have subtle, calming scents and are less affected by alpha or omega pheromones, though not completely immune.

Scent Matches

Beyond ordinary attraction lies the rare phenomenon of true scent matches, the Omegaverse equivalent of soulmates. When individuals are scent matches, their biology aligns perfectly in every way (e.g., compatible personalities, irresistible attraction, optimal genetic compatibility for offspring), and they can identify the precise individual notes in each other's scents (something non-matches cannot fully do). These matches are extraordinarily rare though.

Packs and Bonds

Groups of three or more can form packs, typically centered around an omega with multiple alphas and, sometimes but not always, betas. Bonds form when alphas bite their chosen mates. Bonded individuals emit dulled scents, signaling their unavailability to others, and can sense each other's emotions and well-being through their bond.

Chapter one

Elena

My fingers dance across the tart shell, shaping thirty-seven scalloped edges on autopilot. In the quiet of early morning, as the bakery kitchen fills with the rich aroma of butter melting into flour, I find my peace.

Through the panoramic window, I watch sunrise spill over Lakeview, casting the fall forest in rich shades of gold and crimson. A thin veil of mist clings to the distant lake, softening as the light stretches across the water. Beyond it, the mountains rise in quiet majesty, their peaks already glowing.

After three years, this view still amazes me.

I glance up at the old, flour-dusted clock on the wall. 5:17 AM. I've been at it for over two hours already. Maybe I deserve a br—

"Eyes on the dough, Elena."

I nearly smudge the tart as Pierre's voice shatters my moment, his French accent thick enough to spread on a baguette. I didn't hear him come in. As always, he moves like a ninja in chef whites, his short beta frame gliding through the narrow spaces between counters.

"The tarts are ready for the oven," I say, straightening up as he inspects my work. His critical eyes scan the scalloped edges, hunting for flaws that even a microscope couldn't find.

Without looking up, he nods once, the closest thing to a parade in my honor I'll ever get from him.

"Registration for the festival is tomorrow," he states flatly. "I expect you to place in the top three. If you do, I'll promote you to artisan baker." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "With the salary to match."

I bite my lip to keep from squealing while my toes do a happy dance inside my shoes. After three years as his apprentice, I've learned when enthusiasm is welcome and when restraint is required. Still, this is exactly what I've been waiting for.

"I won't disappoint you Pierre," I manage, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fireworks going off in my brain.

Pierre Bouvier is the best baker in the region, possibly the state. His methods are exacting, traditional to a fault, but undeniably brilliant. Working under him has been like attending the most demanding baking boot camp imaginable.

And while I'm grateful he turned me into a high-functioning flour addict, his strictness is starting to suffocate me. Three other bakeries have tried to poach me in the last year, offering actual decent salaries and creative freedom. Tempting, but I stayed. Because Pierre’s training is the key to my ultimate dream: ‘Elena’s Creations’, my very own successful bakery. A place where innovation wouldn't be a crime against pastry.

As Pierre moves to the other side of the kitchen to start his morning bread routine, I turn my attention to the éclairs waiting on a cooling rack.

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure he's busy, I pull out a small tube of my apron pocket with a conspiratorial grin. Before he notices a thing, I squeeze it, releasing a fragrant paste into one éclair's dark chocolate filling as I whistle a little tune.

Pierre might have a stroke if he knew. 'Sacrilege! Why reinvent what generations have perfected?' he would lecture, probably while waving a rolling pin for emphasis. But as I imagine a customer's eyes widening in delight after their first bite, a thrill runs through me.

This is the real me, the baker I want to be. Someone who respects tradition but isn't afraid to make it dance a little.

* * *

Over two hours later, my feet are staging a minor protest. But today's pastries are done, and Mayor Hanson's daughter's birthday cake is ready for pickup. I glance at the clock. 7:58 AM. Almost time for the morning rush.

"Taking a quick water break!" I call out to Pierre, who's organizing macarons like tiny jewels in the front display.

I step into the cramped break room, grabbing my water bottle and a small, unmarked pill bottle from my bag.

In one smooth motion, I swallow one blue DuoBlocks pill, my daily dose of normal. This drug masks my omega pheromones (while also filtering out the ones alphas emit) and keeps all my biological imperatives on lockdown. Without it, my beta façade would vanish faster than free croissants at breakfast.

My phone buzzes just as I stash the bottle. Mom. I answer quickly, keeping my voice low. Pierre has opinions about personal calls during work hours.

"Hi, Mom! How are you?"

"Elena, darling! I'm doing well, just enjoying a quiet morning," her voice is warm, bright even. "What's new in the world of butter and sugar?"

I lean against the metal shelving with a grin. “The annual baking festival starts tomorrow!”

"Oh, how exciting! The big one you've been practicing for?"

"That's the one. And get this, Pierre said if I place in the top three, he'll finally promote me to artisan baker. With the salary to match!" The excitement bubbles up, impossible to fully contain.

"Elena, that's wonderful news! I know you can do it. You've had the magic touch since you were barely tall enough to see over our kitchen counter, remember?"

The memory brings a smile. Me, standing on a stool, flour dusting my nose, Mom patiently guiding my small hands as we made her special chocolate chip cookies. Back before life threw curveballs that forced her to give up so much. "Thanks, Mom. It’ll be tough competition, but I'm going for it."

"You absolutely should! You work harder than anyone I know." There's a slight pause, and before she asks about my non-existent love life (as she usually does), I jump in.

"So, how was the seniors' dance at the community center last Saturday?"

There's a slight hesitation before she answers. "Oh, that. Well, it was... nice."

"Nice? That's all I get?" I laugh, but something in her tone makes me suspicious. "Mom… did you actually go?"

Another pause. "Well, actually... no. But for a good reason! My old hip was giving me a twinge. Besides, Mrs. Peterson needed someone to watch her cats while she visited her daughter. She paid me twenty dollars."

My heart sinks. "Aw, mom, you were looking forward to that dance for weeks. You even practiced in your living room."

"It's okay sweetie, there'll be other dances."

I close my eyes, understanding exactly what happened. Mom is sacrificing small joys to make ends meet, just like when she traded her passion for better-paying work when my alpha father walked out.

"When I win this competition and get promoted, we're going to celebrate," I say firmly. "We'll go out for a fancy dinner with cloth napkins and everything."

Mom laughs. "I'd settle for just seeing you more often. And maybe meeting a nice young man in your life? It's been so long since you've dated anyone."

I roll my eyes, though I know she can't see me. "Mom, seriously? When exactly would I find time to date? I’m at the bakery by three in the morning and don’t get home until after three in the afternoon. And I still have to, you know, eat and sleep."

"There's always time for love, Elena. You're young and beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your days surrounded by flour and sugar."

"I like being surrounded by flour and sugar," I counter. "Besides, I've seen what happens when you fall for the wrong guy." The words come out sharper than I intend, and I immediately regret it.

There's a brief silence before Mom speaks again. "Your father was... complicated. But not all men are like him, sweetheart. Not all alphas just walk away when things get tough."

I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying too much. She doesn't know I'm on medication. She doesn't know I've been passing as a beta for years now. As far as she's concerned, I'm just a regular omega who's moved out of state to focus on her career. And that's exactly how I want to keep it.

"I know, Mom, I just—" I'm interrupted by Pierre calling my name from the kitchen. "I have to go. Pierre's on the warpath. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Go, go! Don't let me get you in trouble. Love you, sweetheart. Knock 'em dead at that festival."

"Love you too, Mom."

After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a beat as guilt mixes with determination in my gut. She deserves so much better than watching other people's cats instead of going dancing. I send her money every month, as much as I can possibly spare from my meager apprentice allowance, but it's not enough nowadays. When I have my own successful bakery, I'll make sure she can do whatever she wants.

"Elena. Break time is over. Customers will be arriving."

Pierre's sharp tone yanks me back to reality. He's standing in the breakroom's doorway, arms crossed.

"Sorry, Pierre," I say, quickly pocketing my phone. "Just finishing up."

He starts to turn away, then pauses, his nose twitching slightly. His gaze snaps toward the cooling rack where the éclairs sit, including the experimental one I set apart. Uh oh.

He strides over and picks up the éclair with suspicion, sniffing it. "What is the meaning of this?"

My stomach does a nervous flip. "It's just an extra, Pierre. I was exploring a potential... enhancement."

"Enhancement?" The word drips with disapproval.

My caution suddenly evaporates, replaced by a flicker of defiance. "Yes! I added a touch of vanilla and lavender paste," I explain, maybe a little too eagerly. "It adds this wonderful floral note that complements the dark chocolate, making it more complex, more—"

"The recipe is a classic for a reason, Elena. It does not require 'enhancements'," he cuts me off, his voice glacial. "Such experiments belong on your own time, in your own kitchen. Not mine."

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he sends my vanilla-lavender éclair right into the bin. My creation. My little spark of rebellion. Trashed. My shoulders slump.

"Three years," he sighs, wiping his hands disdainfully. "And you still haven't learned respect for tradition. This impulsivity is why you remain an apprentice."

I bite my tongue, hard. Arguing is pointless. He inspects the other éclairs, then nods curtly.

"These," he concedes, "are acceptable. The festival demands this precision. Nothing less. Remember, top three. For the bakery's reputation."

"Yes, Pierre," I murmur, while mentally adding, and to finally get paid what I'm worth.

As he leaves, I trace the smooth, chocolate surface of an approved éclair. In my mind, I can taste what it would be like with a touch of orange zest in the filling… or a sprinkle of sea salt on top to enhance the sweetness.

I think of Mom skipping a dance she would have loved. I think of three years spent hiding, suppressing, pretending. I think of the festival, my chance to finally prove myself. To earn the means to chase my dreams and help my mother.

Nothing will stop me. Especially not that… thing my mom wants me to find. 'Love', I gag at the word, is just another way to suck your dreams away and leave you helpless. Especially when alphas are involved. I’ll never be anyone’s omega. I'll never lose myself to biology.

The bell above the front door jingles just as I reach the counter, snapping me back. Customer number one of the day. Showtime.

I smooth my apron, shove the dreams and defiance back into their box, and paste on my best beta smile.

Outside, Lakeview stirs to life with sunshine and neighborly hellos—the perfect conditions for gossip to spread faster than butter on warm toast.

And yet, somehow, in a town where secrets have the shelf life of a ripe banana, mine, my omega designation, remains intact… for now.

And that's exactly how it has to stay.

Chapter two

Elena

The chaos of clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and classic rock playing a touch too loud wraps around me like a welcome hug after my long day.

Mia spots me from her perch at the bar and waves so enthusiastically she nearly sends someone’s martini flying.

"There she is!" Mia's voice cuts through the din. For a five-foot-three omega, she packs a startling amount of volume. "Our very own queen of crumb, the future star baker of Lakeview!" She pulls me into a quick, energetic hug.

I collapse onto the empty stool beside her, dropping my small purse on the sticky bartop with a dramatic sigh.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, gratefully accepting the Cosmopolitan Mia slides my way. "Pierre 'summoned' me back to adjust a batch of croissants two hours ago. Apparently, the layers weren't 'singing' to him."

Mia snorts, her dark curls bouncing as she shakes her head. "Does he also check their horoscopes?" She leans in, her beautiful violet eyes squinting at my face. "Hold still, you've still got..." She reaches over and gently wipes my cheek with her thumb, then shows me the evidence. "Flour."

I sigh, a puff of air that barely disturbs the flour on Mia's thumb. "I rushed here." I glance down at my trusty blue top and jeans, my official ‘too tired to care but still cute’ attire. "My grand plan involved being two hours less stressed, greeting my new elusive neighbor with a plate of welcome cookies, and emerging like a swan from a long, hot shower before gracing you with my presence."

"So, the mysterious new neighbor remains unmet and un-cookied?" Mia raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Elena, honey, in a town where Brenda from the post office knows what you had for breakfast, not having a full dossier on your neighbor after three days practically defies local law."

I take a long, appreciative sip of my drink. It’s probably terrible for my palate the night before a baking competition, but right now it tastes like nectar of the gods.

"I know, I know. I feel like a terrible neighbor. But seriously, when? I’m out before the roosters even think about crowing, and by the time I drag myself home, I'm basically sleepwalking."

"My poor, flour-dusted, workaholic friend," Mia coos, patting my arm sympathetically. She’s been my Lakeview lifeline since week one, when I met her at Curl Up & Dye (the salon she owns, which also doubles as Lakeview’s gossip central). I’ve come close to telling her my secret more than once, but knowing how much she loves to talk… it wouldn’t be fair to lay that kind of burden on her.

"Well, hey. At least I’m doing what I love. Can’t complain about that," I say with a shrug, taking another sip of my Cosmo and glancing around the bar. "Wow, did someone drop a tourist bomb in here? I’ve never seen the place this lively on a Tuesday."

"Festival fever, baby!" Mia grins, her eyes sparkling. "The annual migration of the food critics, the baking nerds, the 'ooh, a charming small town' city folk, and," she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, "the very eligible, possibly temporary, eye candy."

The Tipsy Whisk certainly feels different. The usual comfortable grumble of local chatter is punctuated by louder, more performative conversations. I even see people photographing their artisan pickles (one of the bar’s more upscale specialties).

"I'm just counting down the minutes until festival hours," I confess, a dreamy look probably crossing my face. "Sleeping until 8 AM. EIGHT. It's going to be revolutionary. The sun will already be up."

"Pierre’s shuts down completely for festival week, right?" Mia asks, catching the bartender's eye for another round.

I nod. "He considers it his ancestral right to a vacation. Jets off to France to, I don’t know, commune with the spirit of Lyon. Meanwhile, all my baking shifts to the festival grounds, under the public gaze. No more being a pre-dawn pastry phantom."

"Speaking of festival dramas," Mia leans in conspiratorially, "Brenda told me that famous food vlogger, ‘The Cranky Croquembouche,’ caused a full-blown meltdown at the Lake's Inn yesterday. Demanded they restock a specific wattage of 'ambiance-enhancing' lightbulb for her rental cottage. Apparently, the current lighting was 'beneath the dignity of someone who shares culinary enlightenment with three million devoted followers'."

She launches into a hilarious, and probably only slightly exaggerated, account of other tourist shenanigans, complete with dramatic reenactments.

I’m wiping away a tear of laughter as she mimics a food writer demanding to know the thread count of their rental's bed sheets when a prickle runs down my arms.

Before I can understand what's happening, my head turns involuntarily.

And I see him.

He’s at the far end of the bar, nursing a dark amber drink. Tall, with an easy confidence in his stance that doesn't shout, but definitely gets noticed. His dark hair has that artfully rumpled look that probably takes ages to achieve, or no effort at all. But it's his eyes that snag me, a surprising, clear steel gray… looking right at me.

Alpha. The word pings in my brain, loud and clear. It’s the way he holds himself, how he occupies space without apology.

A strange little flutter, like a startled moth, takes flight inside me.

Okay, that’s… unexpected. My DuoBlocks are supposed to stop this kind of reaction. Maybe it's the exhaustion finally catching up. Or maybe this drink is stronger than I thought and it’s dulling my medication.

"Elena? Houston to Elena? You still with us?" Mia waves a hand in front of my face, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. She follows my gaze. "Oh. My. Word." A low, appreciative whistle escapes her. "Well, hello there, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deliciously Alpha. Girl, he's totally into you."

I quickly look away, my cheeks suddenly warm. "Don't be ridiculous, alphas are almost never interested in betas. He's probably just looking at you."

"Honey I wish, but I'd have a tingle if he was interested in me," Mia says with absolute certainty. "He's looking at you. And I’m guessing he’s in town for the festival. This is prime 'enjoy the foreign flavor and never see him again' material, if you ask me."

"Charming," I retort, rolling my eyes, but I can't resist a tiny peek. He’s still looking. A slow smile touches the corners of his lips as our eyes meet again, and the moth inside me does a little tap dance.

"This is fate, Elena! The universe telling you to have a little pre-competition fun," Mia declares, practically bouncing on her stool. "You're about to dive headfirst into a week of buttercream battles and ganache warfare. This is your window of opportunity!"

"I need to stay focused," I try to argue, but even I can hear the distinct lack of conviction in my voice.

"Elena, when was the last time you let loose?" Mia leans closer. "He's gorgeous. He's clearly interested. He’s almost certainly temporary. What's the harm in a little… inter-designation mingling?"

She has a point. A terrifyingly logical, tempting point. A festival fling. No strings, no expectations, just a brief, pleasant distraction before he heads back to… wherever alphas like him come from. The beta guy I’d had a brief encounter with last year was nice enough, but about as memorable as a plain dinner roll.

"Heads up, he’s on the move," Mia whispers, nudging me with her elbow.

As he gets closer, a scent cuts through the bar's general olfactory chaos. It's clearly… woodsy. With a hint of something warm that—

Wait a minute, my DuoBlocks should be filtering out any alpha scent. So why are they just managing to… muffle his? Thank God it’s faint enough to only make my senses hum though. Small mercies.

"Good evening." His voice is a warm baritone, smooth and with a faint, unplaceable lilt that makes the simple greeting sound rather intriguing. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Up close, he's even more… well, alpha. Easily six-foot-three, with perceptive eyes flecked with silver. He’s wearing a dark, well-fitting shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, and black pants that manage to look both casual and expensive. This is not a man who buys his clothes off the rack at the Lakeview General Store.

"Not at all!" Mia chirps, beaming like she’s just seen me win the lottery. "I'm Mia, and this is my wonderful friend, Elena."

"Dorian," he replies, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "A pleasure. Mind if I join you?"

"Please do!" Mia practically leaps off her stool. "Actually, would you look at the time! I completely forgot I promised to call my Aunt Mildred. If you knew how she gets." She winks at me, a wink so unsubtle it could probably be seen from space. "Elena can keep you company. Right, Elena?"

I shoot her a look that conveys both 'I will end you' and 'thank you, you magnificent meddler'.

"Of course," I manage, hoping I sound more cool and collected than internally flailing.

"Lovely to meet you, Dorian!" she says brightly, then leans in to murmur, "Elena, text me all the juicy details." With one last wink, Mia slips into the crowd, leaving a quiet hush in her wake.

Dorian slips onto the stool she left behind, setting his drink on the counter with slow, deliberate ease. He turns slightly toward me, closing the space between us just enough to feel intentional.

"Looks like it’s just us now," he says, a teasing spark in his gray eyes. "Are you visiting for the festival?"

"I live here, actually," I say, a flicker of satisfaction rising at the way his brow lifts in surprise. "You?"

He takes a measured sip of his drink. "I’m here for the festival… professional reasons."

"Oh? Are you a baker?" I ask, genuinely curious. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘covered in flour after work.’

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. "Something like that. More of an… appreciator of the craft. What about you, Elena of Lakeview? What do you do here?"

I hesitate. Do I launch into my apprentice to the town's most notorious baking tyrant spiel? It doesn't exactly scream fun festival fling. "I, uh, I work with sugar. And occasionally, an unreasonable amount of butter," I say, trying for witty and vague.

He chuckles, a rich, warm sound. "Keeping your secrets, I see."

"You started it with your appreciator-of-the-craft mystery," I counter with a smile.

And just like that, the ice isn't just broken, it's melted into a puddle. I tell him about the quirky side of Lakeview. The annual 'Guess the Ice-Out Date' on the lake (winner gets bragging rights and a giant chocolate loon from the Sweet Tooth confectionery), Mrs. Henderson’s prize-winning zucchinis that are the stuff of local legend, and the time the mayor tried to introduce alpacas to the town square.

"So, the alpacas didn't take to the mayoral plans?" Dorian asks, his lips curved in amusement after I finish the story of the Great Alpaca Escape of '22.

"Let's just say they preferred the taste of Mrs. Gable's petunias to posing for tourist photos," I say, giggling at the memory. "The town council is still debating the emotional damages claim for the petunias."

His smile widens. "Sounds like a town with character. It’s good to find places that haven't had all their quirks smoothed out."

"Speaking of places," I venture. "Where are you from?"

"Well..." He pauses just long enough to draw me in, and before I realize it, I’m leaning closer. "My grandfather was from France. I spent a lot of time there growing up, plus New York and London, but I always stayed connected to the French communities wherever I lived." His eyes hold mine, and a warmth spreads through my cheeks.

"Wow. So, uh, you must travel a lot?" I blurt, then immediately cringe at how basic that sounds after hearing about his incredible upbringing. But to be fair, his intense gaze isn't helping my brain function.

He leans back slightly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and looking completely unbothered by my… underwhelming response. "I do travel a fair bit for work. This festival, for instance, has been on my radar for a while. The standards are surprisingly high for a town this size, and that interests me immensely."

His precise vagueness is most definitely an art form. Normally, my internal alarm bells would be clanging like a five-alarm fire. Alphas, secrets, it's a pairing of run away for me. But tonight, with the festival buzz in the air and Mia’s temporary-fun mantra echoing in my head, it feels… less threatening. More like a game.

"Would you by any chance be a Michelin Guide Inspector?" I tilt my head playfully, already knowing he won't give me a straight answer. "Well, I think you'll be immensely interested in how we, Lakeviewers, take our passions with pretty high standards," I pause, then add with a dry edge. "Especially a certain boss of mine who expects nothing short of perfection."

Dorian’s smile widens, his expression warm yet revealing nothing. "Ah, the demanding mentor. A classic trope in any field of excellence."

The rest of the evening seems to warp and bend. One drink turns into four, and I find myself laughing, truly laughing, more than I have in months. When his arm brushes mine as he tells a story about a chaotic market in Marrakech, a jolt, warm and surprisingly pleasant, zings up my arm. His eyes meet mine, and for a beat, the noisy bar fades away. I'm sure he felt it too.

"It's getting a little loud in here," Dorian says after a while, his voice a low rumble near my ear. "Want to get some fresh air?"

"Good idea," I agree, suddenly very aware of how close he is. "My eardrums are petitioning for a volume decrease."

The night air outside is cool and crisp, a welcome relief after the stuffy bar. Main Street is quieter now, bathed in the soft glow of the festival lights strung between lampposts. Banners proclaiming the '43rd Annual Lakeview Baking Festival' flutter gently in the breeze. It looks… magical. Almost like a movie set.

"Wow," Dorian says, looking up. "Does Lakeview always dress up like it's auditioning for a holiday special?"

I laugh. "Only for the festival. It's our yearly fifteen minutes of fame."

A cool breeze suddenly whips around the corner, and I automatically wrap my arms around myself, regretting my hasty outfit choice.

"Cold?" he asks, already starting to shrug off his jacket.

"No, no," I say quickly. "I'm fine. It’s only a five-minute walk to my place, anyway."

"Is that an invitation to walk you home?"

Every sensible cell in my brain is screaming to say no. But I remember he's just here for a few days anyway…

"If you want," I reply softly, surprising myself. Then, before I can overthink it, I add, "and we could take the scenic route—give you a bit of a tour. It should turn our five-minute walk into a thrilling seven."

"How could I resist such an invitation?" His smile makes my knees feel suddenly unreliable.

We walk down Main Street, close enough that our elbows occasionally brush, sending electric currents through my body each time. The conversation somehow flows even more easily under the open sky.

"So," Dorian says, his shoulder brushing mine as we navigate around a wobbly festival sign. "Theoretically, would we be able to have a look at Mrs. Henderson's famous zucchini garden, or is it really under twenty-four-hour surveillance during growing season?"

I laugh, throwing him a sidelong glance. "Venture near her garden? Absolutely not. She guards her secrets like they're nuclear launch codes. One year, Mayor Hanson tried to get her to reveal her fertilizer mix for the town beautification project, and she nearly chased him off her porch with a rake. Declared it was her intellectual property and that it wouldn't work in 'common municipal soil' anyway."

Dorian throws his head back and laughs, a rich, genuine sound that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "A woman of conviction and formidable zucchinis. I like her already."

As we turn onto my street, the thought of the evening potentially ending brings a surprising pang of disappointment. For once, I'm not analyzing everything for hidden omega-detecting threats. For once, I'm not living ten steps ahead in my 'protect the secret, achieve the dream' master plan.

We stop under a flickering gas lamp replica, the kind the town council insists adds 'historic charm', just outside my building. The light casts intriguing shadows across Dorian's face, making his eyes dance in shades of silver.

Okay, Elena, deep breaths. This is it. The temporary-fun clause Mia mentioned. He's leaving after the festival. And I’ll be too swamped with the competition to be tempted to see him again. This is a self-contained little bubble of… something. Something just for me.

My inner cautious omega is screaming a muffled warning, but the part of me that’s been starved for a simple, uncomplicated human connection is loud tonight.

"So," I begin, my voice a little breathier than I intend. "My apartment is just up there." I nod toward the door. "It's not exactly a palace." A nervous laugh escapes me. "But the view of the town square is… decent. If you squint."

His smile is slow, genuine, and sends another one of those little flutters through me. "A decent view? Sounds dangerously appealing." He takes a small step closer. "Are you inviting me up, Elena of Lakeview?"

"I mean, only if you want to," I blurt, then quickly add, "I just got this special roast from the new place on Maple Street. It's, um, supposedly amazing. If you like coffee. Which you might not. Some people don't. Like coffee."

Great. I've apparently forgotten how to speak basic English.

His smile widens, reaching his eyes. "I love coffee. And I'd love to come up."

As I fumble with the keys to my building door, a tiny, familiar wave of 'what are you doing?' washes over me. But as the door swings open into the dim hallway, I push it aside.

For once, this isn't about strategy or survival. It's just… this. He’ll be gone in a few days. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter three

Dorian

I follow Elena up the creaky staircase to her apartment, finding myself captivated by the easy sway of her hips.

There's something about this woman that's been driving me absolutely crazy since I first spotted her across the bar. As an alpha, I'm genetically programmed to be drawn to omegas. Betas? Pleasant, sure, but they rarely make my internal radar ping with this kind of intensity.

Yet here I am, trailing after Elena like a smitten Labrador, after spending half the evening trying not to visibly smell her every time she leaned in. God she smells good… and sweet… unusually so for a beta.

And while her five-foot-something frame of pure charm proves the best things come in small packages, I'm not just physically attracted to her. No, what's more striking about her is how real she is. She lacks the calculation of the socialites who usually circle me like sharks wearing satin. And the passion that lights her up when she talks about her life is refreshingly genuine.

"Again, it's not exactly a palace," Elena says, her voice cutting through my thoughts as we reach her door and she gets it open, "but it’s home."

Her apartment is modest but charming. It tells a story. Professional-grade kitchen tools hang from a rack in a small but organized kitchen. Cookbooks line a shelf, many with colorful sticky notes protruding from the edges. A large window frames the view of the twinkling town lights, and I can imagine how the morning sun must flood this space with natural light.

On a small table by the window, nestled amongst a cheerful clutter of what looks like artisanal pottery, a framed photograph catches my eye. Elena, younger, her smile just as bright, stands with an older woman. They share the same vibrant green eyes and an infectious, unposed laugh, arms slung comfortably around each other’s shoulders.

"Would you like some of that coffee I told you about?" She takes off her shoes and glides toward the kitchen, her brown hair catching the light like polished mahogany.

"I'd love some," I reply, and a flicker of what feels suspiciously like nervousness makes an unwelcome appearance. Me. Nervous. This is new. I'm usually the epitome of alpha cool in these scenarios. But Elena, it seems, is a delightful disruptor of norms.

She returns a few moments later with two steaming mugs. As she hands me one, our fingers brush, sending a zap up my arm that nearly makes me drop it. Her eyes widen slightly, a blush rising on her cheeks that I find ridiculously endearing.

"Static electricity," she says quickly. "I should probably stop shuffling my wool socks around."

"Thank you," I say, my voice somehow an octave deeper than I intended. I clear my throat. "For the coffee. Not the static electricity."

We settle on her small couch, our knees touching as she props her feet up on a small footrest. I resist the urge to mirror her casual posture. These pants weren't designed for anything but sitting rigidly or standing.

"So," I begin.

"So," she echoes, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Your place is lovely," I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding like someone's elderly aunt making polite conversation.

"Thanks. The decorating theme is 'things I could afford', which is basically just stuff from local yard sales. Though I'm lucky my boss is also my landlord and rents this place to me for cheap."

I laugh, relaxing a little. "Well, I like it. I think it has character."

"Speaking of character, you're staying at The Grand, I'm guessing?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Only hotel in town with sheets above 400 thread count," she says with a grin. "Plus you have that 'I recently showered with fancy soaps' smell about you."

"Is that a good smell or a bad smell?" I ask, strangely concerned about her answer.

"Definitely good."

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug, a quiet satisfaction warming me from within as I take a slow sip.

Time melts away as we talk about simple things: the festival preparations she's observed around town, local restaurant recommendations. I find myself genuinely interested in her stories, especially when she describes the trip to Hawaii she dreams of taking with her mom someday.

"She's never seen the ocean," Elena says, her expression softening. "Can you imagine? She's spent her whole life making sure I had opportunities, and she's never even stepped foot in the ocean."

"You'll take her," I say with certainty. "I can tell you're someone who makes things happen."

She looks at me, curious. "You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me tonight."

"I'm a good judge of character."

"Which I'm sure totally helps you in whatever you do…" She pauses as she tilts her head with a charming gaze. "So what is it you actually do, Dorian?"

I take a strategic sip of coffee. "I’m in the food industry," I say, aiming for a tone that’s informative but not an invitation for a business seminar. "Mostly on the management and investment side of things." It’s the sanitized version, but this evening isn’t about resumes.

"Still playing the mystery card, huh?" she teases, and her smile does funny things to my internal rhythm. My pulse, usually steady as a metronome, seems to have picked up a new, slightly jazzier beat.

"I prefer to think of it as being… fully present," I counter, setting my mug on the rustic wooden table. "And right now, Elena, I’d much rather focus on you."

The air between us crackles, the playful banter fading into a more charged silence. She sets her mug down too, and I notice a slight tremor in her hand; a subtle sign of vulnerability that makes my protective instincts stir. I lean in, slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat. She doesn’t. Her gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips and back again.

When our lips finally meet, the connection is far more potent than I anticipated. Her taste, a captivating blend of coffee roast and something intoxicatingly sweet, awakens a primal hunger I haven’t felt in years. I deepen the kiss, one hand gently cupping her cheek, the other finding its way to the small of her back, drawing her closer. She responds with an eagerness that sends a thrill through me, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me nearer still.

I pull back just enough to look at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright and sparkling.

"Elena," I murmur, her name a soft sound on my lips, not quite sure what I want to say, only that I want her in every syllable.

Her answer is to kiss me again, deeper this time, and any lingering threads of rational thought begin to unravel. My alpha instincts, usually dormant around betas, roar to life with surprising force, a possessive urge to take her here and then. This is unexpected.

Her hands slide under my shirt, her cool fingers sending shivers down my spine. And just like that, any coherent thought has packed its bags and left.

We’re a tangle of limbs and shared breaths, clothes becoming inconvenient obstacles as we instinctively navigate from the couch toward her bedroom. She tugs my hand, her eyes dark with desire and a hint of dare, and I follow without hesitation, pausing only to press her against the hallway wall for another searing kiss that leaves us both gasping.

Her scent seems to intensify, wrapping around me, pulling me further under her spell. There's definitely something about beta pheromones they don't cover in textbooks, I think vaguely, but the thought evaporates as she pulls me toward the soft glow emanating from her bedroom.

Moonlight spills through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and shadow. And then she’s standing before me, bathed in that ethereal light, clad only in simple, black lace underwear that somehow looks sexier than any elaborate lingerie. My breath catches as I'm struck by a powerful urge to rub myself against her so she bears my scent. I quickly suppress the impulse, confused by its strength. What is wrong with me tonight?

"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice a little shaky, a sudden wave of uncertainty clouding her eyes.

"That you are incredibly beautiful," I manage, the words heartfelt and utterly true. "And that I really, really want to make you feel good."

Her smile, a little shy but dazzling, returns.

“I like that plan very much,” she says, her voice gentle and sure.

She leans in, kissing me softly as her fingers tug my shirt free. I slip out of my pants, and she pulls me down on the bed beside her.

I take my time, learning the landscape of her body as she sheds the last of her clothing. The sensitive spot behind her ear that makes her shiver, the curve of her waist that fits so perfectly in my hands, the way her breath hitches when my lips trail down her collarbone. I’m usually a controlled lover, focused on technique and outcome. But with Elena, it’s different. I’m lost in the moment, in the soft, involuntary sounds she makes, in the way she arches into my touch. When I kiss my way down the soft skin of her stomach, her fingers clench in my hair, not guiding, but anchoring.

"You don't have to—" she starts, her voice a breathless whisper.

"I want to," I interrupt gently, looking up to meet her gaze in the dim light.

She hesitates only a heartbeat before nodding, then eases back against the pillows, legs parting just enough to invite me in. I lower myself between her thighs, taking my time, kissing slowly down her inner thighs until I’m exactly where she needs me most.

I start with a gentle kiss to her folds then draw my tongue in one slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. Her breath catches. I do it again, savoring her taste, the way she already trembles beneath me. I explore her, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firmer, more focused strokes. Her hips begin to rise in rhythm with my movements, and I adjust to her every reaction, learning what pleases her.

As her arousal builds, I wrap my arms under her thighs and hold her closer, my mouth relentless now, lapping, flicking, sucking until her hands are tangled in the sheets, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

She’s close. I feel it in the way her thighs tense around me. I don't let up. I keep going until she finally shudders apart with a breathless gasp, her whole body trembling.

Satisfaction surges through me as she shakes uncontrollably, my alpha's pride reveling in having pleased my partner.

My thoughts stutter. Partner? She's not mine. She's a woman I met tonight. Yet some part of me already feels possessive in a way I can't explain.

I move up beside her, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. She’s catching her breath, eyes still closed, a soft, satisfied smile playing on her lips. I expect her to reach for me next, but instead, her breathing begins to deepen and slow.

"Elena?" I whisper, leaning closer.

Her only response is a soft, contented sigh followed by what sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a snore.

I blink in disbelief. Did she just... fall asleep?

I stare at her peaceful face for a moment, then have to suppress a laugh.

Of course. She mentioned starting her workday at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. Between that, the evening of conversation, and the alcohol, what I just did probably felt like the world's most intense relaxation technique.

"Well," I whisper to myself, "that's a first."

I gently pull the covers over her, then debate what to do. Leaving feels wrong somehow, but staying without explicit permission seems presumptuous. After a moment's consideration, I decide to stay, at least until I'm sure she's deeply asleep. I can slip out then, leave my number or something.

I lie beside her, careful not to disturb her rest, and find myself studying her features in the moonlight. The curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin, the slight part of her lips as she breathes deeply in sleep. She looks so utterly serene and unguarded. The reluctance to leave intensifies.

This feels… nice. Unexpectedly, wonderfully nice.

I'll stay just a little longer, I tell myself, a soft smile touching my lips. Just to make sure she’s really, truly asleep…

Chapter four

Elena

Warm sunlight streams through my curtains, coaxing me awake.

I stretch lazily, enjoying the rare sensation of waking naturally instead of being jolted by an alarm. A peaceful smile crosses my face as fragments of last night drift through my mind. The bar. Dorian. The incredible way his tongue felt on my—

My eyes snap open and dart to my bedside clock: 8:13 AM.

"Holy croissants!" I bolt upright. Registration for the Lakeview Baking Festival starts at 9:00 AM sharp, and I'm cutting it way too close. I throw off the covers and nearly face plant over—

Dorian.

He's asleep on the floor beside my bed, half-naked, his dark hair tousled against my throw pillow. For a moment, I just stare, a mortifyingly warm flashback of his attentiveness (and my own lack thereof) flooding my brain.

"Focus, Elena, focus!" I hiss at myself, scrambling for a towel and wrapping it around me like a Roman toga. I need to shower and prepare for the most important day of my career. I begin scooping up my scattered clothes from the floor, tossing his shirt toward him in the process. It lands squarely on his face, startling him awake.

"G'morning to you too," he mumbles, his voice a gravelly, sleep-rough purr that does entirely unfair things to my insides. He shoves the shirt off his face, blinking up at me with an infuriatingly charming confusion, then clocks my whirlwind activity. "Whoa, fire drill?"

"I'm so sorry, but I have to be somewhere in about forty-five minutes," I say, searching desperately for my bra. My clean freak tendencies are screaming at me not to leave without at least tidying up my room a little. "I completely overslept."

Dorian, bless his oblivious heart, sits up, hair sticking up in a way that's almost offensively cute. He stretches, a lazy, feline movement, then, with a casualness that makes me want to scream, reaches under the edge of the bed and plucks out my missing bra. "Looking for this?" He dangles it from one finger, a smirk playing on his lips.

My cheeks heat as I snatch it from his hand like a striking cobra. "Thank you! Listen, I really, really hate to be this person, but—"

"You need me to leave," he finishes, standing and gathering his clothes. "Got it."

"I am so incredibly sorry about this," I say, already backing toward the bathroom. "Last night was... really nice."

He pauses, mid-pant-pull-on, and that infuriatingly attractive smile widens. "Yes, it was. And I have a feeling you might have enjoyed certain parts even more than I did." His eyes crinkle at the corners with an innocent chuckle and a thoroughly not innocent wink.

My blush could power a small lighthouse. "Oh. My. God. I am so embarrassed about… well, you know. I was just—"

"Don't be," he says, now wrestling with his shirt buttons. "Actually, I found your… enthusiasm," he pauses for a fraction of a second, "rather endearing."

I don't have time to dissect that particular brand of psychological warfare. "Sorry, but I really need to get ready now."

I practically shove Dorian out my apartment, his shirt still half-unbuttoned, him fumbling to tuck it in while simultaneously trying to snag his shoes from just inside the doorway.

"So," he says, one foot in the hallway, looking surprisingly hopeful. "Can I see you again?"

"Uh, I'm going to be really busy the next few days," I hedge, already reaching to close the door.

"Important plans, huh?" he asks, a playful glint in his eyes.

"The most important," I reply, a tad too dramatically.

He smiles, a slow, lingering thing that makes a spark flutter low in my belly. "Cryptic. Well, maybe I'll see you around then or tr—"

SLAM!

I clamp my hand over my mouth, horrified. I didn't mean to slam the door in his face. I just… I thought he was done talking. It’ll be a thousand times more awkward to open it again now. What would I even say? 'Sorry, didn't mean to decapitate your sentence, please continue?'

My eye immediately goes to the peephole. Dorian is standing there, hand still half-raised, looking less offended and more… amused? Like he's just witnessed a squirrel successfully operate a tiny catapult. He gives a tiny shrug, a half-smile playing on his lips as if to say, 'Well, that just happened,' then turns and heads for the staircase.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I dash to the shower, my heart still doing the cha-cha. Real smooth, Elena. You spend the night with the hottest guy you've met in years, fall asleep before reciprocating, then literally slam the door in his face. Mom would be so proud.

Oh well, I remind myself as I turn on the water. It's not like I was going to marry the guy. It was stress relief. Highly effective stress relief…

I shake my head, allowing myself exactly three more seconds to replay the unfair things he did with his tongue last night… then shove it all into a mental lockbox. I need to get ready: finish showering, brush my teeth, get dressed, take a DuoBlocks pill. I'll leave by 8:45 AM, tops.

Chapter five

Elena

The festival grounds buzz with activity as I rush through the entrance at 8:57 AM. Sunlight spills across the sprawling grass, where rows of colorful vendor tents stretch out ahead, green and white banners fluttering in the breeze.

Just ahead, a line of bakers (all looking far too calm and put-together for my liking) winds across the lawn toward the registration tent, each clutching their hopes, dreams, and occasionally, a very fancy rolling pin. I spot Anne Winters, the reigning pie queen from Oakhaven, Theo Garcia whose bread has won regional awards, and several others whose skills I've admired from afar.

I take my place in line behind a woman who I don't recognize, my heart finally slowing as I realize I've made it. Just.

The registration process is a surprisingly efficient whirlwind. When it’s my turn, I step up to the table where Marjorie Jenkins, our town senior librarian and perpetual festival volunteer, sits with a clipboard.

"Name?" she asks, her pen poised, not even bothering to look up.

"Um, Elena Avery. Representing Pierre's Bakery."

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. "Oh! Elena! So sorry, honey, didn't recognize you. I'm a bit overwhelmed this morning." Marjorie shuffles through a mountain of papers and hands me a glossy folder along with a badge. "We pre-made badges for all of Lakeview's bakers," she explains, handing everything over. "The schedule of events is inside the folder, and the welcome coffee is happening now, near the stage just past those tents. That's where the final competition will take place too."

I thank her, then head toward the enticing aroma of coffee and the cheerful buzz of mingling contestants. The welcome coffee is a beloved tradition, a chance to size up the competition under the guise of friendliness, all before the flour officially starts to fly.

The stage area is filled with round tables, most already claimed by chattering groups of bakers. A veritable feast is laid out on a buffet table: coffee, tea, and a dazzling array of pastries. I grab the largest mug I can find, fill it to the brim, and snag a small plate.

As I survey the space, I notice a ripple of movement at one of the larger tables. A man with artfully tousled blond hair and an air of supreme confidence is holding court, a small crowd already gathered around him. He laughs, a charming, easy sound, and gestures with a pastry in hand. He’s definitely got that ‘big fish' vibe. I don't recognize him, but he radiates a competitive energy that's hard to miss.

"They've really upped their game this year, haven't they?" a friendly voice says from beside me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I turn to see a fellow contestant I don't recognize, a cheerful-looking woman with flour dusting her vibrant apron. "These are all from Beaumont Patisserie, can you believe it?"

I peer more closely at a delicate croissant on the buffet table. Sure enough, nestled discreetly on its perfectly laminated surface is the tiny, elegant gold 'B' emblem of Beaumont Patisserie. It's a brand so exclusive and expensive, I've mostly just drooled over their creations in glossy food magazines. Though I did try one of their éclairs once, and it was a religious experience.

"Wow," I reply, grabbing and taking a bite of a miniature pain au chocolat that melts on my tongue in a symphony of butter and dark chocolate. "How on earth did our festival swing that?"

The woman leans in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Word on the baking grapevine is they snagged Beaumont as a major sponsor this year. Big time stuff for Lakeview!"

"A sponsor?" I'm floored. A behemoth like Beaumont usually only graces massive city events with its presence.

"Not just sponsoring," she continues, eyes sparkling. "The big cheese himself, Beaumont Patisserie's CEO, is apparently one of the judges this year."

"No way! Does it mean he's already here?"

Before my new festival buddy can answer, a sharp tap-tap-tap on a microphone slices through the chatter. Mrs. Collins, the chief festival volunteer and a woman whose floral dresses are as legendary as her organizational skills, stands on the stage.

"Good morning, everyone, and a very warm welcome to the 43rd Annual Lakeview Baking Festival! Before we officially kick off the first of five days of delicious competition and activities, I'd like to introduce our esteemed panel of judges and our dedicated fire safety officer."

She gestures behind her, where a deep red curtain rustles to life.

"First," she continues with a grin, "returning for his fifth illustrious year as a judge… the one, the only, Pastry Chef William Parker!"

A stout, rather stern-looking beta with a meticulously trimmed goatee steps forward, giving a curt, professional nod. He looks like he critiques soufflés for fun and probably alphabetizes his spice rack.

"Next, a woman whose culinary creations light up our state's dining scene, owner of 'The Wild Thyme' franchise and a graduate of the prestigious Culinary Institute, Pastry Chef Lisa Chen!"

A vibrant omega with a warm, infectious smile and eyes that sparkle with genuine enthusiasm waves to the crowd. She looks like she gives amazing hugs and probably bakes with sunshine.

"And our third judge, making his Lakeview debut this year, a true titan of the pastry world, CEO of the renowned Beaumont Patisserie and our incredibly generous new sponsor, please welcome… Dorian Beaumont!"

My coffee mug nearly slips from my fingers as the crowd erupts in impressed murmurs. There, standing on the platform, looking like he stepped straight off the cover of 'Successful Alphas Monthly' in a perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than my yearly rent, is Dorian. The Dorian from last night. The same man who was half-dressed in my apartment an hour ago, the one I practically shoved out the door in my rush to get here.

My brain short-circuits, and I'm one shallow gasp away from breathing into the nearest paper bag.

"And finally," Mrs. Collins continues, blissfully unaware of my internal meltdown, "ensuring all your creations are spectacular and safe, our dedicated fire safety officer for this year's festival. He’s a familiar face and hometown hero, please give a warm welcome to Lieutenant Cole Mercer of the City Fire Department, who has generously taken time from his leave to be with us!"

A man steps forward, and a collective sigh seems to ripple through the female segment of the crowd. Lieutenant Cole Mercer is… well, he’s the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome.

He's at least six foot one, with sun-kissed skin and dark hair that contrasts with his penetrating hazel eyes. His strong jawline tenses slightly as he scans the area with a gaze that seems to cut straight to your soul. Even from across the stage, there's a calm, grounding presence about him. His broad shoulders fill out his crisp uniform very effectively, and a faint, intriguing scar kisses his temple, only adding to his rugged, heroic appeal. He looks like he rescues kittens from trees in his spare time and could definitely carry you out of a burning building. My insides do a nervous pirouette just thinking about it.

Relax, Elena. Focus. Professionalism.

"And now," Mrs. Collins announces cheerfully, "all contestants, please form an orderly queue and head on stage to greet our guests."

* * *

I’m trapped in the line's slow, merciless progression, my heart pounding a drum solo against my ribs. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm a professional. He's a professional. We can both pretend last night was a figment of a very vivid, very decaf-fueled imagination.

The line inches forward. Judge Parker offers curt handshakes. Judge Lisa Chen is all warmth and encouraging smiles. And then… it's Dorian. His gaze, cool and appraising, sweeps over the contestant ahead of me, then lands on me. For a horrifying, nano-second, I see a flicker of pure, unadulterated shock in his gray eyes before his smooth, professional mask slams back into place. His lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile that is far too knowing for comfort.

"Ms. Avery," he says, looking at my badge, his voice a low, velvety purr that sends a shiver down my spine. He holds out his hand. "Welcome to the festival. I trust you had a… restful night?"

My brain cells seem to be staging a mass exodus. I stare at his outstretched hand like it’s a venomous snake, then up at his amused face, then back to his hand. Somehow, I manage to place my clammy palm in his, and a familiar jolt sparks across my skin. It’s official: my body is a traitor.

"Th-thank you, Mr. Beaumont," I stammer, my voice barely a squeak as I ignore his question. I try to pull my hand back, but he holds it for a fraction of a second too long.

"I eagerly anticipate seeing your… creations," he continues, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. "Though I do hope you're fully prepared. These competitions can be quite… demanding. One needs stamina."

I snatch my hand back like it’s been scorched, nearly tripping over my own feet as I move to the next person, Lieutenant Cole Mercer.

Cole's handshake is firm, calloused, and surprisingly warm. His hazel eyes, fringed with thick lashes, study me with an unexpected intensity. "Ms. Avery," he says, his voice deeper than I anticipated, making my pulse skip. "If you encounter any safety concerns, or if your station… overheats… don't hesitate to find me." As he speaks, I notice his nostrils flare, just a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. Is he… smelling me? No, that’s ridiculous, I'm taking DuoBlocks. Maybe he has allergies.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," I manage, feeling a blush creep up my neck for reasons I absolutely refuse to analyze. What is wrong with me today? First Dorian, now this handsome hero firefighter giving me butterflies?

As I step away from the stage, my mind a swirling vortex of mortification and confusion, the blond baker I noticed before the introduction materializes beside me, all dazzling smile and easy charm.

"James Reynolds, national baking champion," he says, extending his large hand. "And you must be the local talent I've heard whispers about."

Up close, his good looks are even more striking: blond hair styled to look effortlessly tousled, clear blue eyes that sparkle with mischief, and the kind of smile that probably gets him whatever he wants.

"Elena Avery," I reply, a tingle racing up my arm as I shake his hand. The contact is brief, but I catch the subtle dilation of his pupils.

"Elena," he repeats, his voice smooth as butter, as if tasting the name. "A pleasure. I almost didn't make it to this charming little festival, but I heard the competition was surprisingly… piquant this year." He, too, gives a subtle sniff, his nostrils flaring slightly. My internal alarm bells start ringing.

"I look forward to beating you, Elena," he adds with a wink.

Despite my distress over the sniffing situation, I can't help but bristle at his confidence. "Don't count your pastries before they're baked, James."

He laughs, seemingly delighted by my response. "Oh, I think we're going to have fun this week."

As he walks away, I gather my thoughts. Two alphas just did that weird nostril-flaring thing near me. Could they be picking up hints of my omega scent somehow? But that's impossible, DuoBlocks are top-of-the-line. No one should be able to smell the real me.

I'm barely processing this when I see Dorian moving in my direction. Panic flares, and I try to blend into a group of contestants, but it's too late. He catches my eye and tilts his head slightly, indicating a quieter spot.

With reluctance, I follow, making sure we're far enough to avoid being overheard, yet still in plain sight. The last thing I need is to spark rumors about slipping away with a judge.

"So," Dorian says quietly, his eyes twinkling with amusement, "this explains the rush this morning."

"Mr. Beaumont—" I begin, trying to inject a level of icy formality into my tone.

"I think you called me Dorian last night," he interrupts, his voice playful. "Several times, if I recall correctly."

My cheeks burn hotter than a preheated oven. "Dorian—I mean, Mr. Beaumont," I stammer, mentally cursing myself for the slip. "We need to pretend last night never happened."

"Which part?" he asks, his voice laced with amusement. "The part where we discovered a mutual appreciation for… exploration? Or the part where you practically launched me out of your apartment like a human cannonball? Because I've already stored those as fond memories."

"I'm serious," I hiss, looking around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on us. "This is a massive conflict of interest! It could be disastrous for both of us!"

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "So, you had your wicked ways with me and now you want to cast me aside like a day-old croissant, is that it?" He winks, clearly enjoying my discomfort far too much.

"I did n—"

"I get it," he cuts in, still smiling. "You had needs—which, by the way, are quite voracious—you saw me in all my alpha glory, and you took what you wanted."

I gape at him, torn between acute mortification and an insane desire to laugh. "You make it sound like I was the instigator. Please, If anyone finds out, I'll be disqualified and I'm not entirely sure it would do wonders for your reputation either." I pause, unable to resist adding, "And for the record, Mr. Beaumont, your ego is as inflated as a soufflé that's about to collapse."

His grin widens, thoroughly unrepentant. "Well, how about I let you readjust my ego tonight instead? Strictly for personal development, of course. And you can let me worry about my reputation."

My face is now officially on fire. He sees it, his smile turning smugly triumphant.

"Alright, alright," he says, after a beat, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though the twinkle in his eye says otherwise. "You're right. It would be… unadvisable. Wouldn't want to risk anyone getting… disqualified."

"Who's getting disqualified?"

I nearly leap out of my skin as James reappears with the stealth of a cat. "Don't tell me a fellow competitor is already bending the rules, Mr. Beaumont?" His tone is light, almost teasing, but there's a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes as they flick between Dorian and me.

"No, no!" I stammer, my brain scrambling for any believable explanation. "We were just— Mr. Beaumont was just giving me some… strategic guidance. About, uh, steering clear of disqualification due to… contestant interference. Like, um, switching their ingredient labels." Smooth, Elena. Really smooth.

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word I said. "Ingredient labels. Right. Fascinating stuff. Well, sorry if I interrupted your… discussion."

"Actually," I say, seizing the escape route he’s inadvertently offered, "I desperately need to check on my… stuff. Yes. If you'll excuse me."

I practically sprint away before either of them can utter another word, my mind a chaotic whirlwind. How in the name of all that is holy and buttercream am I supposed to focus on this competition now? The man who I may or may not have thoroughly enjoyed an evening with is one of my judges. The handsome firefighter is making my stomach do acrobatics and possibly smelling me. And the national champion who's also possibly smelling me is clearly out for blood.

This type of alpha-induced, career-derailing complication is precisely why I religiously take my Duoblocks. So why, oh why, do I feel this ridiculous pull toward all three of them?

And more importantly, how am I going to focus on the festival when my life seems to have suddenly turned into a twisted episode of The Bachelorette?

Chapter six

James

I watch Elena hurry away from her conversation with Mr. Beaumont like she's fleeing the scene of a pastry heist. Interesting. The look that passed between her and Beaumont was about as subtle as a flaming baguette.

The information gets filed away in my mental folder labeled "Potential Leverage." In a competition, you never know what might give you an edge—especially when that edge might help launch the James Reynolds Baking Daily™ (still workshopping the name).

For now, though, I have a more pressing interest: Dorian Beaumont himself. The man who turned a state-famous bakery into a global empire, his name synonymous with luxury from Paris to Tokyo. Getting into his orbit, even briefly, could be exactly what I need to launch my career into the stratosphere.

"Mr. Beaumont," I say, extending my hand as I turn back to him. "James Reynolds. It's a genuine honor to meet you, sir. Sorry to have interrupted your conversation."

He turns, the lingering amusement from his chat with Elena smoothing into polite interest. "Mr. Reynolds. This year's National Baking Champion, if I'm not mistaken? Your reputation precedes you."

Bingo. He knows who I am. A wave of satisfaction washes over me as our hands clasp. "Please, call me James." This is going even better than planned.

"Only if you call me Dorian," he replies smoothly. "Mr. Beaumont makes me feel like my father."

I chuckle, feeling an easy rapport begin to build. "Deal. Dorian, I have to say, I've been an admirer of your career since my earliest days in culinary school. What you've accomplished with Beaumont Patisserie is nothing short of revolutionary."

He gives a self-deprecating shrug, but his eyes betray a flicker of pride. "You're too kind."

"Not kind, just observant," I counter. "Maintaining that level of quality while achieving global scale? That’s the dream. That’s the peak I’m aiming for."

Dorian studies me for a moment, a knowing smile playing on his lips. His aura is undeniable; commanding, yet with an unexpected undercurrent of warmth that’s surprisingly disarming. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Around us, I notice other contestants and festival staff subtly angling for a glance, a brief moment of his attention, then quickly looking away if they think he might notice. That silent deference? That’s the kind of gravitational pull I crave.

"So," he finally says, his voice drawing me back in, "an empire is what you're after, James?"

"I want my creations to be savored by as many people as possible," I state, opting for ambitious sincerity. "And yes, the success that comes with it is definitely part of the appeal. I've poured everything into honing my craft, and I have no intention of stopping halfway up the mountain." I pause, then add, "Actually, I've got a TV deal in the works. The only condition is winning this festival first. Which, obviously, shouldn't be a problem." The wink that follows is automatic, and I immediately cringe internally.

What in the butter-soaked hell did I just do? I can't look like a tryhard in front of Dorian freaking Beaumont! Get it together, James! "Though I imagine," I add, trying to recover, "media attention is nothing new for someone like you."

Dorian raises an eyebrow, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief as a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "Media attention does change the game entirely." He pauses thoughtfully. "Though I've found that when cameras start rolling, the craft itself can sometimes get lost in the spectacle… I'd encourage you to enjoy the moment and not focus too much on the finish line."

I almost roll my eyes. Easy for him to wax philosophical from the top of the food chain. "With all due respect, Dorian," I venture, "isn't that kind of perspective usually acquired with the benefit of hindsight? The kind you can only truly appreciate once you've actually reached that finish line?"

He laughs again, a warm, genuine sound. "Touché, James. Perhaps you have a point. Maybe it's just that as you get older, you start to appreciate the simple things more." He gestures vaguely to the bustling festival around us. "There's a certain… purity to this. Creating something with your hands that people genuinely enjoy, without the lingering doubt that they're just praising it because of the brand rather than the soul you poured into it."

I'm struck by his candor, this unexpected glimpse of vulnerability, of… nostalgia, almost. It’s not what I anticipated from the formidable Dorian Beaumont, the man who seemingly has the entire baking world at his feet.

"For someone with a reputation for being all business, you have a surprisingly poetic take on baking," I observe. "I wonder if you'll be equally eloquent when judging my winning creation," I quip, leaning back into my usual confident persona.

The momentary seriousness vanishes, replaced by that easy, captivating charm. "I look forward to the opportunity, James." He glances around, then adds with a playful gleam in his eye. "What do you think of this, Cole? Is a competitor getting this hot a safety hazard?"

I turn, surprised to find the fire safety officer from the introduction ceremony standing a few feet away, apparently having overheard the tail end of our conversation.

Cole Mercer turns his head, the barest hint of a smirk ghosting across his lips. "I'd recommend installing extra sprinklers whenever there's this much verbal sizzle in the air," he deadpans, his deep voice giving the joke an edge of quiet authority.

Dorian chuckles. "James, meet Cole Mercer, our guardian of all things flammable."

"A pleasure, Lieutenant," I say, extending my hand.

"Call me Cole," he replies as we shake. His grip is firm, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Cole it is," I nod, appreciating the informality. "And thanks for keeping us all safe, by the way. I hope the job comes with a pastry or two." I glance at him, curious. "Actually… do you have a favorite pastry? I could bake it for you. Fringe benefit."

"Let's just say I'm a fan of anything that doesn't taste like it was cooked with a blowtorch." His stoic features soften into something surprisingly approachable, and I find myself grinning. "After fifteen years of eating station doughnuts, just about anything here will taste like heaven."

"I can’t imagine the coffee made things any better," Dorian says with a dry smile, his eyes twinkling. "That stuff's more likely to strip paint than wake you up."

There's a beat, and then we all chuckle, the moment warm and unexpected. It draws a few looks from nearby contestants.

"So, Cole," Dorian asks, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity, "what brings a decorated city firefighter back to the charming chaos of Lakeview?"

"Lakeview's home," Cole says simply, a hint of warmth in his voice. "And when the call came for someone to oversee fire safety at the festival, I figured it was a good chance to visit my mom and make sure no one accidentally caramelizes the festival grounds. Anyway," he continues, nodding to us both as he straightens up. "I've got rounds to make. But I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other this week."

As he walks away, I catch Dorian watching him with interest similar to my own. It's as if our combined alpha energies created a distinct, almost palpable field around us. Like a hum of mutual recognition.

"Quite the presence," I comment.

"Indeed," Dorian agrees, his gaze thoughtful. "This festival is turning out to be full of... interesting people."

Something in his tone, a subtle inflection, piques my interest. My mind flashes again to Elena, her panicked flight, the almost electric tension between her and Dorian.

As if he can read my mind, Dorian adds, "What was your impression of that local baker, Ms. Avery?"

I choose my words with care. "She's got a good reputation locally, from what I gather. Pierre's apprentice. Could be the dark horse who surprises everyone." I pause, debating whether to mention the fleeting, tantalizing scent I’d caught from her earlier. Potent enough to make my alpha senses twitch with an interest that betas rarely inspire.

But I decide to keep that possible ace up my sleeve for now. "She did seem a little… overwhelmed when I joined your conversation," I offer instead, watching for his reaction.

Dorian’s expression remains perfectly neutral, a mask of polite professionalism. "Must be the jitters of registration day. First-time competitors often find the pressure a bit much initially."

"Must be it," I reply, my tone equally bland, though every instinct I have screams that there’s more to it. Seems like we're both holding our cards close on this. It's exhilarating.

"Well, Dorian," I say, extending my hand once more, "I should probably prepare for the first official event. But I've genuinely enjoyed our exchange."

"Likewise, James," he replies, his handshake firm and decisive. "May the most deserving baker win."

"Oh, I fully intend to," I assure him, flashing my most confident, media-ready smile.

As I walk away, adrenaline starts to kick in. Because one thing is clear: this festival is no longer just a regional competition. There’s the challenge of winning over Dorian Beaumont, the mystery that is Elena Avery, and the peculiar thread that seems to tie the two of them together.

These days might turn out to be a lot more fun than I anticipated.

Chapter seven

Elena

I meticulously arrange my baking station, trying to project an aura of calm, professional competence while doing my best to ignore the knot in my stomach.

The festival organizers, in a stroke of evil genius or brilliant marketing, have placed our stations right by the main entrance path rather than around the central stage area—fresh pastry smells and live competition serving as their visitor magnet. This means a constant stream of festival-goers will be watching our every whisk, fold, and potential culinary meltdown.

"Well, hello there, partner."

I look up to find James Reynolds leaning with infuriating casualness against my pristine stainless-steel countertop. His piercing blue eyes are twinkling with a mischief that screams 'I'm charming and I know it' and his chef whites somehow look more like a fashion statement than a uniform.

"Can I help you, or are you just here to admire my setup?"

He grins, those perfect teeth practically sparkling. "While your setup is indeed impressive, I'm actually here on official business." He gestures with a flourish toward a printed spreadsheet he's holding. "Behold, Team Awesome! Or, as the less imaginative festival committee calls us, 'Team 3: Elena Avery & James Reynolds'."

I squint at the paper he's waggling in front of my face. Sure enough, there it is, in stark black and white. Of all the bakers in this competition, of course I get paired with him.

"Oh joy," I mutter. "Did I win this honor in a raffle I don't remember entering?"

"Don't sound so excited," James says, already washing his hands at my sink. "You might strain something with all that enthusiasm."

"Sorry," I say, trying to be professional despite wanting to flick flour in his perfect hair. "I just didn't expect to be partnered up."

"Well, we will be for most of the festival. Only about half of the events are solo.” He pauses, then adds with a hint of condescension, “It’s all on the schedule you got, you know.”

I glance at my unopened folder lying on the floor next to the station. “Riiight… How wonderfully... collaborative."

"Oh, festivals love 'collaboration,'" he retorts, making air quotes with obvious smugness. "Builds 'camaraderie', or so they claim." He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Personally, I think it’s a clever psychological tactic to see who tries to 'accidentally' sabotage their partner with too much salt." He winks, and I genuinely can't tell if he's kidding.

"Rest assured James," I say firmly, "my salt usage is impeccable. And I don't do sabotage."

Before he can fire back another quip, Judge Parker's voice booms across the competition area through a microphone. "Attention bakers! Time for your first team challenge: Welcome Pastries! You have three hours to create a delightful assortment of pastries to be served to incoming festival visitors this afternoon. Judges will evaluate on taste, presentation, and how well you demonstrate synergistic teamwork."

Synergistic teamwork. With him. This is fine. Everything is fine. I take a deep, fortifying breath and tie on my apron with decisive snaps.

"Alright, Michelangelo," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "What masterpiece did you have in mind?"

To my utter astonishment, James doesn't immediately bulldoze me with his own ideas. Instead, he cocks his head, a thoughtful expression replacing the smirk. "Hmm, good question. What’s your signature, Elena?"

"Éclairs and pies are my usual showstoppers," I answer, slightly thrown by his unexpected shift in tone. "But they're not exactly crowd-pleasers in terms of quick production. For this, we need something faster, simpler to replicate in volume."

James nods, tapping a finger against his chin. "My Breton butter cake usually has people weeping with joy but yeah, it’s a diva. Too much fuss for a mass welcome. How about we meet in the middle? Something with lovely laminated dough, but less temperamental?"

I find myself nodding, a flicker of professional respect igniting despite my earlier reservations. "That could work. Palmiers, maybe? Classic, elegant. We could give them a twist, incorporate some orange zest into the sugar?"

"Ooh, I like where your head's at, Elena" James says, his eyes lighting up. He actually looks excited. "And a whisper of cardamom! Familiar enough to be comforting, but with a little kick that'll make us unforgettable." He's already reaching for the flour, a new energy buzzing between us.

And just like that, we fall into an unexpectedly efficient rhythm. It's like a bizarre baking ballet. I take the lead on the puff pastry, my hands moving with practiced ease, while James meticulously crafts the spiced orange sugar, his movements precise and economical. As much as it pains my inner loner to admit it, the man is a phenomenal baker. There’s no wasted motion, no hesitation, just pure, focused skill.

For a while, we work in companionable silence, the steady rhythm of baking quietly soothing my earlier anxieties. Then, just as I slide the first batch of heart-shaped palmiers into the oven, James breaks the spell.

"You know," he says, his voice casual as he finishes grating the last of the orange zest with a flourish, "Dorian isn't quite the stuffed shirt I pegged him for."

I tense almost imperceptibly, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the oven. "Oh?" I manage, aiming for breezy disinterest.

"Yeah. Figured a guy with that much dough – pun intended – would be an insufferable snob. But he’s actually… surprisingly normal. Got a decent sense of humor too." He glances up, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. "Don't you agree, Elena?"

"I guess," I mumble, focusing with laser-like intensity on rolling out a fresh sheet of dough.

"Come on, you seemed to hit it off with him pretty well earlier. Sparks flying, were they?" James prods, his tone playful but his eyes shrewd.

"He's a judge," I reply, trying to focus on my task. "I was being polite."

"Polite?" James chuckles, a low, knowing sound. "Sugar, polite is nodding and smiling. What I saw looked more like mental sparring." He leans closer, dropping his voice. "And call me crazy, but when I joined your little conversation, I could have sworn I smelled something interesting in the air. A little hint of… arousal, maybe?" He pauses, and I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head. "Which, frankly, is a bit baffling. Given that you're a beta, and he's, well, very obviously an alpha."

My hands freeze mid-fold. He smelled arousal? What does he mean? And how? I took my DuoBlocks pill this morning as always. The thought sends a jolt of panic through me. If my medication isn't working, if my omega scent is leaking…

"I mean no disrespect," James continues, his tone casual but his eyes missing nothing. "Biology aside, you're smoking hot. Hell, I'm almost tempted to slap your butt with this dough you're rolling."

"Excuse me—" I sputter, nearly dropping the rolling pin.

"But seriously," he cuts me off, "he's a judge. You're a contestant. Any hanky-panky, or even the appearance of hanky-panky, could be a one-way ticket to Disqualificationville."

I slam my rolling pin down on the counter with a little more force than intended, making the sugar bowl jump. "There is no hanky-panky," I say firmly, hoping I sound more like a ferocious she-wolf and less like a flustered pup. "There is no attraction. And even if there was, I wouldn't do anything about it. I am here to bake, I am here to compete, and I am here to win. End of story."

James just laughs, that rich, confident sound that probably makes most omegas swoon. "Right, right. If you say so, sugar." His cocky grin suddenly falters, his eyes widening as they look down. His expression shifts from amusement to genuine alarm in a nanosecond.

"Holy cannoli, Elena!" James yelps, scrambling backwards. "You're on fire!"

"If that's another come-on, I swear I'll—" I begin, but follow his gaze downward to see tiny flames licking up the hem of my apron. “Ahh—fire!" My apron must’ve snagged on the heating element when I was loading the palmiers.

"Don't move!" a deep, authoritative voice commands from behind me. A strong hand the size of my head grips my shoulder, steadying me as another hand fumbles with the knot of my apron strings at my back. Lieutenant Cole Mercer. He’s appeared out of nowhere, moving with surprising speed for someone his size.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he’s untied the apron, yanking it away from the station onto the floor. In one impossibly smooth, almost cinematic motion, he snatches the small, red fire extinguisher mounted on the side of our baking station and douses the smoldering fabric with sharp hiss.

The nearby contestants stop what they're doing, and a small crowd of visitors gathers just beyond the velvet rope separating the competitors' area from the festival path, drawn by the commotion.

"Are you hurt?" Cole asks, his voice calm but his eyes intense as they scan me for injuries. His hands are still on my shoulders, solid and reassuring, and for a wild moment, all I can focus on is the concerned intensity in his hazel eyes.

"I—I don't think so," I stammer, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "Just startled."

"The oven," James says, his earlier bravado replaced by a pale-faced concern as he reaches past us to wrench the dial to OFF. "That temperature gauge is shot. It's cranked way higher than it should be."

Cole nods curtly, then turns his attention to the gawking crowd. "Everything's under control here, folks. Show's over. Please move along." His authoritative tone does the trick, and the spectators begin to disperse, albeit reluctantly, muttering amongst themselves.

"Are you absolutely sure you're okay?" Cole says, turning back to me, his gaze softening slightly. "No burns? Any pain at all?"

I shake my head, a wave of mortification washing over me, so potent it nearly drowns out the lingering fear. "Just… just my dignity," I mutter, avoiding his eyes. My first official day at the festival, and I’ve nearly set myself ablaze in front of half the town. This is not the kind of 'memorable first impression' I was aiming for.

James lets out a shaky, low whistle. "Well, guess we're really off to a blazing start, eh partner?" he says with a grin.

I shoot him a look that could curdle milk. Did he seriously just—

"That's not helping, James," Cole interjects, his scolding tone surprisingly effective. He gestures to an empty workstation a few feet away. "You should move your operation to one of the backup stations. This one needs to be checked out." Then, his gaze returns to me, firm but kind. "And you, Ms. Avery, are coming with me to the first aid station for a quick check-up.

"But we're in the middle of—" I begin to protest.

"Standard procedure," Cole says firmly. "Any contestant involved in a fire incident gets checked out. No exceptions."

Chapter eight

Cole

"You really don't need to escort me," Elena says, her voice a little shaky despite the assertion as I guide her toward the first aid tent. "Honestly, I'm fine. Not even a little crispy around the edges."

A small smile plays on her lips, and I find myself fighting one of my own. "Standard procedure," I reply, keeping my tone as professionally neutral as possible. My hand hovers near her elbow, not quite touching but ready to steady her if needed. "Even for small incidents."

I'm just doing my job, but I can't deny feeling a certain satisfaction at having spotted that rogue flame before it escalated. Fifteen years in this job tunes your senses to a different frequency. I was already moving toward her, a knot tightening in my gut, before my brain had fully processed the specific flicker of danger.

Elena sinks onto the plastic chair inside the small white tent with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand ruined pastries. Her hands are still trembling, a faint tremor she’s trying to hide by clasping them in her lap. Adrenaline crash. Classic.

"Here," I say, grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler. "Drink this. It’ll help."

She accepts with a small smile of thanks, and as our fingers brush, an electric jolt races up my arm. What the hell was that? I've touched plenty of people during rescues and never felt anything like it. Then, as I take a step back to give her some space, it hits me. A scent. It's faint, almost imperceptible beneath the lingering smokiness clinging to her clothes, but definitely there. It's sweet and oddly compelling. I remember noticing a whisper of it when we were first introduced this morning but dismissed it as my imagination.

My brow furrows. Betas usually have quite neutral scents, barely registering to an alpha nose unless you’re in extremely close proximity, and even then, nothing like this. This is… different. Must be some exotic baking ingredient she uses, I reason. Some rare sugar or spice that’s permeated her skin. It’s the only logical explanation.

"I just don't understand how it happened," she murmurs, her voice pulling me from my olfactory detective work. "I checked the temperature settings… I know my apron was caught, but I should've had time to smell smoke. It caught on fire way too fast."

"Hey," I say gently, leaning against a supply table. "Festival setups can be temperamental. Wires get frayed, thermostats act up. It’s rarely user error in these situations."

"But I've been doing this for years," she insists, and those vibrant green eyes flash with frustration. "I know ovens."

"I'm sure you do," I say, fighting the urge to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. "Like James pointed out, it was probably an equipment malfunction. If anything, that's on me. I'm responsible for making sure everything works properly."

She looks me in the eyes, surprise flickering in her gaze. "So you’re… you’re not blaming me?"

The wave of relief that washes over her face makes my chest ache a little, and I resist the sudden urge to reach out and caress her cheek. "For faulty equipment? Definitely not."

I find myself cataloging the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, the subtle curve of her neck where it disappears into her chef's jacket. She caught my eye earlier today and now has my full attention.

"Lieutenant Mercer?" Her voice, soft but firm, cuts through my inappropriate observations.

"Cole," I correct automatically, offering a small smile.

Her own tiny smile touches her lips. "Cole," she repeats, and the way my name sounds, spoken in her slightly husky alto, makes me stand a little straighter, my professional composure wobbling precariously. "Thank you for… well, for the swift intervention. And for not making me feel like a complete idiot."

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. "All part of the service, ma'am. Keeping competitors from incinerating themselves is in the job description."

"Elena," she corrects, mirroring my earlier informality, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement now that the initial shock is fading. "Ma'am makes me sound like I should be knitting and complaining about my hip."

"Elena," I repeat, and damn if her name doesn’t feel good on my tongue. I notice a slight dilation of her pupils as I say it, a flicker of something that my alpha instincts immediately register.

The on-duty medic bustles in then, and I step back to give them room. I should be making my rounds, double-checking the other stations, filing an incident report. Instead, I find myself lingering, unable to leave until I hear the medic confirm she's unharmed.

"All clear," he announces a few minutes later, snapping off his gloves. "No burns, just a bit shaken. Take it easy for a few minutes, and if any redness develops on your skin later, use some aloe."

"Thank you," Elena says, her relief evident. As the medic departs, the afternoon sun, filtering through the tent’s translucent roof, catches the warm, almost reddish undertones in her brown hair, creating a halo effect that makes my breath hitch. For a crazy second, she looks almost ethereal, and entirely too beautiful for a first aid tent.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and looks up at me with determination that immediately commands my respect. "I'm ready. Can't let a little fire set me back, right?"

"Right," I agree, a genuine admiration stirring in me. I have to physically stop myself from reaching out, from offering a reassuring squeeze to her arm. Professional, Mercer. Keep it professional.

"We can also head back later though. No rush at all," I say, trying to inject a casualness I don't entirely feel into my voice.

"Oh, I'm good. And you don't have to walk me back," she says quickly, her concern genuine. "I'm perfectly capable of finding my station. You must have a million other things to do."

"Nonsense," I reply, perhaps a little too quickly. "What kind of Fire Safety Officer would I be if I can't even escort you back to your station? Besides," I add, a teasing note creeping in, "I need to make sure you don’t wrestle that rogue oven into submission."

She laughs, a bright, lovely sound that does entirely unprofessional things to my insides. "Alright, alright."

As we walk back through the bustling festival grounds, the air is thick with the competing aromas of sugar and spice. Elena glances at a family passing by, a little girl with pigtails pointing excitedly at a vibrant display of cupcakes, her face alight with pure joy.

"So, firefighting," Elena says, breaking the comfortable silence. "Was it always the plan? Did you dream of sirens and flashing lights as a kid?"

I nod, a nostalgic smile touching my lips. "Pretty much. My dad was a volunteer firefighter here in Lakeview, back when this festival was about half the size. I grew up listening to his stories, thinking he was the bravest guy in the world."

"So, it’s a family legacy," she says softly, understanding in her eyes.

"Something like that," I admit. "It gets in your blood. What about you? How did you get wrangled into the high-stakes world of competitive baking?"

Her expression softens, a warmth spreading across her features that makes her even more lovely. "It all started when my mom taught me to make cookies. We didn't have much, but we always had flour and sugar." She pauses, a wistful look in her eyes. "There's something special about creating something that brings people joy, you know? Watching someone take that first bite and seeing their eyes light up... it's better than any paycheck."

"I get that," I say, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. "Different skills, different tools, but maybe a similar core. Taking care of people, bringing a little bit of good into their day."

Elena looks at me, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I never really thought of it that way, connecting the two."

"Most people probably see more of a contrast," I reply with a wry chuckle. "The fire-putter-outer versus the fire-user."

"And yet, both involve a certain respect for heat," she adds, a teasing light dancing in her eyes. Is she flirting with me? The thought flickers, followed by an unmistakable twitch below the belt. If she is, it’s definitely working.

"Well, this is me," she says as we're about to reach her new station, where James is already laying out pastries with the focused intensity of a bomb technician. "Thank you again. For everything."

"Elena?" I call out after a second, surprising myself. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. "Good luck. Try not to set anything else on fire. But if you do..." I tap the badge on my uniform. "I'm your guy." Real smooth Cole.

She gives me a genuine smile that hits me like a two-by-four to the chest. "I'll keep that in mind."

As she walks away, I find myself watching her longer than is professionally appropriate. There's something about her that tugs at me, something beyond her obvious beauty or the mysterious scent I can't quite place.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. I've got a job to do. Rechecking all the oven reports, for starters. No time to be distracted by a contestant, no matter how alluring they might be or how much my inner alpha is currently howling for attention.

Besides, I'm only in town for the festival. In a week, I’ll be back in the city, to my pending promotion, the career I've worked so hard to build. The last thing I need is a complication, especially one with a smile that could make me forget protocols faster than a fire extinguisher loses pressure.

But as I turn away to continue my safety rounds, I can't help but glance back one last time... just to make sure she’s settled in okay, of course.

Chapter nine

Elena

"Here you go, two delicious palmiers. Enjoy!" I hand the small paper bag to a young couple who beam back at me with excitement.

The late afternoon sun bathes the festival grounds in golden light, casting long shadows between the rows of vendor booths. From my selling station, I can see the festival grounds buzzing with activity: kids wielding sticky churros like swords, a surprisingly good bluegrass band fiddling away in a pavilion, and a never-ending parade of pastry pilgrims seeking their next sugary enlightenment.

It's a world away from the emotional whiplash of this morning. Seriously, what a day. Discovering my incredibly hot one-night stand is not only a billionaire but also a judge at this very festival? Check. Being forcibly partnered with the most insufferably charming, egotistical (yet undeniably skilled) baker in the competition? Double check. Nearly becoming a human flambé only to be rescued by a firefighter who looks like he bench-presses small trees for fun? Triple-freaking-check. And it’s only day one.

I let out a sigh, the air tasting faintly of cinnamon from the neighboring apple fritter stand. At least for the selling portion, I’m a solo act. No James and his running commentary on my "adorably rustic palmier presentation." The man’s talent is inversely proportional to his humility, and his ego alone probably requires its own zip code.

"Excuse me, dear, are these the ones that won today?" An elderly woman with determined eyes and a floral handbag peers into my display case.

"First place," I confirm, trying not to think about how James actually high-fived himself when the results were announced.

"I'll take four," she declares, snapping open her purse with an air of authority. "My bridge club is tomorrow, and Mildred always tries to one-up me with her lemon bars. Not this time, Mildred. Not this time."

As I package her order, my gaze drifts across the festival grounds to where Dorian stands with the two other judges, clipboard in hand, laughing at something someone just said. The sunlight catches in his dark hair, and even from here, I can see how his tailored shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.

My fingers crumple the five-dollar bill the woman just handed me. What is wrong with me? He’s a judge. I’m a contestant.

And yet… my mind wanders back to my little apartment last night. I still feel a phantom tingle where his mouth unraveled me, and I can’t shake the way his silver eyes catalogued my every moan, as if logging each response for future reference.

For just a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where I wake up in a sun-drenched bedroom with silken sheets, Dorian beside me. Where staff handle the daily chores while I focus solely on creating pastries for the joy of it.

"Miss? My change?" The elderly woman's voice cuts through my fantasy like a knife through butter.

"Oh! Sorry," I stammer, my cheeks flaming. I quickly count out her change and, as a penance for my mental vacation, tuck an extra palmier into her bag. "My apologies."

As she walks away, my eyes drift to the selling booth where James looks like he's holding court to a group of admiring omegas. Even from here, I can see the swagger in his movements, the way he leans slightly forward when making a point, the flash of his smile as he charms his audience. He's like a peacock who knows exactly how pretty his feathers are.

Irritating as he is, I can't deny there's something magnetic about his confidence. Still, James is the poster boy for the kind of cocky, know-it-all alpha I’ve spent my entire adult life actively avoiding. Talent with a piping bag aside, he's a walking red flag... who just happens to be skilled with his hands.

Which makes me wonder what else those hands can do...

Ugh, stop it, brain!

I busy myself arranging the display, but a few minutes later, I find myself scanning the crowd again, this time spotting Cole as he makes his rounds. Unlike the other two, there's nothing flashy about him. He moves with quiet confidence, solid as the mountains around Lakeview. When he helped me this morning, his hands were strong but gentle, his presence reassuring rather than overwhelming.

I wonder what it would be like to be wrapped in those big, strong arms... A totally inappropriate image flashes through my mind: me as Jane to his Tarzan, being swept through the jungle pressed against his chest. Except Cole would look much better in a loincloth, with his broad shoulders, strong thighs and—

I shake my head, forcing myself out of the ridiculous fantasy. I have worked too damn hard to be independent, to build a life where I don't need, and certainly don't want, to be entangled with an alpha. Mom’s life is a testament to the pitfalls of that particular path. I will not, repeat, will not, fall into that trap, no matter how nicely packaged these particular alphas seem to be.

I hand a palmier to a little boy whose mother is carefully counting out exact change, and try to wrestle my brain cells back into formation. There's nothing going on here. Nothing can go on. I have plans, damn it. Big, important, alpha-free plans.

Winning this competition could change everything for me. A promotion at Pierre's would bring better pay to help mom, while at the same time propel me closer to my dream of opening my own bakery.

Tomorrow morning, I’m doubling my dose of DuoBlocks. No arguments. I'm not entirely sure why my usually reliable medication is suddenly acting like a leaky sieve around these specific alphas after years of blissful peace, but I can’t afford these… feelings. These… distractions. Not when I’m this close to achieving a major professional milestone.

No ridiculously wealthy alpha judge is going to derail my five-year plan. Neither is an infuriatingly cocky (yet admittedly talented) competitor… nor a hunky firefighter with shoulders you could land a small plane on.

"Excuse me, miss? Are these the pastries that won today?" A woman in a bright floral dress and an even brighter smile interrupts my internal pep talk.

"Yes, they are!" I say, pasting on my most enthusiastic smile. "First place. Would you like to try one? Or two?"

The distraction is more than welcome.

Chapter ten

Elena

The first day of festival is winding down. Golden hour has faded to the soft blue of dusk, and the crowds have thinned as they head home for dinner. I'm visualizing the steaming hot shower waiting for me at home when a familiar voice yanks me back to reality.

"Congratulations on the win today… again."

I look up to find Dorian standing on the other side of my booth. The festival lanterns have just flickered on, casting him in amber light that accentuates the sharp line of his jaw and softens the gray of his eyes.

As he leans across the counter, his scent hits me like a slap to the face. It's amplified from last night, rich with unmistakable sandalwood and... something warm. The overwhelming intensity leaves me wobbly, forcing me to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

Perfect timing, Dorian. Showing up just as I was about to escape to my alpha-free den.

A wave of heat crawls up my neck as another intoxicating puff of his scent wafts over. I fight a mortifyingly primal urge to fling myself across the counter and bury my face in his neck, right where I imagine his scent gland would be pulsing with all that… alphaness. God, he smells delicious.

Wait. My DuoBlocks. Are they just… not working anymore? Is this what a complete system failure feels like? Because if I can smell him with this kind of seismic-level intensity… Does that mean he can also… smell me?

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as the Sahara. Oh, this is bad. I need to leave. Like, yesterday.

"Thanks," I manage, the word coming out curt and a little breathless. I snatch my jacket from the back of the stool, aiming for a casual exit. "Just locking up. Long day."

That's it, I need to play it cool. Just like that.

He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he continues. "You impressed all the judges, you know. Myself included. Your palmiers were exceptional."

"Right. Thank you," I say, studiously avoiding his gaze as I wrestle my arm into my jacket sleeve. The movement, unfortunately, stirs the air, bringing another wave of his scent directly into my personal space. My head actually swims. "Guess I'll, uh, see you around."

"Actually, before you go—" he taps a leather portfolio I hadn't noticed tucked under his arm, "I'm here on official business. Need to collect and record today's proceeds from each competitor."

Oh, right. The money.

"Right, of course." I duck down to retrieve the dented metal cash box from under the counter, grateful for the momentary reprieve from his direct gaze. I take the opportunity to discreetly tug at the collar of my chef's jacket, trying to catch a whiff of myself… not that omegas can actually smell their own scent, but anxiety doesn't listen to logic.

When I straighten, he's still watching me, those perceptive gray eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I place the cash box on the counter with a decisive thud, deliberately creating a buffer zone between us.

My fingers, which can normally pipe a perfect rosette in my sleep, suddenly feel like sausages as the lock on the cash box chooses this exact moment to stage a rebellion. "Sorry," I mutter, jiggling the key. "It’s being… a bit stubborn."

"Allow me?" he asks, but it’s rhetorical. In one lithe movement that reminds me of a panther, he vaults over the counter. Just like that, he’s in my space.

The booth suddenly feels impossibly tiny, like someone shrunk it while I wasn't looking. He’s standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body through my clothes.

"It just has a little trick to it," he explains, his voice a low rumble as he reaches for the cash box. His fingertips brush mine as he takes it. The contact is like a live wire, sending a shiver straight down my spine. My breath hitches.

From this proximity, his scent is an overwhelming, intoxicating cloud. I swallow again, trying to focus on anything but the six-foot-three slab of walking temptation occupying my personal airspace. It’s not working. The festival sounds have faded to a dull hum, my entire universe narrowing to the two feet of space we currently share and the increasingly frantic thumping of my own heart.

"There we go," Dorian murmurs as the lock finally clicks open. His voice has dropped another register, the words practically a purr. His eyes meet mine, and the distinct dilation of his pupils tells me he's not entirely immune to whatever hormonal chaos is currently brewing between us.

I should do anything but stand here, frozen, practically inhaling him like he’s the last molecule of oxygen on earth.

He begins counting the day’s takings, his long, elegant fingers moving with a precision that is, for some inexplicable reason, utterly mesmerizing. My gaze snags on the way his thumb smooths a wrinkled bill.

"Impressive sales for a first day," he observes, his eyes flicking up to mine with a subtle, knowing look that makes my pulse skitter. "People clearly appreciate quality."

"Winning helps," I manage, my voice sounding breathy and unfamiliar even to my own ears. I attempt a mental shake. Get it together, Elena!

"Yes, about that." He shifts his position, leaning in slightly toward me, making it feel even more intimate. "The cardamom in those palmiers was an inspired touch."

His genuine appreciation catches me off guard, momentarily clearing the sensual fog from my brain. "Oh, um, that was actually James’s idea," I admit. "The orange zest was mine."

"A perfect balance, then." His smile is warm, disarmingly genuine, and it reaches those incredible eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. "You two make a surprisingly effective team, combustion notwithstanding."

I wince. "Of course you heard about the fire… and please, for the love of all that is holy, don't tell him what you just said. His ego already barely fits through doorways."

Dorian laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates through the tiny space and straight into my bones. It’s a lovely sound. Too lovely.

He finishes counting, makes a neat notation in his portfolio, but, to my mounting panic-laced arousal, makes absolutely no move to vacate my booth. Instead, he closes the cash box and turns fully toward me.

"I noticed something interesting earlier today," he says, his voice taking on a conversational tone that doesn't match the intensity of his gaze. "While I was, ahem, having a walk…" He pauses, a teasing glint in his eye. "In the woods just behind the main festival loop, there's a little clearing with wild roses. Tall brambles of them. The only ones I've seen in the area."

The abrupt change of subject throws me. Roses? Is he actually talking about horticulture right now? But there’s a look in his eyes that makes my pulse skitter. "Is that part of your judging criteria now? Botanical surveys?"

His smile is slow, a deliberate unfurling that makes my breath catch. "I appreciate beauty in all its forms, Elena. These roses, though… they’re particularly special. Heritage varieties, I think. The kind that shouldn't just be growing wild out here. Someone must have planted a garden there, years ago, and it’s just been… forgotten. Reclaimed by nature."

As he speaks, his fingers absently trace patterns on the countertop next to us, drawing my eye to their movement. I remember those fingers on my skin, how they'd moved with the same careful precision, finding exactly the right spots to—

I force my gaze back to his face, but that's no safer. His eyes are dark now, heated in a way that makes my throat go dry.

"They're just starting to bloom," he continues, his voice lower now. "And the moonlight should be hitting them just about… now. I was thinking of going back to see them properly." He pauses, his eyes locking with mine. "In about ten minutes, after I drop off the cash box and my portfolio."

My breath catches in my throat like I've just inhaled a mouthful of flour.

"I… I really should get home," I stammer, but the words sound weak, unconvincing even to my own ears. My feet feel rooted to the spot.

"Of course." He takes a small step back, giving me a sliver of breathing room, and the relief is as sharp and sudden as the stab of disappointment that follows it. He tucks the portfolio under his arm and picks up the cash box.

He vaults back over the counter with easy grace, then pauses a few steps away, half-turning toward me.

"If you happen to change your mind…" His eyes meet mine one last time, direct, challenging, and searingly hot. "There’s a little path that starts not far behind your booth. It’s not marked, but it’s there. The roses are about a five-minute walk in. Just past the large oak tree."

And then he’s gone, melting back into the dwindling evening crowd, leaving me with a racing heart and the lingering ghost of his scent.

I practically fall over the counter, my legs shaky. Go home, Elena. Go home, take a cold shower or something. Scrub every thought of that man from your brain.

I know that's the reasonable thing to do.

So why am I already looking around to see if anyone would notice me slipping onto that path?

* * *

I am so, SO stupid.

Five minutes later, I’m walking down the narrow path into the small woods that border the south side of the festival grounds, cursing my complete lack of willpower with every step.

This is the exact opposite of what I’d resolved, not ten minutes ago, I wouldn't do. But his scent, that damned intoxicating alpha cocktail, seems to have bypassed my brain and plugged directly into some ancient, primal homing beacon deep inside me. My DuoBlocks, bless their usually reliable little hearts, are clearly on strike. Or possibly, they’ve just thrown up their tiny chemical hands in surrender.

The path is little more than a faint track winding between tall, whispering grasses and shadowy trees. The lively jazz music from the festival’s main stage fades with each step, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. The night air is cool against my skin, but it does nothing to cool the inferno raging inside me.

Suddenly, the path curves around a massive oak tree. Moonlight filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows across the ground. That’s when I see them—just ahead, in a small clearing. The roses, climbing and tumbling in brambles, their pale pink blooms glowing in the ethereal light.

"You came."

I spin around so fast I nearly fall, only to find Dorian stepping from the shadows, his expression hidden in the half-light. I didn't sense him, but now, standing just feet away, his scent crashes over me again, like a tidal wave.

"You gave me excellent directions," I say, surprised by how seductive my voice sounds. I was going for casual, but somehow it came out sounding like I was auditioning for a sex hotline.

"It seems I did." He takes a step closer, the moonlight now revealing the intensity of his gaze.

My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I should leave. Right now. Before I do something stupid. Again. "This is a mistake."

"Probably," he agrees, taking another step. "Tell me to go, and I will."

The words stick in my throat. I can’t tell him to go. Because, god help me, I don’t want him to. My body is thrumming with a desperate energy, responding to his proximity in ways it never has before, not even before I started taking DuoBlocks. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. I close my eyes for a brief second, and I can almost see invisible threads pulling us together.

"I can't..." I begin, not even sure what I'm trying to say.

"Can't what, Elena?" He's close now. So close I can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat. "Can't resist this? Can't stop thinking about the other night, about what happened in your apartment? Can't ignore this… current thrumming between us?"

"All of it," I whisper, honest at last.

His hand rises slowly, giving me time to retreat, but I remain frozen in place as his fingers graze my cheek. The contact sends electricity racing across my skin, and I can't stop the small sound that escapes me.

"I've been thinking about you, sugar," he murmurs, his thumb now stroking gently along my jawline. "Far more than is professional."

Sugar? A distant alarm bell rings in the recesses of my brain. He's the second alpha who's called me that today. Is it a coincidence or a reference to my actual smell?

But right now, the concern feels about as urgent as remembering to buy milk when your house is on fire—utterly irrelevant next to the overwhelming reality of Dorian’s touch

"We shouldn't," I say, even as I step closer to him.

"No," he agrees, his other hand finding my waist. "We really shouldn't."

And then words are irrelevant, because his mouth is on mine, and the world tilts on its axis. We crash together, my back hitting the rough bark of the oak tree as he kisses me with a desperation that mirrors my own. It’s hungry, almost frantic, all the unspoken tension, the simmering awareness that’s been building between us since that first night, exploding in a single, incandescent moment of contact. His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, fingers splayed against my scalp, then gliding down my sides, over my ribs, pulling me tighter, closer, molding my body to his.

His lips leave mine to blaze a fiery trail down my neck, finding that ridiculously sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp, my nails unintentionally biting into his shoulders through his clothes. The sound, my helpless little gasp, seems to trigger something primal in him. A low, possessive growl rumbles in his chest as he presses himself more insistently against me, the hard ridge of his arousal shockingly evident, even through our clothes.

"Elena," he breathes against my skin, my name a raw, ragged prayer on his lips.

A single, solitary functioning brain cell, my last bastion of self-preservation, suddenly flares to life. Stop! I can't let this go too far. I know the script. I know what happens next: clothes discarded, skin against skin, maybe even an out-of-control claiming bite that I can't allow, no matter how much my body might be screaming for it in a few minutes.

I guide his hands to my hips, keeping them outside my clothing as I shift against him, creating friction that makes us both moan. It's a compromise, not giving in completely, but not denying either of us what our bodies are demanding.

"Like this," I whisper, showing him what I need with the roll of my hips against his. "Just like this."

He understands immediately, his hands gripping my hips to guide our movements, creating a rhythm that has us both gasping. We remain fully clothed, but the friction is exquisite.

"You're incredible," he murmurs against my ear, his voice strained with restraint. "The way you move, your—"

I silence him with another kiss, not risking to hear anything about my scent. This is already messy enough without reminders of why it might be happening.

His hands slip beneath my jacket, staying outside my shirt as he cups my breasts. Our bodies move together with increasing urgency, the pressure building until I'm clinging to him, my face buried against his neck to muffle the sounds I can't help making.

When release finally comes, it crashes over me in waves, leaving me trembling and gasping against him. He follows moments later, his body tensing as he buries his face in my hair, his groan vibrating through me.

For several heartbeats, we remain wrapped together, catching our breath, neither of us wanting to break the moment. The night air cools my heated skin, reality slowly filtering back in. The distant sounds of the festival. The sweet scent of the wild roses. The uncomfortable dampness clinging to my panties.

Oh, god. What have I done?

Dorian lifts his head, his eyes finding mine in the soft moonlight. There’s a tenderness there, a raw vulnerability that I wasn’t expecting, and it makes my chest ache with a strange mix of emotions.

"Elena," he starts, his voice husky.

But I press my fingers lightly to his lips. "Don't," I whisper, the word barely audible. "Please. Don't say anything."

Something flickers across his face – hurt? confusion? – but he nods, stepping back to give me some much-needed space. I immediately miss the solid warmth of his body, but I force myself to turn away, to straighten my clothes, to try and rebuild the shattered walls of my composure.

"This was..." I start, then falter, struggling to find the right words.

"A mistake?" he offers.

"No," I admit, surprising myself with how right it feels. "But it can't happen again. I have too much riding on this competition."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "I understand."

I doubt he does, but I appreciate the space he's giving me. I check my reflection in my phone camera, wincing at my flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. I look as thoroughly undone as I feel.

"You should go first," I say, my voice firmer now. "I'll wait a few minutes. We can’t be seen leaving the woods together."

He hesitates, then reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch is so light, so unexpectedly tender, it nearly breaks my heart. "You were magnificent today, Elena," he says softly. "Not just… now. In the competition. Your talent is undeniable. It speaks for itself."

The unexpected compliment catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he's gone, melting back into the trees and leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I lean back against the rough bark of the oak tree, trying to force my breathing to return to normal. What in the seven hells was I thinking? Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed, all risked in a moment of weakness.

If it wasn’t settled before, it is now: I am absolutely, unequivocally doubling my dose of DuoBlocks tomorrow. Whatever is happening with my body, whatever strange, irresistible pull these alphas are exerting on me, I need to shut it down. Hard.

As I walk back toward the festival, smoothing my hair and adjusting my clothes, I don't notice the figure behind a distant tree, phone raised, recording me.

Chapter eleven

James

The grainy video loops on my phone screen: Exhibit A, Elena Avery, looking delightfully disheveled, walking through the moonlit woods like a startled forest nymph. Exhibit B, captured mere minutes prior, one Dorian Beaumont, billionaire festival judge, walking the exact same path, attempting (and failing) to look nonchalant while straightening his expensive shirt. Oh, this is good. This is cinema.

I tuck my phone under the pillow and lean back on my hotel bed, a slow grin spreading across my face. Well, well, well. Little Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt Elena has a few secrets tucked away with her piping bags, doesn't she?

When I’d impulsively decided to see where she was scurrying off to after closing her booth, purely out of idle curiosity, of course, I certainly wasn’t expecting to stumble upon a clandestine rendezvous with the festival’s head honcho. It’s almost too cliché. Almost.

Even this confusing, dark maze couldn’t rob me of the moment. Sure, I got lost for a bit. But my flair for drama led me right to the perfect vantage point, just in time to witness and record their perfectly timed, soap-worthy exits.

Is this footage proof of a disqualifiable offense? Probably. Does it raise reasonable suspicion? Without a doubt. Is it juicy? Absolutely.

I tap a thoughtful finger against my lips. My first, admittedly cynical, thought was the obvious one: she's angling for an advantage. Sleeping with a judge? Classic move. I’ve seen it play out at other competitions. It's tacky, but depressingly effective.

But… it doesn’t quite scan with Elena. There’s a certain earnestness about her, a genuine passion that’s hard to fake. And Dorian Beaumont? The man’s practically a legend, renowned for his high standards and spotless integrity when it comes to pastries. He wouldn’t compromise his reputation for a casual fling.

No, this has the distinct whiff of genuine, ill-advised mutual attraction. Which, if I’m being honest, I can almost understand. For a beta, Elena… well, she has a certain something. A spark. And that surprisingly alluring scent she gives off, like sugar and sunshine, is definitely several notches above your average beta’s olfactory profile. Intriguing, to say the least.

Still, regardless of the motive, the evidence is undeniable. Leverage. Beautiful, incriminating, potentially game-changing leverage. One anonymous tip to the judges, complete with video attachment, and I’d bet there’s a 50/50 chance she’d be packing her whisks faster than you can say 'conflict of interest'.

Yet, there's something unsatisfying about winning because your competition gets booted. It's like being told you won a marathon because everyone else got food poisoning. It's technically a victory, but not one that proves anything.

No, my victory needs to feel real. I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much to get where I am today. Those pre-dawn hours spent learning my craft, the endless practice while my father grumbled about me wasting my alpha potential on 'woman's work,' the crushing weight of culinary school debt… it all fuels the fire.

So while I won't sabotage Elena to win, having insurance never hurts. Just in case she actually really is cheating. An alpha always prepares for every eventuality.

My strategic musings are interrupted by the muffled sound of voices from the hallway. Low, but distinct enough for my alpha hearing to snag keywords.

"—can't quite believe it myself, but Mitchell swears he saw them at The Tipsy Whisk. Yesterday." That’s judge Parker.

"Beaumont and Elena Avery? Before the festival even officially started? That’s… highly problematic." And that’s judge Chen. Sounding distinctly unamused.

I’m out of bed and pressed against the door faster than a soufflé collapses, straining to hear more.

"Mitchell said they looked very… friendly."

"If this is true, and they had a pre-existing relationship… Conflict of interest doesn't even begin to cover it. Automatic disqualification."

The voices fade as they head toward the elevators, leaving my mind racing. So, their little woodland tryst wasn’t a first-time offense? They were already acquainted? This is escalating from a small kitchen fire to a five-alarm blaze.

I lean back against the door, practically purring with satisfaction.

Well well. Given this delicious new intel (bless whatever lucky break put me in the same hotel as these two)… what should I do that's best for me..?

A sudden, rather brilliant idea begins to form. An opportunity. A way to ensure a fair fight, and potentially gain a different kind of leverage over the surprisingly captivating Elena. Yes. This could work out very nicely indeed.

Key card palmed, I'm out the door and heading for the hotel bar, a plan already clicking into place.

Predictably, Parker and Chen are huddled at a quiet corner table, looking like they’re dissecting state secrets. They go conspicuously silent as I approach, which is all the confirmation I need.

"Good evening, esteemed judges," I say, flashing them my most disarmingly charming smile. "Mind if I join you for a nightcap? The festival air has made me surprisingly thirsty."

Parker eyes me narrowly. "Mr. Reynolds. We were actually talking about sensitive festival business."

"Perfect! That’s actually exactly what I was hoping to chat about," I say, sliding into the empty chair across from them before they have a chance to protest. "Couldn't help overhearing a bit of your conversation in the hallway. Sounded... intriguing."

Chen straightens, her bonded omega scent taking on a defensive note. "That was a private discussion, Mr. Reynolds."

"Of course, of course. But when it potentially involves the integrity of a competition we’re all invested in…" I let my voice trail off meaningfully. "Something about Mr. Beaumont and Miss Avery, was it?"

They exchange a quick, loaded glance. Parker leans in, his goatee adding an unnecessary layer of gravitas. "What do you know about it, Reynolds?" he asks, voice low.

I adopt an expression of mild concern. "Well, I do know that Dorian Beaumont and Elena Avery were seen in each other’s company," I say, carefully omitting the when, where, and the rather incriminating footage currently residing on my phone.

"So, you confirm the rumors!" Parker exclaims, his eyes narrowing. "This is a clear violation, a serious—"

"But there might be a slight misunderstanding," I interrupt smoothly, "well a pretty large one, actually. There is absolutely, positively nothing inappropriate happening between Mr. Beaumont and Miss Avery."

Parker's eyebrow rise. "You just said you know they were together."

"Yes. Talking. Strictly business." I lean back, projecting an air of relaxed confidence. "You see, Mr. Beaumont has taken a strong professional interest in Pierre's Bakery, where Elena is currently an apprentice."

"Pierre’s?" Chen scoffs. "Why on earth would Dorian Beaumont, of Beaumont Patisserie, care about a tiny, small-town bakery?"

I lower my voice, leaning in as if sharing a deeply confidential secret. "It’s about the éclairs," I whisper dramatically. "Apparently, Pierre has some highly coveted, proprietary éclair-making technique. Intellectual property, you understand. Beaumont is considering… an acquisition. To add Pierre’s unique methods to the Beaumont collection."

Their surprise is almost comical. Perfect. The more outlandish the lie, the more likely people are to swallow it whole. It’s an old sales trick.

"Now, obviously," I continue, warming to my theme, "if word got out that a titan like Beaumont was sniffing around a local bakery, looking to buy it up, it could cause all sorts of trouble. Real estate speculation, local panic ensuing, you name it. So, naturally, he'd meet with the apprentice first, discreetly. Like in a noisy bar, late at night, where they wouldn’t be easily overheard?" I let that sink in. "And wouldn't you agree that, in this setting, an innocent business meeting could easily be misinterpreted as… something more intimate?"

Chen still looks skeptical. "If this is all so top-secret, Mr. Reynolds, how is it that you know about it?"

"Ah, that's a good question!" I say, feigning understanding of their perfectly reasonable doubt. "And the answer is simple. I know all this because I also know, with absolute certainty, that Elena couldn’t possibly be romantically entangled with Mr. Beaumont because…" I pause, letting the suspense build, enjoying the rapt attention on their faces. "Because, you see, she’s currently seeing me."

The looks on their faces are priceless, like I just announced I'm secretly a unicorn.

"You? And Elena Avery?" Parker sputters, looking like I’ve just told him I can spin straw into gold.

I nod, allowing a small, almost shy smile to touch my lips. "It’s a bit recent, still finding our feet. We met at the Western Regional Baking Conference last spring. They had an amazing keynote speaker on the molecular gastronomy of ganache by the way. And we just… clicked." I sigh dramatically. "It was unexpected."

"But… but you're an alpha," Chen states, eyeing me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted a second head. "And she’s a beta."

I give a worldly, slightly weary shrug. "And Mr. Beaumont is also an alpha, yet you were perfectly willing to believe they might be an item. Look, times are changing. Alpha-beta pairings, while not exactly front-page news, are becoming increasingly common, especially for those of us in demanding, creative professions. We connect on a different level. Our shared passion for the art of pastry… well, it transcends the more… traditional dynamics."

Absolute BS, of course. Alpha-beta relationships are about as common as a perfectly tempered chocolate on a humid day. Most alphas are drawn to omegas by biological imperative, just as omegas are drawn to alphas. Betas, with their faint scents and lack of heats or ruts, typically pair with other betas. But there are always exceptions, which makes my lie plausible enough to swallow.

"I… I see," Parker says slowly, stroking his chin, the cogs visibly turning in his head. "Yes, that… reframes the situation."

"Naturally, I’d appreciate your utmost discretion regarding my… relationship with Elena," I add, leaning in again, lowering my voice to a confidential murmur. "It’s still pretty new, and we’d prefer not to become the subject of festival gossip. You can imagine how awkward it would be, an alpha and a beta, competitors and teammates, romantically involved… it’s a bit much. We both just want the festival to be about the baking, you know?"

Chen nods, a flicker of something like sympathy in her eyes. She actually looks convinced. "Of course, Mr. Reynolds. Your confidence will be respected. And thank you for clarifying the… misunderstanding regarding Mr. Beaumont."

"Happy to help." I stand, mission accomplished. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to rest for tomorrow's challenges. Got to bring my A-game to impress my girlfriend." I throw in a wink for good measure.

As I saunter out of the bar, feigning a yawn, I hear them already shifting their conversation to the challenges of achieving a perfect crumb structure in a high-altitude environment. Crisis decisively averted. For Elena, at least. For now.

Back in the quiet of my room, I retrieve my phone. The video of Elena, flushed and beautiful in the moonlight, plays again.

She has no idea what I've just done for her, and what I'll be expecting in return…

Chapter twelve

Elena

My apartment door clicks shut behind me, and I finally let my shoulders slump. What. A. Day. If poor life choices was an Olympic event, I'd be taking gold.

I grab my phone from my bag and find two texts from Mia.

So? How was day one of the festival?

And hello? What happened with hot bar guy???

Boy, if she knew.

I stare at the screen for a second before typing back.

Wouldn’t even know where to start. Brain = soup. Will fill you in when I’m not a corpse.

Her reply comes in lightning fast.

Boo. Rude. Best friends are legally entitled to hot goss.

Fine, I’ll wait… but I expect full spice when you deliver.

As if on cue, my body hits replay. My thighs press together, trying to quell the throbbing ache that’s returned with a vengeance, a vivid encore of my forest adventure.

Clearly, my hormones have staged a coup, and my brain is along for the mortifying ride.

I make a beeline for the living room, my gaze locking onto the small, innocent-looking pill container on the kitchen counter just a few steps away. The urge to pop an extra dose right now is overwhelming. But my doctor's stern warning echoes in my ears: “No less than eighteen hours between doses, Elena, unless you want to risk heart palpitations, dizziness, even fainting.” Right. Not pretty. Better to stick to the plan: double dose in the morning. New, improved, alpha-proof regimen. I can survive one night of… heightened awareness. Probably.

Besides, it’s not like I’m going to magically stumble upon any more dangerously attractive alphas lurking in my closet.

Except… one alpha’s presence is definitely still lingering. My chef's jacket. Dorian. His scent. God it's mouthwatering.

I strip off my clothes, intending to toss the offending item directly into the biohazard bin (okay, the hamper, but with extreme prejudice). But my hand, the traitorous appendage, has other ideas. Before my brain can issue a cease-and-desist order, I’m bringing the soft cotton to my nose, inhaling deeply, like a complete and utter lunatic. His scent floods my senses. It’s a direct hit, triggering a full-color rush of memories: his hands, firm and possessive on my hips; his mouth, hot and demanding on my neck; the low, guttural growl that vibrated through his chest when I…

A sudden gush of slick between my thighs snaps me back to the mortifying present. I yelp, dropping the jacket as if it’s coated in acid, my face burning with a mixture of arousal and sheer horror.

"The shower. I need a very long shower," I mutter, stumbling toward the bathroom.

I step under the spray but it doesn't help. If anything, the sensation of hot water running down my body only heightens my awareness of every tingling nerve ending, every sensitive, neglected spot that’s currently screaming for attention like a streamer on Twitch.

With a groan that’s half-despair, half-surrender, I give in. It’s either this or spontaneously combust. My hand, trembling slightly, drifts downwards, finding the slick between my thighs. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool, wet tiles, and let the fantasies take over.

Dorian, of course, is front and center. The way he looked at me in the moonlight, that raw hunger in his silver eyes, the possessive way his hands explored my body… My fingers move, mimicking the pressure, the rhythm of his hips. A soft moan escapes me.

But then, unbidden, another image superimposes itself. Cole. Steady, heroic Cole, his gaze calm and reassuring as he pulled me from the brink of a fiery disaster. The way his uniform stretched taut across his broad, capable shoulders… the memory of his strong, gentle hands guiding me... My hips begin to move, a slow, involuntary sway against my own touch as I imagine that quiet strength turned to a more intimate purpose. He’d be thorough, I bet. Methodical. In a good way. A very good way.

Just as that thought sends a fresh wave of heat through me, a sudden, sharp thud from the other side of the bathroom wall makes me jump, my eyes flying open. My heart jackhammers. What was that? Did something fall? The sound, jarring and unexpected, momentarily shatters the sensual haze.

But the interruption is fleeting. The ache, the need, is too strong. I close my eyes again, my breathing quickening, and then, to my absolute, utter mortification, James struts into my mental movie. James! With his infuriatingly cocky smirk, his perfectly tousled hair, and the precise, confident way his fingers worked the palmier dough this morning. The sheer audacity of my own brain! I must be losing it. And yet… the image of those skilled hands, so sure and deft, doing other… things… My fingers tighten, my pace quickening, the mental image shamefully effective. My body doesn’t care he’s an egomaniac; it just registers ‘alpha’ and ‘skilled hands’, which is apparently enough to get the job done. I’m making whimpering noises now, completely unable to stop myself. This is loud. This is embarrassing. This is… ah.

My movements grow more urgent, a desperate, frantic rhythm against my clit. I brace myself against the shower wall with my free hand, my knuckles white, gasping as the tension coils tighter and tighter within me. When release finally shatters through my system, it’s a violent, bucking wave that rips a choked cry from my throat and leaves me boneless, knees buckling, sliding down the cool tiles. Thank God for the shower wall, or I’d be a heap on the floor.

The relief is immense, a blessed, temporary silencing of my screaming need. But as my pulse begins to slow, a cold worry snakes its way in. This is just a stopgap. A Band-Aid on a gaping wound. With my DuoBlocks clearly on the fritz, will a double dose really prevent this… omega-ness… from roaring back?

"Get it together, Elena," I mutter to my reflection in the steamed-up shower door, my voice raspy. I resolutely turn the water faucet as far to the ‘Arctic Blast’ setting as it will go. The shock of the icy spray is brutal, but it helps. A little. It clears my head enough to formulate a plan. Or at least, the beginnings of one.

I dry off quickly, yanking on my oldest, baggiest sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt. The other clothing item, Dorian’s olfactory calling card, is still lying on the living room floor like a discarded weapon. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will deal with it. Wash it. Burn it. Whatever.

For now, escape. Bed. Sleep. Or at least, a valiant attempt at unconsciousness. I have another long, grueling day of competition tomorrow. I need to be sharp, focused, professional. I need to be in complete control of myself, my hormones, and my apparently very vivid imagination.

Chapter thirteen

Cole

The ancient stairs of this apartment building groan under my boots like a grumpy old man as I finally make it up to the third floor, my muscles aching after fourteen hours of festival duty.

You’d think a baking festival would be low on the hazard scale, but no. It’s a minefield of overloaded extension cords that look like they were chewed on by squirrels, deep fryers placed with a flagrant disregard for personal space, and enough flammable bunting to set the entire county ablaze. My team and I have been playing whack-a-mole with potential fire code violations all day.

I pause on the landing, fumbling for my keys to apartment 3B, and notice a sliver of light still glowing from under the door of 3A. My neighbor. Still up. I've been meaning to introduce myself ever since I moved into this AirBnB three days ago—right after fleeing my mom’s place in search of a room with a lock. But between festival setup and festival emergencies, meeting the neighbor has fallen somewhere between eventually and possibly never.

My apartment greets me with the thrilling ambiance of a sparsely furnished monk’s cell. Bare walls, a couch that’s seen better decades, and a bed. Luxury. But no point getting attached to decor when I’m shipping out as soon as this festival packs up its last sugar donut. Back to the city, back to the grind, and hopefully, back to the promotion I’ve been chasing for the last five years.

I unceremoniously drop onto the couch with a sigh that could inflate a bounce house, not even bothering with the lights. The moonlight filtering through the single dusty window is more than enough to illuminate the thrilling landscape of my temporary bachelor pad. The quiet of the room is almost absolute, broken only by the occasional car passing on the street below.

I close my eyes, just for a second, intending to mentally review tomorrow’s safety briefing schedule. Instead, an image of Elena pops into my head, uninvited but surprisingly vivid.

Damn it. She’s… dangerously gorgeous. Not in that obvious, look-at-me kind of way that usually graces the covers of magazines, but something quieter, more genuine. An understated beauty that kind of sneaks up on you and then refuses to leave.

I really shouldn’t have spent half the day subtly tracking her movements around the festival grounds. Noticing how a few rogue strands slipped free from her bun to frame her face. Memorizing the little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was lost on whatever culinary magic she was performing. Or the way her green eyes lit up when she laughed.

But I did. And now, hours later, in the dubious privacy of my temporary rental, I can still almost recall that faint, intriguing scent I caught when I was near her in the first aid tent. Sweet, warm, and utterly out of place for a beta. Like a fragrant fruit. It wasn’t strong, not like an omega in heat, but it was… distinct. Enough to make the back of my alpha teeth ache just a little. Weird.

I mentally shake myself. Get a grip, Mercer. This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need. Attachments, even fleeting ones, are a liability in my line of work. I’ve seen good men, good firefighters, try to juggle the demands of the job with a personal life. It rarely ends well. Missed anniversaries, forgotten school plays, the constant, gnawing anxiety in their partners’ eyes every time the alarm bells rang. The job always demands its pound of flesh. And I chose this path a long time ago. No room for… complications.

Just as I’m about to drift into an exhausted doze, a sound from next door jerks me back to full alertness. It’s soft at first, a little sigh, then more distinct. A moan. Unmistakably feminine. Unmistakably… intimate.

My body reacts before my brain even has a chance to process the input. Blood, which mere moments ago was peacefully considering a nap across my extremities, stages a sudden rush south. I bolt upright on the couch, every sense on high alert, suddenly very, very aware of just how paper-thin the walls in this building must be.

Another moan. Slightly louder this time, a little more breathy. The sound slides down my spine like warm, illicit honey, pooling low in my gut with an insistent throb. My uniform pants, already a bit snug after a day of festival food samples, suddenly feel three sizes too small.

Before I can engage any form of rational thought or gentlemanly behavior, I’m on my feet. And then, to my own internal horror, I’m at the wall. The shared wall. My ear pressed against the cool, cheap plaster, straining like some kind of low-budget spy to hear more. My body, meanwhile, is having an absolute field day, reacting to the muffled sounds with an intensity that is both startling and mortifying. The hardening in my pants is powerful, and frankly a little insulting given my usual iron-clad control.

My hand, now seemingly operating under its own rogue command system, moves of its own accord. Palm pressing against the insistent bulge, then beginning to rub, slow and tentative at first, through the rough fabric of my pants. The friction, combined with the increasingly urgent symphony of pleasure from next door, sends jolts of new heat up my spine. I squeeze my eyes shut, lost in the surprisingly potent rhythm of her sounds and my own increasingly desperate movements.

This isn’t me. This is not Lieutenant Cole Mercer, dedicated public servant, paragon of discipline. I don’t do this. I don’t eavesdrop on strangers. I don’t… respond to anonymous moans like a teenager with his first Playboy magazine. I am controlled. I am professional. Yet here I am, a slave to a soundwave, my composure melting faster than a vinyl chair in a house fire. Her moans are growing more frequent now, more breathless, more urgent, and each one is a direct command to my own body.

My breathing quickens, unintentionally trying to match the rhythm from next door. The hand against my pants moves faster, harder, chasing a release that feels both inevitable and deeply shameful. Stop this. You need to stop this, Cole. But her sounds… they’re intoxicating, a siren song luring my primal alpha instincts out of the deep, dark cave where I usually keep them locked away.

A particularly sharp, almost broken gasp from 3A makes my hips buck involuntarily against my hand, smacking it on the wall with a sharp thud. I bite down hard on my lip to keep my own groan from escaping, my free hand bracing against the wall as if I could somehow absorb the vibrations of this… auditory torment.

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the moaning from next door stops. Cut off. For a split second, my own body continues its frantic rhythm, and then, with a final, shuddering release, it’s over for me.

What. The. Hell. Was. I. Doing?

I stumble back from the wall like it’s suddenly white-hot as the moans next door resume, my hand falling away from my body, a sticky warmth blooming on my pants. Shame, potent and suffocating, washes over me in hot, relentless waves.

This isn’t who I am. I don’t lose control like this. I’m not some… some rutting animal, driven solely by instinct and the proximity of a female in pleasure.

And yet… that’s exactly what just happened. God, her disembodied moans are like a spark and I'm dry tinder. In fifteen years of fighting actual, literal fires, I’ve never felt so utterly out of control.

I draw a long, unsteady breath, fighting to slow my racing pulse and gather the fragile remains of my self-respect…

Right. Introducing myself to my neighbor. On second thought… Mayyybe it’s better if I just… don’t. Ever.

Chapter fourteen

Elena

The glossy, dark chocolate ganache is doing an unappetizing imitation of mud as I attempt to pipe it into perfect spirals.

This morning's three-hour feedback workshop is all about the delicate art of chocolate work. The assignment is simple: create anything cocoa-based that speaks to us.

But despite chugging down a double dose of DuoBlocks with my coffee this morning, I am struggling to focus. My thoughts keep skittering away toward the X-rated triple-feature that I played out in my shower last night, and the ever-present worry that not even the increased dose will keep me from unraveling like a chocolate teapot.

"Your temper is off, sugar."

I jump, nearly sending a blob of ganache flying. James is standing beside me, radiating an infuriating aura of alpha confidence, eyeing my chocolate catastrophe with a look that’s one part pity, two parts ‘I told you so’ (even though he hasn’t actually told me anything yet). To think we're stuck together for every team event, judged or not… A fact that was a minor annoyance yesterday has morphed into a major source of internal turmoil.

"It's fine," I mutter, though even I can see the dull, streaky mess I’m producing. He’s right. Again. The ganache is too warm, verging on soupy.

"Here." He doesn’t ask, just reaches over, and expertly adjusts the temperature of the water bath cradling my bowl of ganache, adding a few ice cubes. "You want it glossy, remember? Just below body temperature. Firm enough to hold its shape, but still fluid enough for a clean pipe. Think silk, not sludge."

I grit my teeth. I hate that he’s right, but I nod, a curt, jerky movement. James might be an insufferable, egotistical peacock, but the man knows his way around a cocoa bean.

We lapse into a tense, chocolate-scented silence for the next few minutes. He, naturally, proceeds to craft a series of impossibly delicate chocolate curls while I struggle to make my ganache behave.

Around us, the workshop hums with the low-key panic of other contestants: the muffled, increasingly creative cursing from the station where someone’s chocolate has seized into a solid brick; the heartbroken sigh of a baker whose white chocolate mousse has just decided to collapse. It’s a symphony of culinary despair.

"So," James begins, his voice a low, casual drawl that’s far too close to my ear for comfort, "quite the eventful evening you had last night, eh?"

His tone, dangerously familiar, immediately puts me on high alert, a twist coiling in my belly. "Oh?" I manage, failing to sound casual.

"Mm-hmm." He doesn’t look up from his chocolate wizardry, but I can practically feel the smirk in his voice. "Just happened to have overheard an… animated discussion between two of our esteemed judges. Something about you and Dorian. And a certain level of… coziness that they found… suspicious."

My blood runs colder than my over-iced water bath. Panic, sharp and icy, claws its way up my throat. "What… what are you saying?"

"Oh, you know," he continues, still infuriatingly focused on sculpting a perfect chocolate feather, "just the usual festival gossip. Whispers of ‘further investigation,’ murmurs of ‘potential bad PR' needing to be dealt with… promptly." He finally glances up, his eyes meeting mine, and there’s a glint of something sharp and knowing in their depths. "Which, in judge-speak, roughly translates to ‘you’re about to be disqualified so fast your toque will spin'. Just FYI."

My piping bag slips from my trembling fingers, landing with a soft splat on the stainless-steel countertop. Disqualified. The word echoes in my head, a death knell for my career. If I’m kicked out of this festival like this, Pierre… He'd be furious. His bakery’s reputation, his precious legacy. He’d never promote me. Worse, I’d almost certainly lose my apprenticeship. My apartment. The meager income I rely on to send money to Mom. All of it. Every dream, every plan, every late night and early morning… shattered. All because I couldn’t keep my hormones on lockdown for one stupid evening.

"But," James says, his voice slicing through my spiraling panic, still calmly perfecting a chocolate rose that looks far too beautiful for this ugly situation, "don't you worry your pretty little flour-dusted head about it. I took care of things."

"You… what?" My voice is a strangled whisper. I stare at him, completely bewildered.

"Told them a pretty compelling story, actually," he says, a hint of smug satisfaction in his tone. "Explained that Dorian's interest in you was purely… pecuniary. That he was sniffing out leads on acquiring Pierre’s Bakery. Something about buying intellectual property, signature recipes, that sort of thing."

Relief crashes over me so intensely I have to grip the workstation to stay upright. "You... covered for me?"

"That I did." He pauses, adding another perfectly formed petal to his chocolate rose, then meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. "Oh, and I also happened to mention that another real reason you couldn't possibly be romantically interested in Dorian was because…" He lets the silence hang for a beat, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face. "You and I are already an item."

The relief evaporates, replaced by a fresh wave of horrified confusion so profound it almost gives me whiplash. "We’re… what now? Did I miss a memo? Was there a vote? Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember agreeing to that."

"Keep piping, sugar," he says, his voice still infuriatingly calm, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "We have an audience. Smile like you mean it."

I snatch up the piping bag, my movements jerky and uncoordinated, forcing my hands to create something that vaguely resembles the required chocolate flourishes. My brain, however, is doing frantic somersaults. "Why in the seven hells would you tell them that?" I hiss under my breath.

"Because, my dear Elena," he says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a confidential murmur, "I happened to witness your little… nature walk with Dorian last night." He doesn't even look at me, just continues his perfect work. "Saw him enter the woods. Saw you follow. Saw you both leave. Separately, yes, but not so separately that a keen observer, or someone with a decent phone camera, wouldn't notice." He pauses. "Which, by the way, I have. The video, I mean. Quite… evocative footage, actually. The moonlight really added to the ambiance."

A cold wave of pure, unadulterated horror washes through me. My stomach plummets. "You… you filmed me?"

He finally looks up, shrugging with an air of utter nonchalance that makes me want to strangle him with my piping bag. "Let’s just say I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place, depending on your perspective."

"What are you going to do with it?" I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice, the feeling of being so utterly trapped.

"Nothing," he says, pausing. "Well, nothing as long as you... consider my proposal."

"Proposal?" My voice comes out strangled.

"Think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement." He smiles, and there's something almost genuine in it. "Just for the duration of the festival, of course. You and me. Dating. Plausible deniability for your rendezvous with Dorian, keeps the judges happy, and bonus: it’s completely allowed. Contestants can date each other. Judges are strictly off-limits."

I stare at him, my mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of his proposal. "You want us to… pretend to be dating?"

"Oh, I was thinking we should give actual dating a go, Elena." His gaze, surprisingly intense, drifts down to my fumbling hands, then slowly back up to my face. "I don’t know what it is about you, exactly. Maybe it’s the way you scowl when you’re concentrating. Or maybe," his voice drops, a low, husky purr that vibrates right through me, "it’s your scent. For a beta, you smell… exquisite. Like spun sugar and defiance." He leans a fraction closer. "Besides, I’m willing to bet a lifetime supply of Belgian chocolate that the little spark I’m feeling isn’t entirely one-sided."

Has my reluctant attraction to him been that obvious? God, I hope not. "That’s—" I begin, intending to deliver a scathing retort, but he cuts me off.

"Look, I know why you were with Dorian in the woods, and I’m 98% sure it wasn’t some nefarious plot to rig the competition. His reputation for integrity is practically legendary. You were there because there’s a spark. Simple as that. We’re all under a ridiculous amount of pressure here. Sometimes, a little… release… is exactly what’s needed to stay focused, to perform at our best." His gaze is unnervingly direct, pinning me in place. "I’m offering you that release, Elena. All the benefits, none of the career-ending and reputation-shattering risks."

I should be outraged. I should be reporting him for blackmail, for harassment, for being an insufferable, manipulative little… pimp! But with that video, reporting him isn't exactly an option. And anyway, instead of the righteous anger I should be feeling, I find myself... actually weighing his words. There's a twisted logic to what he's saying, as much as I hate to admit it. And the attraction… damn it, the attraction is here. Even now, my body is reacting to how close he is—less than yesterday, sure, but still way too much for someone on a double dose of DuoBlocks.

"The judges won't question it if we're together," he continues, sensing my hesitation. "If they ask, we met at the Western Regional Baking Conference last spring. Bonded over a shared frustration with improperly aerated mousse. If anyone else asks, well, just say sparks flew between us yesterday." His lips quirk into that infuriatingly charming smirk. "Which is funny, considering there was a literal fire."

Despite myself, I let out a short laugh. "That's terrible."

"But a pretty decent cover story," he counters smoothly. He sets down his piping bag, his chocolate masterpiece apparently complete, and leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "Look, I’m not asking for a lifelong commitment here. Or even exclusivity. You want to keep sneaking off to meet Dorian? Be my guest. Just… try looking less conspicuous next time. But this arrangement? It keeps the judges from sharpening their disqualification pitchforks, and it gives us both a perfectly legitimate… outlet for any festival-induced stress or… other urges."

This is madness. A fake relationship with James Reynolds, the walking, talking embodiment of everything I’ve tried to avoid? It’s like trying to put out a grease fire with more grease. And yet… the alternative is potential ruin. Disqualification. Humiliation. Letting Mom down. His logic, however twisted, is a lifeline. A very complicated, potentially explosive lifeline, but a lifeline nonetheless. Could this actually work? Could I navigate a fake relationship with this man, with the reluctant, yet real underlying attraction, while still keeping my eye on the prize?

"You are certifiably insane," I breathe, but there’s a distinct lack of conviction in my tone.

"Just think about it, Elena," he says, his voice soft now, almost gentle. He straightens up just as Judge Chen approaches our station, her expression inscrutable.

She compliments James's chocolate work, then turns her gaze to my… abstract ganache spirals. I brace myself for the inevitable, but she offers some surprisingly gentle technical suggestions, which I nod at mechanically, my mind barely registering her words. James’s proposal, the video, Dorian, my DuoBlocks (which, I suspect, might fully wave the white flag before the end of the week at this rate). The whole thing is churning in my head like overmixed batter.

As the morning workshop progresses, a blur of tempered chocolate and frantic internal debate, I find myself covertly watching James. The arrogant tilt of his head as he explains a complex technique to a neighboring contestant. The occasional glance he sends my way, somehow both challenging and inviting. The flex of his forearms as he tempers chocolate to further perfect his creation.

What would it be like to give in to that attraction? To let James be my official festival fling? Would it really be so different from what happened with Dorian, while actually being allowed?

"Time's up!" Judge Chen’s voice cuts through the chocolate-scented air, sharp and decisive. "Please bring your creations to the front display table for feedback."

I look down at my finished piece. It's… better. The ganache is finally behaving, the spirals are mostly even. But like everything else in my life at the moment, it's not quite what it should be. I doubt the judges will be impressed, but at least it's not a complete disaster.

As we clear our stations, packing away tools and wiping down surfaces, James leans in close one last time, his breath warm against my ear. "Remember, Elena," he murmurs, "a relaxed mind makes for a steady hand. Mens sana in corpore sano, and all that." He winks. "This could definitely help us both perform better."

And then he’s gone, moving to chat with other contestants, leaving me alone with a decision I never imagined I'd have to make.

Chapter fifteen

Elena

"Alright, bakers, gather up!" Judge Chen’s voice rings out through a microphone. "Our next event is one close to many Lakeviewer's hearts. It’s time for the ‘Bake It Forward’ Challenge!"

My heart gives a little flutter as a murmur of anticipation ripples through the contestants. This is the kind of baking I particularly love.

Chen beams at us. "Today, each team will create a collection of delightful treats for the Lakeview Children's Hospital. While all your creations will bring joy to very deserving young patients, the judges will, of course, be selecting a winning team based on creativity, taste, technical skill, and that all-important ingredient: heart." She pauses, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "And I should mention, beyond the gift of bringing joy, today’s winners will also receive a very special prize. Courtesy of our generous sponsor, Beaumont Patisserie."

A ripple of excitement passes through the contestants.

Judge Parker steps forward, stern as ever. "Grab whatever you need from the ingredients station. You have four hours. Starting... now."

Butterflies flicker to life in my gut. Four hours to create something meaningful with James. The same James who, just this morning, essentially blackmailed me into a fake relationship to 'protect' me. I still tremor at the sheer audacity of the man.

But as we gravitate toward our workstation, a familiar sense of focus begins to settle over me. This challenge isn’t about me, or James. This is for the kids. That, at least, is straightforward.

"Okay, 'Bake It Forward'," James says, already mentally inventorying the pantry staples. "Needs to be fun. Kid-friendly. Visually appealing. I’m thinking cookie boxes." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "But not just any cookie boxes. Individual treasure chests. Each one a little adventure for them to open and discover."

I stare at him. That’s… quite a good idea. Thoughtful, interactive, and perfectly whimsical for children. "We could make the chests themselves out of gingerbread," I hear myself suggesting, the creative gears already turning. "Decorate them like old pirate chests, maybe with a skull insignia piped on?"

"Exactly!" He grins, a flash of genuine enthusiasm that’s surprisingly endearing. "And inside? ‘Gold doubloons’ made of buttery shortbread, ‘precious gems’ from stained-glass cookies, chocolate ‘medallions of courage’…" He’s already sketching furiously on a notepad, his earlier arrogance replaced by a focused creative energy that’s… well, it’s attractive. Annoyingly so. "We can personalize the decorations on each chest, make them unique."

I lean over to look at his sketch, and I nod. It’s good. More than good, it's creative and heartfelt. Not a pairing I would have associated with him. "We'll need to work efficiently to make all the different elements in time."

"I know, but it's worth it." A little furrow of concentration appears between his brows. "I’ll take point on the gingerbread construction and the chocolate work, those need precision. You handle the shortbread and the stained-glass cookies? Your detail work is… not terrible."

Coming from James, "not terrible" is practically a sonnet of praise. "Fine," I agree, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "But I get final say on gem colors. And we'll need to be generous on the edible glitter."

We gather our ingredients and fall into a surprisingly efficient rhythm, a stark contrast to this morning's workshop—at least for me. It’s like a switch has been flipped. He measures out flour and spices for the gingerbread with a focused intensity, while I work on the shortbread dough. We move around each other at the cramped workstation, a ballet of shared purpose. When I need a bowl, he seems to anticipate it, clearing a space. When his hands are covered in sticky dough, I’m there with a clean towel. It’s… harmonious. Like our bodies are developing a sixth sense for navigating each other.

As I carefully roll out the shortbread dough, pausing to arrange crushed candies into the cut-out centers of the stained-glass window cookies, I give a quick glance at James. He’s meticulously cutting the gingerbread panels, his movements economical and precise. There’s a certain grace there I'm starting to allow myself to appreciate.

"So," I begin, our now-standard conversational preamble giving way to the question that's been simmering, "why are you really doing this?"

His hands don’t falter as he transfers a perfectly cut gingerbread wall to a baking sheet. "Do what? Graciously enable you to bask in our impending glory?"

"You know what I mean," I reply, trying to keep my tone light, even though my heart is thumping a little faster. "The judges. The video. Lying for me. You could have just let me crash and burn. Cleared the field a bit."

James finally looks up, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes "And where’s the culinary honor in that, Elena?" he says, his voice a low rumble. "I intend to win this thing because I’m the best damned baker in this festival, not because my competition got herself disqualified for a bit of extracurricular fraternization."

"So, it all comes down to your colossal ego, then?" I can’t help the teasing note in my voice.

He smirks. "Isn't everything?" But then his expression softens slightly. "Besides, don't forget that it gave me a way to introduce my proposal, sugar." He winks playfully, leaning slightly closer as he says it.

My cheeks flame. "You are impossible! And stop calling me that," I splutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Sugar. At this point, I might as well change it to my legal name.

The next two hours are a whirlwind of intense focus. The gingerbread panels are temperamental little beasts, requiring precise baking times. Too soft and the treasure chests will sag like deflated balloons, too hard and they’ll crack under the slightest pressure. I move everywhere at once, rotating trays of golden shortbread coins, carefully monitoring the jewel-toned stained-glass cookies as they melt and fuse into sparkling panes. At the same time, I'm creating royal icing in every color of the rainbow for the final phase of assembly and decoration.

"Your shortbread is perfect," he comments, testing one of the cooled coins. "The texture is spot on."

"Thanks," I say, surprised by the genuine compliment. "Your gingerbread smells amazing."

He grins. "Secret ingredient: a touch of black pepper. Gives it depth."

We're making progress but we're far from safe territory. The heat from constantly opening and closing ovens turns our station into a tropical microclimate, while time ticks by like a pressure-cooking metronome. All this is… distracting—and in this competition, one small mistake can cost everything.

Then, disaster strikes. As James carefully slides a tray of freshly baked gingerbread walls from the oven, several of the larger panels crack right down the middle.

"Damn it!" James barks in frustration as he stares at the fissures.

I quickly move to his side, assessing the damage. The cracks are significant, but not fatal. "We can salvage this," I say quickly, already formulating a plan. "The royal icing will act like cement, reinforce the weak spots. And we can use some of your chocolate work, or even some of the melted stained-glass mixture, to create decorative ‘iron bands’ or ‘patches’ to cover the repairs. Make it look intentional, like artsy treasure chests."

"There’s not enough time to re-bake and do all that," he argues, the stress making his voice sharper than usual.

"There is if we work together," I insist, abandoning my gem cookies without a second thought. "Pierre taught me a few emergency pastry triage tricks. Trust me."

He hesitates for just a moment, then nods.

And just like that, we’re back. We manage to patch and reinforce the cracked gingerbread, but the repair job has eaten into our precious time. The once-comfortable four-hour window now feels terrifyingly narrow.

"We need to seriously pick up the pace on the decorating," James says, his voice tight with urgency as he begins piping intricate gold filigree onto a mended gingerbread panel.

"But without sacrificing the quality," I counter, carefully arranging a rainbow of sparkling stained-glass gem cookies on a cooling rack. "These kids, they deserve our absolute best. No shortcuts."

We’re so deep in our zones that we barely register Judge Parker’s booming announcement of the 15-minute warning…

Ten minutes remaining, and we're adding the final touches to our treasure chests.

Two minutes.

James barely has time to place the last chocolate coins when—

"TIME!" Chef Parker yells.

We step back from a collection of a dozen beautifully decorated treasure chests, each filled with an assortment of gem-like cookies, coins, and chocolate medallions. Each one unique and created with care.

"We… we actually did it," I breathe, a mixture of disbelief and elation bubbling up inside me.

James doesn’t say anything, but his hand, warm and surprisingly strong, finds mine under the workstation. He gives it a quick, firm squeeze, a silent acknowledgment of our shared victory, before letting go just as quickly. The gesture is so unexpected, so out of character from the James I thought I knew, that for a moment, I just stand there blinking, my fingers tingling from the contact.

As the judges make their rounds, examining each team's creation, I find myself standing shoulder to shoulder with James, feeling an unexpected unity.

Judge Parker finally stops at our station, his gaze lingering on the details of our treasure chests. "Remarkable work. The concept is particularly thoughtful. Whose idea was the individual personalization of each chest?"

Before I can open my mouth, James speaks up, his voice clear and confident. "That was all Elena, sir. Her inspiration to make each chest a unique gift really guided our entire design process. She wanted to make sure every kid felt truly special."

I stare at him, completely floored. It wasn’t all my idea, it was a collaborative process. For him to give me primary credit, especially in front of the judges… it’s generous. Shockingly so.

The judges move on, their faces giving nothing away, but there’s a definite buzz around our station. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably just fifteen minutes, Judge Chen steps forward, a microphone in her hand.

"Competitors! All of your creations today were truly exceptional, and will undoubtedly bring so much joy to the children. You should all be incredibly proud." She pauses, building the suspense. "However, there can only be one winner. And today, the team that truly captured the spirit of the challenge with their creativity, their skill, and most importantly, their heart, is…" She beams. "Elena and James, with their incredible Treasure Chests of Joy!"

A wave of elation washes over me. We won! I actually throw my arms around James in a spontaneous, whooping hug, and he laughs, a surprisingly unrestrained, joyful sound, hugging me back tightly for a moment before we both pull away, slightly breathless and grinning like idiots.

"And for your exceptional work," Chen continues, her smile widening, "Beaumont Patisserie is thrilled to award you both with an entire evening of pampering and relaxation at the exclusive Lakeview Hot Springs Spa! That includes a massage and access to the private hot spring pools. Congratulations!"

A massage? Will it be in the same room as James, like a couple's massage? My grin freezes slightly. Okay, the universe definitely has a twisted sense of humor. Still… after the last few days, it sounds like actual heaven. Even if it involves being in close, semi-clothed proximity to my fake-'boyfriend'-blackmailer partner.

"Well, partner," James says, nudging me with his elbow, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of triumph and amusement. "Looks like our 'hardship' continues. Shall we?"

* * *

A sleek black car, part of Dorian's fleet (of course, he has one at his beck and call), pulls up just outside the festival grounds near the competition area, and a chauffeur opens the door for us.

As the car glides smoothly away from the bustling festival grounds, I lean back against the plush leather seats, a dazed smile on my face.

The drive takes us through the outskirts of Lakeview, past charming, historic Victorian homes with wraparound porches and vibrant flower gardens, then up a winding road that offers breathtaking glimpses of Lakeview itself, nestled like a jewel amidst the emerald green hills and the sapphire blue of the lake. The early evening sun casts a golden glow over everything, making the scenery look like something out of a postcard. It’s moments like these that remind me why, despite everything, I fell in love with this quirky little town.

As I glance over at James, who's gazing out his window with a pensive expression, I tell myself that maybe everything won't end in disaster after all.

Maybe this fake romance, this spa trip, this whole insane festival experience... won't be the catastrophe I've been bracing for.

Or maybe I'm just drunk on frosting and winning.

The jury's still out... but the spa session might provide some answers.

Chapter sixteen

Dorian

I watch from a distance as Elena and James whisk themselves away in one of my cars, practically hand in hand.

I'm still impressed by what they created today. Their cookie chests were whimsical, and you could see the heart in every detail.

I hadn't anticipated them making such a great team, however. The way they moved around each other in that cramped station, the unspoken communication... it was impressive. And now, watching them leave together for their well-deserved spa evening, that synergy takes on an entirely different meaning.

"They do make a pretty handsome couple, don't they?" Lisa Chen appears beside me, her gaze following the departing car.

I maintain a carefully neutral expression, a skill honed over years of boardroom negotiations and society galas. "Who might that be, Lisa?"

"James Reynolds and Elena Avery, of course," she says, a knowing little smile playing on her lips. "They met at a regional baking conference last spring. Started dating shortly after."

"Is that so?" I take a measured sip of the lukewarm coffee I'm nursing, using the mundane action to mask a flicker of surprise. "I wasn't aware."

"We learned about it yesterday," Lisa continues, oblivious to my internal monologue. "William was initially a bit concerned, but I reminded him there's nothing in the festival charter prohibiting romantic relationships between contestants. As long as it doesn't compromise the competition's integrity." She smiles. "And honestly, they're both incredibly talented. They've earned their spots here, relationship or not."

"Indeed." The single word feels woefully inadequate.

Lisa excuses herself, leaving me alone with my increasingly unruly thoughts. Elena and James. A couple. What is she talking about? That can't be true, so it shouldn't register as anything more than fake news. It certainly shouldn't affect me.

And yet.

I've maintained scrupulous professionalism around Elena since our encounter in the woods. Limited our interactions to polite nods and formal exchanges, despite the vivid memory of how her body responded to mine: powerful, intense. The kind I never thought I'd ever experience… let alone with a beta.

But then, that's been Elena's effect since our first meeting. Unexpected, genuine, refreshing in ways my life rarely allows.

That first night at The Tipsy Whisk, and again last night during those stolen moments, I felt like simply Dorian. Not Dorian Beaumont, CEO of Beaumont Patisserie, multi-billionaire scion of a baking dynasty. Just a man utterly captivated by a fascinating woman who looked at me without the distorting lens of my family name, my fortune, my position.

I check my watch. Nearly six. The judges' dinner looms in an hour. Another obligation, another stark reminder of the chasm between my world and Elena's.

Elena and James, though... they make sense. Two ambitious, talented bakers navigating the same competitive landscape, sharing identical dreams, understanding identical sacrifices.

My world consists of boardrooms and quarterly reports, shareholder expectations and global supply chains. An empire that began humbly with my grandfather and now employs thousands while generating billions. It's a legacy I feel responsible to protect and expand.

Ironically, I realize with wry amusement, part of that responsibility apparently includes sponsoring the woman I can't stop thinking about as she enjoys an evening of relaxation with another alpha. Without me.

They'll undoubtedly fondle each other in those hot springs. The universe, it seems, has a penchant for irony. And I, apparently, have a penchant for sponsoring my own romantic frustrations. I want to fondle too. Maybe I should invite myself…

"Mr. Beaumont?"

Chef Parker approaches, leather portfolio in hand. The slight deference in his voice yanks me back to reality.

"William," I respond, straightening automatically as the familiar mantle of CEO settles across my shoulders. "Are the final scores for the first two days tallied and confirmed?"

"They sure are. Just finished." He flips open the portfolio, revealing neat columns of meticulously recorded numbers. "As you can see, Elena Avery and James Reynolds are way ahead of everyone else."

"They earned it." My voice remains even, stripped of any emotion I might be feeling. "They have exceptional talent."

"I completely agree." He clears his throat, a precursor to a shift in topic. "There was one other matter I wanted to discuss. The Beaumont Foundation's official donation to the children's hospital…"

Just like that, we're thrust back into serious business. My name, my company, my endless responsibilities. This is my world. This is who I am.

And none of it belongs with what happened under that oak tree. With a baker whose scent I still can’t get out of my head. A woman who makes me forget the crushing weight of expectations I’ve shouldered since birth.

Funny thing, though. When she passed the judges’ table earlier today, I could’ve sworn her scent was much fainter than it was last night. Which is… odd, now that I think about it.

"...would that work with your schedule, Mr. Beaumont?"

I blink. "My apologies, William. Could you repeat that?"

"The press call at the children's hospital tomorrow, Mr. Beaumont. The committee felt your presence, as the festival's primary sponsor, would really elevate the event's profile."

"Of course." My reply comes automatically. "My schedule remains at the festival's disposal for the next few days."

He nods with visible relief, continuing to outline logistical details. I listen with half my attention, the other half still tuned to Elena.

I cannot allow what happened between us to evolve beyond what it was; a moment. A beautiful yet reckless moment of connection. I cannot weave it into the complex, demanding tapestry of my actual life. It's fantasy, a pleasant interlude, nothing more.

I have responsibilities extending far beyond this charming small town. I cannot afford emotional indulgences that might compromise my judgment or obligations.

Besides, my world would likely tarnish the very qualities I find so alluring in Elena. Everything carries a price. The cost of bringing her into my orbit might well be the dimming of her unique, vibrant light. I wouldn't do that to her. I couldn't.

Better to remain grounded in reality. I'm in Lakeview for a few more days. I will continue judging fairly. I will fulfill my professional obligations with expected diligence. Then I'll return to my life and she'll continue with hers. Maybe eventually with someone else… like James.

Chapter seventeen

Elena

We purr to a stop before an establishment that doesn’t so much whisper luxury as sing it in a rich opera voice.

'Lakeview Hot Springs Spa' is nestled into the mountainside, a stunning blend of natural stone, warm cedar, and vast expanses of glass that seems to invite the breathtaking scenery right inside. Intricate infinity pools cascade down the slope like liquid terraces, their water gurgling melodically, and the air smells faintly of pine, lavender, and money. Lots and lots of money.

"Wow," I breathe, stepping out of the car onto a cobblestone pathway. "I never imagined I'd ever come here… especially not as a challenge reward."

James, stepping out from the other side, gives a low whistle. "Beaumont certainly didn't skimp on the pampering part, did he?" He looks around, a genuinely impressed glint in his eyes. "Place looks like it costs more for an hour than my first car." And I'm sure it does.

A smiling attendant in a crisp linen uniform greets us, her voice a soothing balm. "Welcome, Mr. Reynolds, Ms. Avery. I'm Serena. Please come in."

The interior is even more stunning. A soaring glass reception area brings the outside in through floor-to-ceiling windows, framing the mountains and Lake Vienne while a massive stone fireplace crackles in the center. Everywhere I look is polished wood, natural stone, and wall fountains, their gentle trickle filling the space with a constant hush of water.

"We expect you to be the only guests this evening," the woman says, leading us down a hallway lined with ambient lighting reflecting through the water features. "Your robes and swimwear options are in the changing areas." She gestures to two doors marked with elegant wooden symbols (a stylised mountain for men, a graceful swan for women). "We prepared a variety of sizes and styles to ensure your comfort."

James shoots me a grin. "See you on the other side."

The women's changing room is nicer than my apartment, with heated floors, individual changing cabins panelled in fragrant cedar, and showers stocked with products that smell like the inside of a flower shop. I select a simple black one-piece from the array of swimwear options (a surprisingly tasteful collection).

When I emerge in my plush robe and ridiculously soft slippers, James is already waiting in a small relaxation area, complete with a tiny, serene-looking golden Buddha and a selection of infused waters. His own robe is loosely tied, revealing a broad chest I hadn't noticed under his usual chef's jacket. My eyes, those absolute traitors, travel down to where the robe ends mid-thigh, showcasing legs muscular enough to suggest he does more than hauling flour sacks.

"See something you like?" he asks, his voice a low rumble, catching me in the act.

"Just making sure you're following proper spa etiquette," I reply, hoping the dim lighting hides my blush. "Wouldn't want you scaring off the other non-existent guests with improper robe-tying."

His eyes make their own assessment, lingering just long enough on where my robe crosses over my chest to make my skin warm. "You… clean up nice, Elena."

"So do you," I admit before I can stop myself. "I half expected you to keep your chef whites."

He laughs, a genuine sound that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Nah. I want to keep those clean for going to bed."

The mental image of James in rumpled chef whites, hair tousled from sleep... No. Not a mental image I need right now.

Serena reappears, smooth and silent, saving me from my own imagination. "Your massage therapists are ready. We'll begin with individual deep tissue treatments, followed by your private mineral bath experience under the stars."

She leads us down another hallway, this one with subtle forest sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves playing through hidden speakers.

"You think this place is always so empty?" I whisper to James.

He shrugs. "Probably costs a small fortune just to breathe the air in here. Keeps the riff-raff out, I guess." He grins as his eyes do another quick, appreciative once-over of me as I clutch my robe tighter.

Serena stops in front of two adjacent doors and gestures smoothly. “Your massage therapists are waiting inside—one for each of you.” She smiles with quiet serenity.

James sighs, hands on hips. “So much for my fantasy of an intimate couple’s massage.” He glances at me, eyes twinkling. “Oh well. Try not to miss me too much.”

I mentally sigh in quiet relief. "I'll do my best to survive," I reply dryly, opening the door into a dimly lit room that smells of eucalyptus.

A woman with hands that look both strong and gentle stands next to a massage table that resembles a fluffy white cloud. "Good evening, I'm Maya," she says with a serene voice. "Please disrobe to your comfort level and lie face down on the table," she instructs, stepping out to give me privacy. "You may keep your swimsuit on or remove it."

I opt to keep it on, arranging myself on the heated table and sliding beneath the silky sheet. Maya returns with scented oils, and her hands immediately begin to work their magic. The stress and tension of the past few days start to melt away like butter on a hot griddle.

"You're carrying a lot of stress in your shoulders," she observes, working her thumbs into knots I didn't even know I had.

"I'm a baker," I explain, my voice already muffled and relaxed. "Lots of rolling, kneading, and lifting."

"Ah, yes, one of the challenge winners. Congratulations," she says, moving to my neck.

Oh. My. God. This is divine. The warm oil… the perfect pressure… I let out a sigh that's pure bliss.

As my body fully surrenders to the expert ministration, my mind drifts to a peaceful place. The double dose of DuoBlocks I took this morning seems to be working. I'm still very much aware of James as an attractive alpha, but not consumed by it. I feel more... balanced. In control enough to make rational decisions.

In this newfound calm, with Maya melting every ounce of tension from my shoulders, I'm starting to think… Ugh. That spot—yes, right there… Where was I..?

Ah, yes. I’m increasingly starting to think that James’s proposition might not be so ridiculous after all. Maybe even… strategic? Instead of fighting any impromptu reactions, maybe I could embrace them, on my own terms. It'd be a great way to unwind, to clear my head so I can stay focused. And if I’m in control and set boundaries, what's the harm? It's clear, time-limited, doesn't involve messy emotions, doesn't break any rules, and doesn't come with long-term expectations. It’s… practical.

Maya works her way down my spine, and a soft moan escapes my lips. This massage, it's a revelation… and it's also unraveling tensions I've been carrying since I started my apprenticeship.

I inhale deeply, sinking further into relaxation. For the first time in days, my body feels like my own again, not a battlefield of unexpected reactions and confusing desires.

By the time Maya reaches my feet, I'm floating in a haze of endorphins. Every worry, every fear, every ounce of stress is being kneaded out of me, leaving me in a sense of boneless relaxation.

My thoughts grow hazy, drifting like clouds. The competition… Dorian… James… Cole… medication… winning… It all swirls together in a warm, pleasant fog.

* * *

A gentle chime and Maya's soft voice coaxes me back from the depths of what was quite possibly the best nap of my entire adult life. "Ms. Avery? Your massage is complete."

I feel like a sponge cake fresh from the oven: light, airy, and perfectly tender.

I practically float out of the room, wrapped in my fluffy robe, limbs loose and pliant… only to find James emerging from his, looking relaxed and unfairly handsome with his hair slightly mussed. If he looked good in a robe before, now he looks… edible. His usual sharp edges have softened, his skin glows, his eyes are relaxed, and that infuriating smirk has been replaced by a blissful, almost dopey smile. It’s a surprisingly vulnerable look on him—less calculating alpha competitor, more just… James. A very, very sexy, very relaxed James whose alpha scent has mellowed into a soft, alluring musk.

"Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty," he murmurs, his voice husky and languid. "Or should I say, Snoring Beauty?"

My cheeks flush, but I manage a playful swat at his arm. "Hey! I do not snore. That was the sound of unadulterated relaxation."

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that does funny things to my newly relaxed nerve endings. He stretches like a cat, and I get an entirely inappropriate glimpse of well-defined pectoral muscle and abs under the robe. My mouth goes a little dry. "Damn, that was good though. I think my spine just realigned itself with the cosmos."

"Tell me about it," I sigh contentedly. "I might actually be able to touch my toes again."

"Well," James says, his eyes glinting with a familiar spark of mischief, though softened by his current state. "According to the very nice masseuse who handed me this delightful cucumber water, we still have this little slice of paradise to ourselves until nine. And I believe there are some pretty famous hot springs calling our names. What do you say, Elena? Care to continue this arduous process of 'relaxing and recharging'?"

* * *

The hot springs area is even more breathtaking than the spa building itself. A series of natural rock pools are terraced into the mountainside, steaming gently in the cool evening air.

We stand in front of the uppermost pool, the most private, partially enclosed by natural rock formations and surrounded by pine trees that frame the panoramic view.

The sun is beginning its descent, painting the sky in watercolor strokes of pink and gold. The lake below mirrors the display, doubling its beauty. In the far distance, mountains rise in coral silhouette, completing a scene so perfect it barely looks real. It's almost too romantic for a fake relationship. Almost.

"This doesn't suck," James says eloquently, which might be the biggest understatement I've ever heard.

I slip off my robe, suddenly self-conscious in my swimsuit. James does the same, and my breath catches. He’s lean, but powerfully built: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, with the kind of defined core and strong thighs that speak of disciplined strength, not just gym-rat vanity. His body seems built for both power and precision, and my omega brain is humming a little appreciation song.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks, that infuriating smirk making a comeback, though his eyes are warm as he catches me looking.

"The landscape is stunning," I deflect.

"It certainly is," he replies, his eyes very much not on the horizon, but on me.

We slide into the hot mineral water, the silky heat seeping into our relaxed muscles. Steam rises around us, golden in the sunset light, creating an otherworldly, intimate atmosphere.

For a while, we just soak in comfortable silence, watching the sunset paint the sky in fiery shades.

"Your idea saved our gingerbread today," James says suddenly. "The stained glass. That was brilliant."

"We did it together," I say, surprised by the genuine compliment.

He shakes his head. "I was ready to scrap the whole thing. You saw a solution where I only saw failure." He looks down, swirling the water. "My father would have thrown the whole batch out and started over, well, if he was a baker. 'Reynolds men don't salvage, they succeed,' he used to say."

The admission startles me. "Sounds like a tough critic."

"And an even tougher construction worker," James replies, looking out toward the horizon. "Built durable things. When I first showed interest in baking, he thought it was just a phase. When it wasn't..." He trails off, then straightens. "Well, nothing motivates like having something to prove, right?"

"Is that why you're so hungry for success?" I ask. "To prove something to him?"

"Maybe," James says after a beat. "He’s old school. Thinks alphas should hunt, build, lead corporate takeovers. Not… 'faff about with fondant and fripperies'." There's a hint of old hurt in his tone. "I guess I just… want him to respect my calling, you know?" He pauses, then turns to me. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you? What’s your big, bad motivation?"

I hesitate, then find myself telling him about Mom, Pierre, my dream of my own little bakery. He listens intently, his gaze never leaving my face.

This is… nice. Unexpectedly so.

As I finish, a gentle hush settles. The water laps gently with the wind, the air cools as the last sliver of sun dips below the horizon, and the first stars begin to prick the darkening sky.

"You know," James says, his voice a low murmur, his eyes dark and focused on me in the twilight, "I’m pretty sure you’re already missing that massage."

He's not wrong. I smile and, feeling bold in this steamy water, turn, presenting my back to him. His hands land on my shoulders, his strong fingers finding those spots Maya worked, kneading with surprising skill. Goosebumps, entirely unrelated to the cooling air, dance down my spine.

"James…" I start, but the words die. It feels too good.

"Just continuing the 'pampering and relaxation' process, Elena," he whispers, his lips close to my ear. "You won this, remember?" His hands move lower, tracing my spine, igniting little fires on their path. The attraction that's been simmering between us flares to life in the intimate warmth of the hot spring.

My breath hitches as his fingers dance along my ribs, then slide around to my stomach, pulling me back against his chest. I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my back and smell the tiniest hint of… bergamot?

"Elena," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "About that… proposition."

I tilt my head back, looking up at him. "What about it?" I whisper, my voice husky.

"How about," he says, his gaze dropping to my lips, "we consummate it. Right now."

"James—"

"No pressure," he says quickly. "Just... if you want it."

And the thing is, I do. There's something liberating about the honesty between us. No pretense, no unrealistic expectations.

When his lips meet mine, it feels like the most rational decision I've made all week. It’s a slow, deliberate, exploration that tastes of minerals and desire. His hands slide over the bare skin of my waist, pulling me closer still, until there is no space left between us. It’s intoxicating. And letting go is… exactly what I want.

His lips move from my mouth to my jaw, then down my neck, sending shivers cascading through me. One hand cups my breast through the thin fabric of my swimsuit, his thumb stroking, teasing, until a soft gasp escapes me. He's lowering his head toward my breast, his intention clear, when a tiny sliver of additional rationality kicks in.

"Wait," I breathe, my hand coming up to cup his cheek. He looks up, his eyes dark with desire.

"I want things to be crystal clear," I say, my voice a little shaky but firm. "My conditions. If we’re doing this… 'arrangement'…"

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Lay 'em on me, sugar."

"One: In public, at the festival, this is purely for show. Professional, supportive partners who happen to be dating. Plausible deniability for everyone."

He nods, his thumb now tracing lazy circles on my hip. "Agreed. Though I reserve the right to look at you like I want to devour you. For authenticity, of course."

I roll my eyes, but a thrill goes through me. "Two: What happens in private… like this…" I gestured vaguely to our current, very intimate, situation. "only when I want it. When I initiate. Or at least, when I clearly reciprocate your initiation. No pressure, no assumptions."

His smile doesn't falter. "Your call, Elena. I can be surprisingly patient you know."

"And three," I take a deep breath. "This ends when the festival ends. Clean break. No drama. We go back to being former competitors."

He's silent for a moment, his gaze searching mine in the dim, star-dappled water. Then, he leans in, his lips brushing mine. "Done, done, and done." His mouth claims mine again, deeper this time, more possessive. Any further thought of conditions or consequences dissolve.

His hands roam my body, tracing every curve with a hungry precision, teasing and igniting my skin. With a deft flick, he unhooks my swimsuit, the fabric sliding away as his mouth finds my breast, hot and insistent. A sharp moan escapes me, my body arching into the searing heat of his touch.

James moves lower, his lips grazing my skin as he sinks beneath the steaming surface of the hot spring. His hands grip my hips, steadying me as his face disappears under the water. Then, his mouth is on me, his sharp tongue swirling with relentless skill, each flick and stroke sending jolts through my core. The heat of the water mingles with the fire he’s stoking, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.

His tongue sharpens its focus, circling with deliberate, teasing pressure, then dive into a rhythm that’s both merciless and precise. My fingers dig into his shoulders, my body tensing as waves of pleasure build, each one crashing harder than the last. The heat of the water, the slick press of his lips, the relentless dance of his tongue… it’s too much, too perfect. My vision blurs, my moans turning to desperate cries as the tension coils tighter… and tighter… until it snaps. A shattering climax rips through me, my body trembling uncontrollably, hips bucking against his mouth as I come undone, my vision whiting out.

Okay, Elena, I think, a wild, shuddering pleasure surging through me as his tongue slows, drawing out the aftershocks. This time, you are definitely not falling asleep.

* * *

The car door closes with the soft, expensive thunk of German engineering. As we glide through the winding mountain roads back toward Lakeview, the ride is so smooth I could probably perform brain surgery.

I let my eyes drift closed, my skin still tingling with warmth from the shower James and I shared before leaving the spa. Just thinking about those fifteen minutes under the rainfall shower head makes my cheeks flush. The things that man can do with his hands and mouth…

My lips curve into a satisfied smile as I replay how I returned his mouth performance in the hot spring, watching his eyes roll back as I… as we—

"Ms. Avery?"

The driver's polite voice snaps me out of my increasingly R-rated recollection.

"Yes?" I manage, hoping my voice sounds more composed than I feel.

"Mr. Beaumont asked me to remind you about the pub night tonight at the Lake's Edge," he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "The venue has been reserved exclusively for festival contestants, with complimentary drinks provided by Beaumont Patisserie."

I perk up immediately. "Oh, I love that place!" The Lake's Edge is the coziest spot in town, right on the waterfront with the best selection of artisanal beers. The invitation is tempting, but I'm not sure how much more perfection my nervous system can handle today. Between the win, the spa, and James's… skills… I'm operating on sensory overload.

"Would you like me to take you directly there, miss?" the driver asks.

"No, home first, please," I reply automatically. Uh, guess my brain'd already RSVP’d yes to the invite. "I need to change."

"Of course."

The car winds through Main Street, its street lamps glowing like candles in the night. As I start to wonder who else will be there, my phone buzzes. It's James.

See you at the pub? (If you've recovered from our grand finale, of course…)

I grin, typing back.

Only if you promise not to mention my snoring.

His response is immediate:

Your secret's safe with me, sugar. Don't keep me waiting too long.

I smile as I lock my phone, before wondering if a certain judge and fire safety officer will also be there.

The thought of seeing all three alphas in the same confined space makes my stomach do a complicated gymnastics routine. But the rational part of my brain, bolstered by an increased intake of DuoBlocks and a healthy dose of post-orgasmic confidence, asserts that it's fine. Today, I'm in control. I experiment, on my own terms.

The car glides to a stop. And, as I enter my apartment building, I realize I'm actually excited. The day started with tension and ended with… well, release. If tonight follows a similar trajectory, I don't see how anything could possibly go wrong.

Chapter eighteen

Elena

Amber lights envelop me as I push through the heavy wooden door of The Lake's Edge. The pub buzzes with laughter, clinking pints, and the energy of bakers blowing off steam. Despite the long day, the vibrant atmosphere hits me like a shot of espresso, giving me that second wind I needed.

In the far corner, an eruption of laughter draws my attention. James, Dorian, and Cole sit clustered around a table, shoulders shaking with mirth as the three of them are in stitches.

I blink hard. Cole is laughing. Not just a chuckle; a full, genuine laugh that shakes his shoulders and reveals a dimple I never would've guessed was hiding beneath all that calm restraint.

I begin weaving through the cheerful crowd, drawn toward their table like a moth to a flame. As I get closer, I catch the tail end of James's animated storytelling—along with an enticing blend of their mingled scents, definitely softened by the DuoBlocks but still enough to make my pulse tick up. Thank goodness I doubled up.

"—completely covered the food critic from Bon Appétit," James is saying, gesturing dramatically. "Head to toe in passionfruit curd. It was a massacre."

"And what exactly did you do?" Cole asks, wiping an actual tear from the corner of his eye. His laughter has a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates pleasantly.

"The only thing I could do," James replies. "I offered him a spoon."

Another wave of laughter washes over the table. Dorian notices me then, his gray eyes bright.

"Ms. Avery," he calls out, gesturing to the empty chair nestled between him and Cole. "Come, join the fray. James is sharing his greatest culinary disasters."

"So glad I didn’t miss the highlight reel. And please, call me Elena," I add, as if his hands weren’t all over me just yesterday, sliding into the seat. Being sandwiched between Dorian and Cole is… an experience. On one side, Dorian's sophisticated energy hums with an underlying heat I know all too well. On the other, Cole exudes an earthy, steady presence, a quiet strength that feels both protective and intriguing. My senses feel like they're doing a very confused but enthusiastic tango. "And I didn't realize firefighters were allowed to laugh, Cole," I tease, turning to him.

"Only on alternate Thursdays," Cole shoots back, his eyes crinkling. That dimple reappears. Lethal. "And apparently when hearing tales of pastry misfortune."

"And I was about to ask James more about the spa," Dorian jumps in, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint. "He's been telling us all about how relaxing it was."

My cheeks instantly flame. "Oh. That's... nice."

James catches my eye with a wink. "I was just mentioning how… skilled the massage therapists were."

I want to disappear. Did he also mention the hot springs? The shower? My face must be the color of a ripe raspberry.

"Relaxation is important," Dorian says smoothly, fishing. "Especially the kind that leaves you glowing."

"I—we—it was very professional," I stammer, then immediately realize how guilty that sounds.

Cole's eyebrow raises. "Professional relaxation. Sounds intense."

"Quick, let's get Elena a drink before she combusts," James laughs.

I grab the raspberry ale Dorian slides my way, taking a long gulp so I have time to collect myself.

"By the way," James continues, "we just discovered fascinating ancestral connections. Dorian's grandfather opened the first French bakery in Lakeview. Cole's grandfather used to be a regular."

"Seriously?" I set my drink down. "I had no idea you had ties to Lakeview." I look at Dorian. "Small world."

"Small town," Cole corrects, his deep voice close to my ear, sending thrills down my spine. "Lakeview has a way of weaving threads."

"Speaking of weaving," Dorian chimes in, "did you tell Elena about the pretzel dough incident, James? The one where you nearly strangled yourself trying to get untangled?"

"Oh. My. God. Details!" I lean in toward James. "I thought you were an infallible baking Terminator!"

James grins sheepishly. "Picture this: I’m in the middle of an aesthetic bake-off, and somehow I end up with two feet of pretzel dough wrapped around me like some kind of gluten boa constrictor." He takes a sip of his beer. "The judge shows up just as I’m wrestling to free my right arm, takes one look at the disaster, and goes, ‘Delightfully avant-garde.’ Gives me first place on the spot!”

We laugh loud enough to turn a few heads.

The sound is still fading when Dorian chimes in. "My first board meeting, I spilled coffee on a sixty-year-old board member's lap. Then tried to mop it up with the quarterly report." He grimaces. "To make it worse, it was 'take your dog to work day', and I mistook his prize-winning poodle for a 'particularly hairy' footstool."

This sends a fresh wave of laughter rolling through our group.

"Your turn, Cole," James prompts.

Cole sighs. "Last month, I extracted a terrified squirrel from a bakery vent."

"And?" James prods.

"It bit me," Cole deadpans. "Then had the audacity to steal a croissant on its way out."

We're practically howling, clutching our sides.

The pub grows even more crowded, the music louder. Someone orders another round, and someone else follows with shots. Time blurs as conversation flows from baking to family to ridiculous what-if scenarios.

"No," James insists, "If you only had three ingredients… it’d be flour, butter, and…"

"Sugar!" Dorian and I chime in unison. Our eyes meet, his pupils dilating. I look away, my pulse quickening.

"I'd eat whatever you make," Cole says, his gaze moving between James and me before settling on me a second too long. "You could probably make dirt taste good."

"Be that as it may," Dorian interjects, his voice soft but somehow commanding attention, "sugar is the pleasure. The indulgence. And a life without indulgence…" He lets the words trail off, his eyes locking with mine again.

My face is on fire. Okay, it seems even my increased medication is not one hundred percent effective against three radiating alphas. I take a long swig of my cherry ale, hoping to cool both my cheeks and the inappropriate thoughts quietly queuing up.

"Well, well, lookie here. The winners' table." Max Fleming, an alpha and fellow contestant sways toward us, eyes glassy. He drags a chair between me and Cole, scraping it across the floor before plopping down far too close.

"Fleming," James says coolly, his tone dropping several degrees. "Out celebrating third place?"

Max waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah, well, some of us weren’t lucky enough to be paired with an advantage." He jerks his chin toward me, then winks at James. "Must be real motivating, working so close with a pretty little thing like that."

The table’s warmth vanishes in an instant. James straightens, jaw tight. Dorian's expression goes cold. Cole doesn't move, but every line of his body sharpens, a low, warning growl rising from deep in his chest like thunder rumbling just before a storm breaks.

"Max," Dorian says evenly, "you're representing your team. Consider what impression you’re leaving."

Max startles slightly, finally registering Dorian's presence. "Mr. Beaumont! Didn't see you there." He puts on a clumsy veneer of respect. "My apologies, sir. Just offering congratulations to the winners."

But then his eyes slide back to me, greasy, lingering. "No harm in appreciating the… talent." His hand snakes under the table, landing hot and heavy on my thigh.

I go rigid, every nerve lighting up in icy shock.

Then everything happens at once.

James and Dorian both start to rise, but Cole is faster.

In a blur, he grabs Max by the hair and slams his face into the table with a brutal thunk.

The entire pub falls silent.

"That's enough." Cole's voice is low and deadly calm. "You're going to apologize to Ms. Avery. Then you're going to leave."

"I—I’m s-sorry," Max stammers, his voice muffled against the wood, blood starting to trickle from his nose. "M’sorry. Outta line."

Cole releases him and shoves him toward the door. Max scrambles away, stumbling over chairs in his haste to escape, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. Slowly, conversations resume around the pub, though now punctuated by whispers and sideways glances.

"Are you alright?" Cole asks, turning back to me immediately, his eyes scanning my face with protective concern.

"Yes," I manage, my voice a little shaky but steadying. "I’m fine. Thank you, Cole."

Dorian lets out a slow breath, sinking back into his chair. "That was impressive, Cole. You handled that with... efficiency."

"Yeah," James echoes, his tone laced with a touch of admiration. "Nice work, man."

Cole's gaze remains fixed on me, steady and reassuring. "Just did what had to be done."

Something settles in my chest as I look at these three men… They didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

I drain the last of my beer and push back my chair, the sudden weight of the day catching up with me all at once. “Well. I think I’ve officially maxed out my excitement quota. I’m heading home, need to be rested for tomorrow.”

"Allow me to walk you home," Cole says immediately. "Just to be sure our little friend isn't lurking about."

"Thank you, Cole. I’d appreciate that."

James grins. "Sweet dreams, Elena."

Dorian rises and takes my hand, brushing his lips softly over my knuckles. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, his gray eyes lingering on mine.

* * *

The night air feels deliciously cool against my flushed skin as we step out of the warm, noisy pub. Above, the sky is a sweep of black velvet, dusted with an impossible number of stars. Lakeview at night always feels a little magical.

"You sure you’re okay?" Cole asks again, his deep voice a comforting rumble in the sudden quiet.

"Honestly? Yes." And surprisingly, I am. Maybe a little creeped out, but okay. "Thank you again, Cole. For stepping in back there. That was… impressive."

He shrugs, dismissing it easily. "He crossed a line. Someone had to put him back on the right side of it." There's a finality in his tone that brooks no argument.

"Still. You didn't have to—"

"Some things you do because you have to," Cole interrupts softly. "Others because you want to." The words hang between us, heavy with implication.

We start walking, falling into a comfortable silence. The only sounds are our footsteps echoing softly on the sidewalk and the distant chirp of crickets. I notice, with a little internal smile, that Cole has automatically adjusted his longer stride to match my pace.

"So," I say finally, breaking the companionable quiet. "You, James, and Dorian. Quite the unexpected bromance."

A low chuckle rumbles in Cole’s chest. "Yeah, surprised me too, if I'm being honest. Especially James."

"Oh? What did you expect from James?" I asked, curious.

"Pretty boy alpha. More style than substance," he admits. "Assumed he was all talk and fancy piping techniques. Turns out, he’s actually got the skills to back up the swagger. And he’s not entirely insufferable… when he’s not trying to impress someone."

I laugh. "High praise indeed! And Dorian?"

"Interesting guy," he says thoughtfully. "Carries a heavy legacy on his shoulders, but wears it with grace. Doesn’t talk down to people, and works harder than he needs to. For someone in his position, that says a lot." Cole glances over, studying me. "And he thinks highly of you."

My cheeks warm. "We barely know each other."

"Maybe. But I recognize how he looks at you." His voice stays casual, but there's something careful in it. "Same with James. You three have history?"

My steps falter. "What makes you think that?"

"Body language. How James watches. How Dorian's eyes follow you. How you tense." He turns. "I notice things, Elena. It's part of my job."

Heat climbs up my neck. "It's... complicated."

Cole says nothing, just gives a slight nod and keeps walking. I exhale, relieved he’s not pushing.

We turn onto Maple Avenue, the street quieter here, lined with sleeping houses and fragrant gardens. The night air carries jasmine and something distinctly Cole—muted, but still enough to make my pulse skip.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you laugh like you did tonight," I say after a while, looking up at him.

Something in his expression opens up, making him look more vulnerable. "Haven't had much reason to laugh until the festival. City work is different. More calls, less connection."

"You miss it here," I observe.

"Parts of it." His eyes meet mine, holding for a moment too long. "Though I'm finding new reasons to appreciate the visit."

We're walking closer now, our arms occasionally brushing. Each contact sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with thinning chemical buffers and everything to do with the man beside me.

"Left up here," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

As we turn the corner, my foot catches on an uneven section of sidewalk. I stumble forward with a small cry of surprise. Cole's hand shoots out instantly, catching me by the waist. His palm is large and warm against me, fingers spanning nearly half my upper body.

"Careful," he murmurs, steadying me but not immediately letting go.

I should try to step away. I don't.

"Thanks," I whisper instead, turning my head to look at him.

Under the gleam of a streetlamp, I can see gold flecks in his hazel eyes.

Chapter nineteen

Cole

Elena stumbles, her heel catching on uneven pavement. My hand shoots out instinctively, catching her by the waist. The contact is electric. Even through her jacket, I feel the heat of her skin, the curve of her hip fitting too perfectly beneath my palm.

"Careful," I murmur as every nerve ending in my body lights up like a fuse. The instinct to pull her closer wars with the rational part of me shouting that I should let go.

This is dangerous territory.

She's looking up at me now, those green eyes like clear forest pools, seeming to see right through me. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath coming a bit faster than it should be from such a small stumble. The streetlight catches the flush on her cheeks, whether from alcohol, exertion, or something else entirely, I can't tell.

And then there's her scent. Damn.

It’s slightly stronger than it was yesterday in the first aid tent. Subtle still, yet compelling… in a way that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.

Boundaries, Cole.

But boundaries are getting harder to maintain when she's looking at me like that. When the air carries her scent straight to a primal part of my brain that doesn't give a damn about being appropriate.

"Thanks," she whispers, her voice softer than usual.

I should step back. Put distance between us. Instead, I find myself adjusting my grip slightly, my thumb brushing against her jacket in what might be the world's smallest caress.

What the hell am I doing?

Before I can answer that question, a car passes by, its headlights sweeping across us like a spotlight. The moment breaks, reality rushing back in. I drop my hand and step back, immediately missing the contact.

"Just... just up ahead," she says, gesturing down the street, her voice slightly unsteady.

We resume walking, the easy silence now charged with a different kind of tension. I'm hyperaware of every step, and my mind races with thoughts I shouldn't be having about a woman I barely know.

It started as idle attraction when she caught my eye back in the lineup. But that moment in the first aid tent changed things. Watching her try to hide her pain, still cracking jokes, her fierce determination... something about it lodged under my skin. She stopped being a stranger. And now, I can't seem to stop thinking about her.

This is… not good. I’m just passing through. My life’s waiting for me back in the city; demanding, relentless, full of expectations.

But that's also the problem, isn't it? Part of me doesn't even want to go back. The idea of returning to the cold efficiency of my real life feels partly… hollow. When did that start?

Lost in thought, I barely notice where we’re headed until we slow in front of a familiar red brick building. My insides do a weird little flip of recognition.

"Well, this is me," Elena says, fishing for her keys. "Thanks again for the escort."

I stare at the building, then at her, then back at the building.

"Wait. This is where you live?"

She raises an eyebrow at my obvious confusion. "Yeah, why?"

"Because I'm—" A short laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. The universe has to be fucking with me at this point. "I'm staying here too. Short-term rental on the third floor."

Her mouth falls open. "You're kidding."

"Apartment 3B," I confirm, still processing this development.

"3A," she says, shaking her head with a disbelieving smile. "Wow," she continues, a little breathless laugh escaping her. "I’ve been meaning to say hello, bring over some cookies or something. But with work at Pierre’s, the festival…"

I nod automatically, but I’m not really listening. She's unaware of the grenade she just dropped.

My cheeks heat. From embarrassment. From knowing. The sounds. That night when I thought some siren was trying to kill me with a song of pure need.

She was the one.

My brain tries to reset. Fails.

Because now, I can’t stop picturing her on the other side of that wall.

Oh, fuck.

Literally.

She trails off, and I realize I’ve missed whatever she just said.

“...Anyway, I’ve just been so busy,” she finishes.

“Uh, same here,” I reply, recovering. “Between pre-festival safety drills and actual festival fires, my social life’s been limited to checking extinguishers and writing incident reports. Until tonight, anyway.”

We stand there for a moment, a comfortable, slightly giddy silence settling between us, the absurdity of it all sinking in. The woman who’s been occupying far too many of my thoughts has been living just one thin wall away this whole time…

“Well,” she says finally, her smile soft and a little shy as she fishes her keys from her purse, “since we’re both going up…” She hesitates for a second, then her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Would you… like to have tea, or… something?”

My internal alarms are screaming. It’s late and we’ve both been drinking. The professional thing would be to decline with a smile and head back to my own apartment, alone.

Instead, I hear myself say, “Tea sounds good.” My voice rougher, deeper, than usual.

What in the seven hells am I doing?

“Fair warning,” she adds, tossing me a glance over her shoulder as we head into the building, “my place is probably a mess.”

"Fair warning to you," I reply, my voice a low rumble, "I may end up checking your smoke detectors and escape routes. Occupational hazard."

She laughs, bright and unguarded. The sound echoes off the tiled entryway, and something in my chest tightens with it. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in years.

By the time we reach the third floor and she unlocks her door, an inviting scent wafts out, wrapping around me like a welcome hug.

Just tea, I tell myself as I step inside. Just conversation between neighbors.

But when the door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the moonlit glow of her apartment, I’m suddenly not so sure I believe myself.

Chapter twenty

Elena

My hands tremble as I fill the kettle. It's a ridiculous reaction. I'm a grown woman. But having Cole in my living room, radiating a quiet, potent alpha energy, makes me feel… fluttery. His broad frame shrinks the room, my kitchen not even six feet away from where he stands.

"Chamomile or hibiscus?" I ask, immensely proud that my voice emerges as a relatively steady.

"Whatever you’re having is fine by me," he says, his voice a low, comforting rumble that seems to vibrate right through the floorboards and up my slippers.

Chamomile tea it is, then. Something calming is desperately needed right now, though I suspect it would take a sedative to fully settle the swarm of butterflies staging a rave in my chest.

"Nice place you have here," Cole comments, his gaze sweeping around my small living area, gracefully ignoring the pile of cookbooks threatening to collapse my coffee table. "Lived here long?"

"Three years this fall," I reply, setting out two of my favorite mismatched vintage mugs. "It came mostly furnished, but I’ve tried to make it my own. Added a few… personal touches." Like the slightly alarming collection of kitchen tools hanging over the stove.

He nods, his eyes landing on the rustic ceramic mugs I have displayed on the kitchen counter. "Made those?"

A small smile touches my lips. "Flea market treasures, mostly. Each one has a story." I gesture toward a squat, speckled mug with a crooked handle. "That one was my first Lakeview purchase. Got it for a buck the weekend I moved in. Still smells faintly like cinnamon tea if you warm it up."

“I like it,” he says, stepping closer to get a better look. And suddenly he’s right beside me, his arm brushing mine. The contact is brief but my breath catches just like it did when he caught me earlier. His scent curls through the air again, subtle but insistent. This is a lot of alpha in my very small kitchen, I tell myself. And as heat flares low in my belly, I realize that even a double dose of DuoBlocks might actually not quite be enough at the end of a long day.

The kettle chooses that exact moment to let out a piercing whistle, making me jump about a foot in the air. Cole’s hand instinctively reaches out, his fingers warm and strong as they steady my elbow. The touch sends a shockwave through my entire system.

"Whoa there," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Just the kettle. No need to deploy emergency evasion tactics."

"Sorry," I murmur, my cheeks flaming. Play it cool, Elena. He’s just your neighbor. A very large, very attractive, very alpha neighbor. In your kitchen. No big deal.

We migrate to the living room, if you can call moving a few steps migrating, and I curl into one corner of my worn but beloved floral couch, tucking my feet under me, while Cole settles on the opposite end. The foot of space between us feels both like a vast chasm and an incredibly charged magnetic field.

"So," I begin, cradling the warm mug of chamomile, mainly to give my trembling hands something to do, "how long are you officially in town for, Cole?"

"Just through the end of the festival," he says, his gaze steady on mine over the rim of his own mug. "Then it’s back to the city. Back to the grind."

"You don’t sound thrilled about it."

He huffs a quiet breath, then nods. "I used to love it. Everything moving fast, always something happening, always people needing rescuing. Felt like I was doing something important." He sets his mug down. "But then there are days… weeks… when it feels like all you’re doing is running from one fire to the next, never really catching your breath."

His expression shifts, softening with something unguarded. "Lately," he admits, his voice dropping a little, "I’ve been finding myself thinking more about what I might be missing by not being in a place like Lakeview. The quiet. The community. The chance to actually… breathe."

The honesty in his words hangs in the air. I take a sip of tea, the floral warmth doing little to calm the sudden acceleration of my pulse. His vulnerability is… disarming. And incredibly attractive.

"It must be intense," I say, trying to imagine his life in the city.

"Yep." A simple, though very fitting response. He leans back, stretching his long legs out, and the couch suddenly feels even smaller. "Though for all my complaining, I have to admit there’s a satisfaction in knowing you're saving lives. You know, feeling… needed."

"Yeah. I guess that kind of purpose helps you get through the grind, huh?" I say, my eyes fixed on my tea. The warmth of the mug doesn’t quite reach the heaviness settling in my chest. "It must be incredible, having that. Knowing what you do actually matters."

I set the mug down, suddenly restless. I cross to the window and look out at the quiet street below.

"You okay, Elena?" Cole’s voice is low, careful.

"Yeah… I just…" I inhale slowly. "I was thinking about my mom."

"What about her?"

"She used to be a wedding singer," I say, my voice steadier now. "Not famous, but she loved it. She’d come home lit up from the inside, talking about how she got to make someone’s big day a little more magical." A small smile flickers, half memory, half ache. "She always said there was no better feeling than working to bring people joy. It wasn’t just a job to her, it was purpose. And back then… life felt kind of enchanted. Full of light."

I pause, the smile fading from my voice. "But that was before…"

I hear the couch creak. He stands, and I hear him move closer. Then he's here. Close, but not touching. Just offering his presence.

"Before what, Elena?" His voice is low, gentle.

"Before my father left," I whisper. The confession feels like tearing open an old wound. "She had to give up her dreams. Took whatever work she could, cleaning houses, waiting tables… three jobs at once sometimes. Just to keep us going."

I swallow against the sting in my throat.

"I’m so sorry, Elena," he says, and there's no pity in it. Just understanding.

"It was a long time ago," I say, trying for a lightness I don’t feel.

"Doesn’t always make it hurt any less," he replies gently.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers reach for his. He meets me halfway, his hand wrapping around mine. Steady, warm, certain.

"I'm sure she's proud of you. What you're building, what you've accomplished."

I glance up at him, and in that moment, everything else falls away. There’s desire in his eyes, yes, but something else too. Tender. Real. A rush of heat blooms under my skin, sparked by the sudden stutter of my heart.

"I… I should probably go," he says, though his thumb keeps brushing across my knuckles like he doesn’t quite mean it.

"Should you?" My voice is barely more than breath.

His other hand rises, his knuckles grazing my jaw in the lightest touch, sending a shiver through me. "If I stay…" he begins, eyes searching mine.

"Stay," I whisper.

That one word breaks the fragile restraint we were clinging to. His lips find mine, and the rest of the world disappears. The kiss is soft at first, reverent, but then his hands find my face, and the kiss turns hungry.

My hands slide up into his hair as he draws me closer. The kiss tastes like chamomile and possibility, an attraction that defies logic and medication. When we part, breathless and wide-eyed, he leans his forehead against mine. "Are you sure?" he asks, voice husky with restraint.

In answer, I take his hand and lead him down the short hallway to my bedroom. Moonlight spills across the floorboards in silver ribbons. At the door, he pauses, his gaze searching mine one last time.

I nod once, and I pull him in.

What goes down is pure magic, a slow-burn dive into something molten. Cole is patient. Thorough. Each move calculated, every touch dialed in to make me lose it. His hands glide over my body, setting my skin on fire, sparking a hunger so deep it’s almost too much.

Our clothes just vanish, not ripped off but shed like they’re melting. His fingers skim my tits, my hips, my ass, his low murmurs hyping me up like I’m a masterpiece. When his lips hit that spot where my neck curves into my shoulder, sucking hard and nipping, I let out a shaky moan.

Then, he drops to his knees, spreading my thighs. His mouth grazes my folds, teasing, before his tongue dives in, hitting my clit with slow, deliberate licks that make my head spin. He’s relentless, swirling and sucking, and I’m gripping his hair, my hips grinding against his face as I moan loud enough to wake the whole building.

When he pushes me on my bed and slides into me, his cock stretches every inch of me. We move as one as his hips rock into me, his knot already inflating, hitting spots that make my toes curl. I cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, nails dragging down his back as the pressure inside me crests and threatens to break.

"Elena," he groans, his breath searing against the damp curve of my throat.

I rock up to meet him, every nerve sparking, the heat inside me building fast and sharp. Then his hand slides between us, his fingers rubbing my clit in tight circles, and I’m done for. My orgasm slams into me like a wave breaking open. I cry out his name and my body tightens around him as everything shatters into white heat. He follows a heartbeat later, spilling into me with a low, guttural moan, his knot locking our trembling bodies together.

We collapse on each other, spent and joined, his breathing evening out as his fingers drift lazily over my breasts, like he’s not done wanting.

"Stay tonight," I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest.

His arms tighten around me, pulling me even closer, until there’s no space left between us. "Not going anywhere," he whispers into my hair with a low rumble.

Wrapped in Cole’s arms, with sleep pulling me under, I realize I've never felt so safe.

Chapter twenty-one

Elena

Morning sunlight filters softly through the curtains, warming my bare skin as I stretch beneath the covers, deliciously sore in all the right places.

A slow smile curls on my lips as the memories of last night resurface; vivid, warm, electric. But it’s more than physical afterglow.

I feel… different.

Like something inside me is clicking into place. For the first time in years, I’m not bracing. Not overthinking or holding back. Just breathing. Letting myself enjoy, connect. Trust. With alphas no less. Remarkable ones.

My hand brushes the pillow beside me, where a little folded note rests:

Early rounds. You looked too peaceful to wake. See you soon.

– C.

The smile deepens, and I sink back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, warmth blooming in my chest.

A soft buzz yanks me out of my my blissful reverie. I reach for my phone and squint at the screen. It's James.

Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty! And don't forget the bug spray today. Trust me on this one.

Right. Today's the optional foraging challenge. I almost forgot all about it. I blame the post-sex bliss clouding my brain.

Why do I feel like there's a story behind the bug spray warning?

Let's just say mosquitoes find sweet baker blood irresistible. Don't be late!

I roll out of bed, grinning. After a quick shower and a fortifying cup of coffee, I dutifully swallow my two blue pills of DuoBlocks. Operation: Keep Hormones In Check And Crush It is officially resuming.

I dress for a woodland romp: sturdy jeans, my most comfortable hiking boots, and a well-worn flannel shirt that has seen better days. I also sling on a backpack with my chef whites tucked inside.

* * *

The festival grounds are noticeably quieter this morning. Only about twenty or so dedicated contestants have gathered in the competition area. Judge Chen waves us over with her signature enthusiasm. Beside her, Judge Parker stands with his arms crossed, his expression doing a remarkably good impression of someone who has just smelled something unpleasant.

"Good morning, good morning, brave foragers!" Chen chirps, her smile as bright as the morning sun. "Welcome to today's optional, but highly rewarding, Foraging Challenge! Today is all about connecting with the beautiful, bountiful nature that surrounds Lakeview."

Parker clears his throat pointedly. "And about proving you can do more than just follow a recipe. Resourcefulness, creativity under pressure… these are also hallmarks of a true culinary artist."

Chen smoothly continues, "Precisely! You'll have until two o'clock this afternoon to explore the designated areas of the woods around the festival and the surrounding meadows. Your mission," she winks, "is to gather whatever wild, edible ingredients inspire you. Then, you will use those foraged treasures to create one spectacular pastry for a private tasting session with a judge assigned at random."

James materializes beside me, looking unfairly handsome in worn denim and a navy henley that does very good things for his shoulders.

"Morning, sugar," he murmurs, trailing a cloud of citronella so thick it's practically an olfactory assault. "How was your night after you left the pub?" He grins. "Did Cole show you his hose collection?"

Heat instantly floods my cheeks. "I have no idea what you’re talking about," I hiss back, trying to project an air of innocent confusion while simultaneously wanting the ground to swallow me whole. "And seriously, did you bathe in bug spray?"

"Hey, no one’s sucking me dry out here." He pauses, his gaze dipping before returning to mine with a smirk. "Well..."

Before I can fire back, he leans in slightly, voice dropping. "And relax about last night. Your secret’s safe with your boyfriend." He puts a little too much emphasis on the word. "Just… be discreet if it happens again, yeah? Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m the festival cuck. Bad for the brand." Like I need a reminder to be discreet in Lakeview…

"Remember," Judge Chen's voice suddenly rings out as she gives a meaningful glance in our direction, "gather plenty of ingredients. Foraging is done in pairs, but baking will be a solo effort. You'll each be assigned an individual station today. And be back before two PM. Go!"

We set off together, following the marked trail into the woods. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the earthy scent of pine needles. Sunlight filters through the canopy above, creating dappled patterns of light and shadow on the forest floor.

"Now that we're alone," James says as we walk, his tone deceptively casual, "on a scale of one to 'thoroughly satisfied,' how was your night?"

My face is on fire again. "I don't kiss and tell." Shit, why did I say that?

His grin is absolutely wicked. "Look at you! Should I be jealous?"

"Focus on foraging," I deflect, grateful to spot a bramble of blackberries ahead. "Look, berries!"

"Subtle subject change, but I'll allow it." He follows me to the patch where plump blackberries glisten with morning dew. "Mmm, these are perfect. Plump, juicy… almost as tempting as you are when you’re trying to look stern."

I roll my eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. "You're impossible."

We pick in companionable silence for a while after that, our collection bags gradually filling with delicious fruit. James, it turns out, is a focused forager, his gaze instinctively locking onto the best finds. Though he does keep popping the choicest berries into his mouth.

"You do realize those are meant for baking, right?" I scold, trying very hard not to smile. "And what on earth is with the miniature water sprayer? Are you misting them for optimal juiciness?"

"Quality contwol," he replies, his mouth full of blackberry. "Firsht, wash. Shecond, tashte." He grins, a tiny drop of deep purple juice escapes the corner of his mouth, clinging precariously to his lip as he swallows.

Without thinking, I reach up with my thumb and gently wipe the stray juice away. The moment stretches. Our eyes lock. His skin is warm beneath my touch, a faint stubble rasping against my thumb, and suddenly his lips look dangerously sweet.

"S-sorry," I mumble, snatching my hand back as if I’ve been burned. My cheeks are definitely competing with the blackberry juice for redness now.

"Don't be." His voice has gone lower, rougher. "We are officially seeing each other, remember? Might as well make it convincing… even when no one’s looking."

My heart gives a traitorous flutter. A nervous laugh escapes me and I whirl away before he can see how rattled I am. “I think… I think I see some wild strawberries over here!”

The next hour or so passes in pleasant blur of discovery and, dare I say it, actual laughter. James, it turns out, has a hidden talent. He’s surprisingly knowledgeable about wild edibles, able to identify not just the obvious berries, but also patches of fragrant wild mint, tangy lemon balm, and even a scattering of delicate elderflowers hiding near a trickling stream. He points out edible mushrooms I would have walked right past, and warns me away from some deceptively pretty but apparently very unfriendly berries.

"My grandmother," he explains, when I finally voice my surprise at his encyclopedic knowledge of woodland snacks, "lived way out in the countryside. I used to spend summers with her when I was a kid. She taught me which edibles wouldn’t kill me. And which ones made a killer pie." He says it casually, but there’s a fondness in his voice. A glimpse of a softer, less polished James.

"The great James Reynolds, secret country boy with a foraging grandma?" I tease gently. "The festival columnists would have an absolute field day with that."

"Please," he scoffs, though his eyes are smiling. "I actively cultivate my image as an urbanite. What happens in the woods stays in the woods."

A few minutes later, we stumble upon a massive patch of wild blueberries basking in a sunny clearing. Out of the blue, James flops down in the soft grass beside them like it's a five-star mattress.

"Strategic resting position achieved," he declares, already plucking berries with one hand. "Maximum berry access, minimum physical exertion."

"You mean lazy," I tease, but I’m smiling as I settle down beside him, the sun warm on my face. The air is alive with the happy hum of bees working the nearby wildflowers. It’s… nice. Peaceful. Almost… normal. If you ignore the fact that I’m foraging with my fake alpha boyfriend, while my alpha-next-door situationship is probably doing safety rounds at the festival, and my pre-festival fling is somewhere getting his palate ready for a tasting.

"This is really relaxing," I admit, absently plucking berries as I shift into a crouch. "When's the last time you just... walked in the woods?"

"Honestly? Probably those summers with Grandma. City life doesn't leave much room for hikes."

As if summoned by our moment of peace, I hear the whine of a mosquito near my ear. James hears it too. He doesn't say 'I told you so', but his lips curve into a supremely smug smirk as he wordlessly fumbles in his bag and hands me his bug spray.

"Not. One. Word." I warn, snatching the can.

"Wouldn’t dream of it, sugar." But I have a feeling he's filing this ammunition away for future use.

We continue exploring, our bags growing heavier with foraged treasures: blackberries, blueberries, a handful of tart wild raspberries, fragrant mint, delicate elderflowers, and sweet wild strawberries. The sun climbs higher, warming the forest floor, releasing the rich, loamy scent of wild herbs and damp earth. My arms are starting to ache, and my fingers are stained a fetching shade of purplish.

"Think this is enough?" I ask, hefting my bag, which feels like it weighs a ton.

"Depends," James says, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Are you planning to feed the entire festival, or just knock one judge's socks clean off?"

"Aiming for sock displacement, definitely."

"Well, either way, we need one more crucial thing." He grins, then leads me to a bramble where wild roses bloom just a few feet away. "Rose petals. A few artfully scattered ones will elevate whatever you make to unforgettable."

As we carefully gather the fragrant petals, James suddenly grows uncharacteristically quiet. His hands keep moving, but his usual easy comments are gone, replaced by a thoughtful stillness. I glance over, sensing something shifting in the air between us. He's focused, almost too focused, like he's turning something over in his mind.

"You know," he says finally, "I owe you an apology."

"For the bug spray smugness? Because I must admit it may have been justified."

"No, that was completely warranted." He cracks a small grin, then sobers again, his gaze still fixed on the roses. "For… for being a bit of a jerk when we first met. The whole overly competitive alpha act. And aggressively asking you out like that…"

"You mean practically strong-arming me into dating?" I cut in, raising an eyebrow, but keeping my tone light, playful.

He winces slightly. "That wasn’t… that wasn’t cool. My approach was all wrong. I should have just… asked you out. Like a normal human being. I definitely took things too far." He finally looks at me, his blue eyes surprisingly earnest. "I’m sorry, Elena."

I’m quiet for a moment, surprised by his sincerity, by the genuine contrition in his voice.

He runs a hand through his tousled hair. "I know we spoke about this yesterday… but I want you to know I really was listening. Not just nodding so we could get to the good stuff." A small, sincere smile tugs at his lips. "Obviously we need to keep up the whole 'dating' act in public until the festival blows over, but…" He hesitates. "Just so you hear it from my lips: there’s no pressure beyond that. And we don’t have to be all… touchy-feely in public. Or in private, of course." He pauses, his gaze searching mine. "Unless that’s something you want."

"Apology accepted, James," I say, and I mean it. His willingness to admit he was an ass, it means a lot. "And honestly? This whole crazy arrangement? It’s been… surprisingly not terrible. We’ve had some fun today… and yesterday. Haven’t we? And I’m feeling a lot more clear-headed too. Thanks in part to your pretty unorthodox help."

A spark of mischief is back in James’s eyes. "Is that so?"

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that plays on my lips. "The point is, you were right. This… whatever it is… I think it's working. For now. And don't you worry, I don’t feel obligated to be physical with you just because you’re my get-out-of-disqualification-free card." I pause, taking a deep breath. "And just so I'm crystal clear too… I enjoy the touchy-feely stuff. In private. Depending on the mood."

His expression shifts, the teasing glint softening into something more genuine. "You've no idea how I like the sound of that, Elena."

"But don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

* * *

Back at the festival grounds, our bags are full of foraged treasures.

"So," James says, heading to a different station, "what culinary masterpiece are you planning to conjure with all this woodland bounty?"

"That," I reply, tapping the side of my temple with a juice-stained finger, "would be telling. Trade secrets, you know."

"Fine, be all mysterious and alluring." He grins. "Just remember who guided you to the patch of enchanted rose petals when you get on the theoretical podium today."

"Yeah… I’ll try my best," I say, a bit more hesitant. "But I don’t know if I’ll even place top three. This kind of challenge is unfamiliar territory for me."

He pauses. The grin fades, and something steadier slips into his expression.

"You know you have the skills to beat me, right?" he replies. "Hell, you could probably make a handful of dirt taste good in a pie. You’re seriously talented, Elena."

That compliment, delivered without his usual theatrical flair, hits harder than any elaborate praise. Before I can formulate a response, he's back to his lighter self.

"Besides, if I hype you up, it’ll hurt less if I lose. Strategic ego management."

I laugh, as I head to my station, my heart feeling… lighter. Fuller.

Between Cole’s grounding presence last night, and James’s disarming honesty today, I’m beginning to wonder if the emotional walls I’ve spent years building are beginning to crack. Maybe faster than would be wise.

But for the first time in years, I'm not sure I mind.

Chapter twenty-two

James

I arrange the haul of wild berries on my station. Their deep purples, vibrant reds, and dusky blues are a stark, beautiful contrast against the cool metal. Their scent, earthy with a hint of pine from the woods, fills my space. A few stations across from mine, Elena is already head bent in concentration, that little furrow appearing between her brows that I’m starting to find ridiculously endearing.

Don't stare, James, I chastise myself, forcing my attention back to the task at hand. Focus. Make something great.

The thing is, I can't stop my mind from replaying moments from our foraging trip. Specifically, the stupidly intimate moment when she reached out and wiped that smudge of juice. Such a simple gesture. So innocent. And yet, it hit me harder than any flirt has managed in years. There was something in her eyes in that instant. Like she saw past my swagger for a second.

I crush a handful of wild mint leaves between my fingers, their sharp, clean fragrance cutting through the sweetness of the berries. The plan is forming in my head: a rustic but elegant berry tart. A crisp, buttery shortcrust pastry, a luscious mint-infused pastry cream, and a vibrant mosaic of the berries we picked. And for the final flourish, a scattering of those delicate wild rose petals. Classic, yes, but with a wild, unexpected twist. A bit like Elena and I, maybe.

Us. When the hell did my brain start defaulting to ‘us’? This was supposed to be a temporary, mutually beneficial charade. Not… this. This confusing, distracting, yet surprisingly pleasant… thing.

My hands move on autopilot, the years of relentless training taking over as I begin to prepare the pastry dough. Roll, fold, chill. The familiar, rhythmic motions usually calm my mind, center me. But today, my thoughts are a chaotic jumble of Elena, conflicting desires, and a growing awareness that my initial game plan might be backfiring spectacularly.

I hear Elena laugh at something Judge Chen says as she makes her rounds, a bright, genuine sound that hits me right in the chest, like a perfectly aimed cream puff. She has been different today. More relaxed since that spa trip yesterday, more open. The guardedness I’d first encountered is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. I like to believe I'm reponsible for that, but I'm pretty sure Cole helped a lot, too.

The thought should make me jealous. Competitive, even. He’s another alpha, after all. And Elena is… well, Elena is rapidly becoming someone I want in ways that have nothing to do with biology or winning a competition. But instead of jealousy, what I feel is a strange sense of relief. That she’s finding whatever it is she needs. Even if it’s not entirely from me.

I slide the tart shell into the oven and start on the filling. As I watch it slowly turn brown, my mind drifts to the way Elena said she enjoys being physical with me.

It’s more than I deserve, frankly, after how I strong-armed her into this whole fake relationship in the first place. Using her secret encounter with Dorian as leverage, planning to mess with her head while I chased my own pleasure…

When did winning become so all-consuming that basic decency took a backseat? When did I become the kind of guy who’d stoop to that level, just to stay on top?

Maybe it happened gradually. Years of trying to prove my father wrong, success becoming synonymous with survival. That's my mindset now, isn't it? If I'm not the best, I'm nothing. If I stop performing, people will stop caring, and I'll lose everything I've built.

But watching Elena now, seeing her genuine smile as she works, I realize I might have been chasing the wrong thing entirely. I can’t just be the sum of my father’s disapproval and my own insecurities. There has to be more to me than that.

The timer dings, yanking me back to reality. I pull out the golden-brown tart shell and begin assembling the components. Berries spiral outward in careful concentric circles, mint cream pipes in delicate swirls, rose petals scatter like confetti. Technically perfect. Visually stunning. But somehow... it feels incomplete.

On impulse, I reach for the wild strawberries Elena found earlier. Their shapes are uneven, their color imperfect. But nestled in the center, they bring something the tart was missing.

Something a little messy, yet real. Honest.

Like Elena herself... and maybe like who I was before I got caught in the relentless need to prove myself.

Chapter twenty-three

Elena

The feedback sessions are apparently designed to be as picturesque as the foraging trip.

Sunlight dances through the leaves, casting flickering patterns on the path as I follow the makeshift signs. My slightly lopsided (but hopefully still delicious) creation is nestled carefully in its carrier as I head down a winding path that cuts through a quiet stretch of woods at the edge of the festival grounds.

After a few minutes, the trees part, and I step into a secluded alcove bursting with late-summer blooms. A stone fountain murmurs softly nearby, and a wrought-iron table set for two waits beneath the dappled shade of cherry blossoms. Beyond it all, Lake Vienne glitters in the sunlight, serene and breathtaking.

And there, already seated, is my assigned judge. Dorian, of course.

Pink-shadowed light plays across his white dress shirt as he gazes out at the water, looking both unfairly handsome and thoughtful, like he’s contemplating the meaning of pastry and existence in the same breath.

"Elena," he says, his voice a smooth baritone that still manages to send a shiver down my spine despite my medication and my best efforts at nonchalance. He rises as I approach, every inch the polished CEO, yet there’s a warmth in his gray eyes that’s purely Dorian. "Please, join me."

I set my tartlet on the table, trying to ignore the way my heart does a little nervous flutter-kick. "It’s beautiful out here," I manage, my voice hopefully not betraying the internal monologue currently screaming, ‘Don’t think about the woods!’

"I find it conducive to… thoughtful evaluation," he says, his lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. He gestures for me to sit. "Your creation looks delightful. The aroma alone is quite something."

I offer him a small, hopeful smile. "Lavender-honey-berry tartlet, with foraged blackberries, wild strawberries, a hint of mint, and candied wild rose petals." I present it with as much professional composure as I can muster, trying to ignore the fact that the last time we were this close, we were… considerably less composed. And significantly less clothed.

He takes a bite, his eyes closing for a moment in concentration. Then another. The silence stretches, my palms are sweating.

"Technically, Elena," he says finally, setting down his fork, "this is exquisite. The crust is perfectly flaky, the lavender-honey infusion in the cream is subtle yet distinct, and the berries are a wonderful counterpoint. The candied rose petals are a lovely touch too." He pauses, his gaze meeting mine, direct and searching. "It's a beautiful, well-executed pastry."

"But?" I prompt, bracing myself. There’s always a ‘but’ with judges. Especially billionaire judges who’ve seen you at your most… uninhibited.

He leans back, swirling an imaginary glass of wine. "But," he repeats softly, "I can’t help but feel… you’re holding something back. Creatively. There’s a precision here, an adherence to technique, which is commendable. But where is the… fire? The unexpected? The element that makes it uniquely, unmistakably Elena?"

His words, gentle as they are, land like a perfectly aimed dart.

"It’s difficult," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, "to be bold when you’re constantly worried about… judgment. About not meeting expectations." Especially when you’re an omega in a society that unofficially discourages you from pursuing a career, I might even add.

Dorian nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "I understand that fear. When I first took over Beaumont Patisserie, the weight of my family’s legacy, the expectation to uphold generations of tradition… it was suffocating. I spent years trying to replicate my grandfather’s success, adhering to his methods." He looks out at the lake, a flicker of melancholy in his eyes. "And our profits stagnated. Our innovation flatlined. It wasn’t until I started… breaking the rules, infusing my own vision, my own, sometimes unconventional, ideas into the Beaumont brand that things truly began to change. That I truly began to find my own voice, not just as a custodian."

He turns back to me, his gaze intense. "Tradition is a wonderful foundation, Elena. But true artistry, true innovation, comes from daring to build something new upon it. Something that is yours, and yours alone."

Something about his words sticks. Creativity, experimenting, breaking free from the rigid confines of classic pastry. That's something I long for.

"I… I do have an idea," I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "For the final competition. It’s… unconventional. It’s the kind of thing Pierre would probably get hysterical over." I hesitate. "It’s… a pie. But not just any pie. It’s more." I can’t bring myself to describe the specifics that have been brewing in the back of my mind. It feels too vulnerable to expose fully yet, even to Dorian’s understanding gaze.

But his eyes light up with a genuine, almost boyish enthusiasm. "That sounds incredible."

"It could be a complete disaster."

"Or it could be genius." He squeezes my hand gently. "The only real failure is not trying."

"Easy for you to say. You already have your empire."

"And you think I got it to where it is today by playing it safe?" He chuckles, but there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Every day I wake up wondering if this is the day everyone realizes I'm just winging it. That fear never goes away, Elena. You just learn to dance with it."

The admission surprises me. Dorian Beaumont, uncertain? Afraid?

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask softly.

"Because I recognize something in you." He steps closer and grabs my hands, his thumb tracing across my knuckles. "That spark. That desire to create something meaningful, not just profitable. Don't let society dim it."

The garden seems to fade around us, narrowing to just this moment. "The other judges might not see it that way."

"Then forget the other judges. Create for yourself. For the pure joy of it." His voice drops to something more intimate. "Make something completely, fearlessly yours."

"You make it sound simple," I whisper.

"Simple doesn't mean easy." He releases my hand, but the warmth lingers.

"Trust yourself," he continues, his hand now on my shoulder. "Trust your instincts. They've brought you this far."

I look up at him, this man who judges my work and seems to see beyond the surface, who challenges me to be better while making me feel capable of greatness. "And if I fail spectacularly?"

"Then you'll have failed at something worth attempting." His smile is soft, encouraging. "Besides, I have a feeling spectacular failure isn't in your vocabulary."

His words settle over me, and for the first time, I let myself imagine what it might be like to not just win the competition, but claim the freedom to be unapologetically myself.

The thought terrifies me.

But it also feels like coming home.

Chapter twenty-four

Elena

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the festival grounds as I meticulously wipe down my workstation.

Today's shortened schedule means freedom by five o'clock, and the promise of an early evening off feels like a decadent éclair I can't wait to devour. My mind, however, is still buzzing, replaying Dorian's words from our feedback session like a song stuck on repeat: "...completely, fearlessly yours."

Could I actually pull it off? Bake something that’s authentically me, after years of repressing myself and channeling Pierre’s vision, keeping my own ideas locked away? Dorian seems to think so. It’s like he sees the baker I’ve only dared to be in my dreams.

And damn did that whole exchange feel… intimate. In some ways, much more so than what happened between us in the woods.

"Lost in thoughts of sugar plums?"

I jump, turning to find Cole leaning against the end of my workstation, looking unfairly good in civilian clothes: a simple dark t-shirt that stretches appealingly across his broad chest and worn jeans that, by the looks of it, fits his ass just right.

"Something like that," I admit, offering him a slightly flustered smile. "And what's with the clothes? Shouldn't you be patrolling for rogue sparks or something?"

"My heroic duties are on a brief hiatus," he says, that little half-smile I'm starting to adore playing on his lips. "The evening safety briefing isn't for another two hours. Which, conveniently, leaves just enough time to escort a certain hardworking baker home."

I raise an eyebrow, trying for playful skepticism. "And how do you know said baker isn't planning to wild out on the town? Hit up Lakeview's thriving bar scene."

Cole snorts. "Right. Because nothing says 'wilding out' like Mrs. Jenkins's book club at the library."

"Hey, that's only on Mondays!" I shoot back. "And I'll have you know those ladies can get pretty rowdy over wine and Jane Austen."

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, since your wild fun’s a few days away… how about I walk you home, with a slight detour? I know a spot."

"A spot?" I echo, intrigued. "One I don't know after three years?"

"Yep," he replies, his gaze holding mine. "Even for someone who's been soaking up Lakeview's charm for all this time, I bet this one's new to you."

The offer is casual, but there's an undercurrent of something more that makes my stomach perform a series of excited little flips. "Lead the way, Lieutenant," I say, trying to match his easy tone, even though my heart has apparently decided to pick up a salsa rhythm.

We walk in comfortable silence, the buzz of the festival fading behind us. Cole guides me down a quiet side street I’ve passed a hundred times but never bothered to explore, past charming old Victorian houses with inviting wraparound porches and gardens exploding with vibrant blooms. The air smells sweet, a mix of freshly cut grass, roses, and something that might just be impending romance.

"So, this scenic detour," I ask, as we turn onto a narrow, almost hidden gravel path lined with elegant silver birch trees "you sure you're not just luring me into the woods to, you know… pick up where we left off last night?"

What the… did I really just say that?

"You wound me," he replies, clutching his chest in mock offense. "I’m a gentleman and I take my role as tour guide seriously. This is strictly scenic." He throws me a wink.

The path opens suddenly, revealing a scene that literally steals my breath away. Tucked away like a carefully guarded secret is a small, secluded pond, its surface as smooth and reflective as polished glass, mirroring the clear blue sky above. A weathered wooden dock extends a short way into the still water, and a single, sturdy wooden bench sits on the grassy shore. It’s breathtaking.

"This," Cole says quietly, his voice a satisfying rumble beside me, "is Turner's Pond. I used to sneak off here as a kid, whenever I needed to escape my chores or just… think."

"It's… magical," I breathe, sinking onto the bench. "How have I lived in Lakeview for three years and never known this place existed?"

"Most newcomers don’t stumble upon it right away." He sits beside me, close enough that I can feel the reassuring warmth radiating from his arm. "Locals tend to keep their favorite spots a bit… guarded. It usually takes about five years of good behavior before they start sharing the real goods."

"And I qualify for an early reveal after only three?" I tease, looking up at him.

His smile is soft, private, and it makes my heart do a silly, fluttery dance again. "Let's just say you’re… special, Elena. And since you looked so contemplative earlier, this seemed like the perfect spot."

We sit in a gentle hush for a while, the only sounds the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the distant chirp of crickets tuning up for their evening performance. The sun, beginning its slow descent, paints the water with shifting patterns of light. It’s incredibly peaceful.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Cole asks softly, his voice pulling me from my reverie. His shoulder brushes mine, a casual contact that feels anything but.

"Just… processing today," I admit, leaning back against the bench, letting our shoulders maintain contact. "It was a rollercoaster. And that feedback session with Dorian? Intense doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Good intense, or ‘I need to go home and bake my feelings into a chocolate cake’ intense?" he asks, his eyes kind.

"Revealing intense," I say, turning to look at him, feeling a sudden urge to share the jumble of emotions churning inside me. "Dorian said something… about being fearlessly myself in my baking. And it just… it got me thinking."

Cole’s hand, large and warm, finds mine where it rests on the bench between us. His thumb begins to trace slow, soothing circles on my palm, and the simple, unexpected touch sends a wave of warmth through me. "Thinking about what?"

"About how I’ve spent so long being afraid," I confess, the words tumbling out. It feels safe to say them here, with him. "Afraid of what people would think, afraid of failing, afraid of losing my independence if I let anyone get too close. So I’ve been… hiding. Playing it small. Not just in my baking, but… well, in pretty much everything." I take a shaky breath, the admission hanging in the still air. "Which definitely includes my love life. Making connections… particularly with alphas."

His fingers still their gentle movement on my skin for a heartbeat. "What do you mean?" His voice is soft, encouraging.

"I used to think that being with an alpha, or a pack for that matter, meant losing a part of myself. I’ve been courted by both, even as a beta, and it always felt like I’d have to shrink to fit. To become… less." I meet his steady, unwavering gaze. "But I’m starting to seriously doubt that theory."

And I mean it. Being with him… with James, even Dorian… None of them make me feel smaller. If anything, they’re showing me different pieces of who I could be if I’d just stop being so damn afraid.

Cole’s free hand comes up, his calloused fingertips impossibly gentle as they cup my cheek, tilting my face toward his. "Elena…" The way he says my name… I lean into his touch, letting myself be vulnerable in a way that would have sent me running for the hills just a week ago.

"I’m scared," I whisper, the admission a raw ache in my chest, but also a strange sort of relief.

"Of what?" he murmurs, his thumb stroking softly along my cheekbone, his eyes searching mine.

"Of… of wanting this," I confess, my voice barely audible. "Of finally discovering that maybe, I don’t have to choose between my independence and having… connection. Real connection.

His thumb brushes my lower lip, a feather-light touch that makes my breath catch in my throat. "You don’t have to figure it all out today, you know," he says, his voice a low, husky rumble.

"No," I agree, my voice equally breathless. "But I think… I think I’m finally ready to stop running away from possibilities."

He leans in then, slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to stop him.

I don’t.

When his lips meet mine, it’s deep, intentional… a slow-burning kiss that speaks of promise, of understanding, of desire. There’s heat, god yes, but it’s not the kind that scorches. It’s steady. Grounding. A warmth that reaches all the way in and says: you’re safe here.

It’s… perfect.

His hand slides into my hair, fingers threading gently as he tilts my head to deepen the kiss. I sink into him. Into the quiet strength of his body, into this moment of breathtaking clarity by the hidden pond, painted in the first strokes of sunset. When we finally, reluctantly pull apart, we’re both a little breathless.

"I should probably get you home," he murmurs, his lips still brushing mine. "Before I completely forget I have responsibilities."

"Responsibilities are highly overrated," I tease, my voice still husky, but I let him help me to my feet—even as my legs wobble like over-proofed dough.

The walk back to my apartment building is different. The air is now filled with a new, vibrant energy, a palpable sense of possibility that hums between us.

At my building’s entrance, Cole turns to me. Before I can find the words to say anything, he kisses me again. Just once. Soft, sweet, and so full of tender promise it makes my heart take flight.

"See you tomorrow?" His eyes search mine, a hopeful smile playing on his lips.

"Tomorrow," I confirm, my voice barely a whisper, but my smile says everything else.

Chapter twenty-five

Dorian

The Lake's Edge is decidedly less chaotic tonight. A smattering of locals drink their pints, a few contestants are scattered about, replaying their foraging day, and then there’s me, nursing a decidedly expensive scotch at the bar, my head full of Elena.

Seeing her bathed in the golden light of the alcove, her eyes lit with that fierce yet hesitant passion as she spoke about her baking… the image keeps looping in my mind. Mon Dieu, why does this particular beta stir something so deeply protective in me? Sure, her scent is undeniably alluring. And yes, there’s a fire in her that outshines any omega I’ve ever met. But still… she’s a beta.

"Mind if I join you?"

I turn to find Cole settling onto the adjacent barstool, his uniform radiating an aura of quiet authority. There's something different about him tonight. A softness around the edges that wasn't there before.

"Please," I reply. "Whiskey?"

"Wouldn't say no to that," he replies, his voice a low rumble.

I nod to the bartender. "Maker's Mark, neat, for my friend here."

We sit in thoughtful silence for a moment after his drink arrives. I appreciate this about him. His ability to simply be, without needing to fill every silence with meaningless chatter. It’s a rare and undervalued quality in a world that seems increasingly terrified of quiet.

"Saw Elena earlier," he says finally, his voice casual, as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass. "Walked her home after her feedback session."

Something in my chest gives that familiar, unwelcome little clench. Not jealousy, not precisely. More like… a keen, proprietary longing. A ridiculous, entirely unfounded notion, given our… complicated connection. "Oh?" I manage, keeping my own voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the internal gymnastics currently taking place. "And how did our rising star baker seem?"

"Thoughtful," Cole says, taking a slow, appreciative sip of his whiskey. "Definitely processing things. She did mention your feedback session was… pretty intense."

I can’t help the small, almost involuntary smile that tugs at my lips. "She has a remarkable potential. An authentic voice." I pause, thinking of her hesitant declaration about her idea for the final challenge. "She just needs—"

A wave of sweet perfume and high-pitched giggles cuts through the air. Two omegas, both undeniably beautiful and radiating an almost aggressive level of flirty confidence (fueled, clearly, by more than a few drink), detach themselves from a more sober-looking pack of two and zero in on us.

"Well, hello there, handsome!" one of them, a vivacious blonde with blue eyes that promise a night of questionable decisions, purrs, leaning a little too close to me, her ample cleavage demanding my attention. "Mr. Beaumont, isn't it? Fancy seeing you here. And you, Mr. Uniform!" She turns her dazzling, if slightly unfocused, smile on Cole. "Saved any damsels in distress tonight?"

Her friend, a sultry brunette with a pout that could launch a thousand bad pick-up lines, giggles, her gaze overly bold as she appraises us both like prime cuts of meat. "We could certainly liven things up for you alphas. My friend Brenda here," she gestures to the blonde with a flourish, "is very good at… livening things up. Aren't you, Bren?"

Brenda lets out a breathy laugh and leans in, eyes glassy and eager. "Only if you like a little heat with your dessert," she purrs, one hand lazily reaching toward my chest.

Their two more sober friends, who look like they’d rather be anywhere else on earth right now, roll their eyes in perfect, exasperated synchronicity. "Brenda! Tiffany! Come on!" one of them hisses, tugging urgently at Brenda’s arm. "They look busy!"

I deploy my most charming, ‘thank you, but my mind is rather inconveniently engaged elsewhere’ smile. "You are both incredibly lovely, ladies, and I am truly flattered by the offer," I say, my tone gentle but unmistakably firm. "But I'm afraid my attention, and I believe the Lieutenant’s as well, is… already very much spoken for tonight."

Cole, to his credit, just nods solemnly, looking every inch the stoic, unavailable hero. "Just enjoying a quiet drink with a friend, ma'am."

Brenda’s smile falters for a millisecond before she recovers with a determined, boozy little toss of her blonde curls. "Oh, come on, don't be such a spoilsport!" Tiffany whines, pouting prettily, her hand inching its way toward my thigh under the bar. "We just want to have some fun! And you two look like you know all about fun."

Their two more sober, and clearly mortified, friends seize their chance. "Brenda! Tiffany! That's our cue! We are so leaving! So incredibly lovely to have briefly harassed you, Mr. Beaumont!" And with a series of profuse apologies, nervous smiles, and surprisingly effective leveraging techniques, they manage to steer their giggling, protesting friends away from the bar toward the relative safety of the exit.

"Sorry about that Cole," I say, a wry smile touching my lips as I watch the chaotic retreat. "It seems the festival spirit is running a little high tonight."

Cole just grunts, a hint of weary amusement in his eyes. "Occupational hazard when you’re a person of public interest, I guess. Or just wearing a uniform near tipsy omegas." He takes another sip of his Maker’s Mark. "So, you were saying?"

Ah, yes." I bring my attention back to the far more compelling subject at hand. "Elena has the talent. She has the vision. What she’s missing is belief in herself." I pause, letting the words settle. "That’s what I tried to instill in her during our feedback session this afternoon. Not just by telling her, though I certainly did that, but by trying to make her feel it."

"Well," Cole muses, his gaze meeting mine with that surprising directness again, "might've worked, Dorian. She told me she was ready to stop running from things. And I don’t think she meant just baking."

The words catch me off guard. Does that mean—

"Makes you wonder, right?" Cole cuts into my thoughts.

"What do you mean?"

"You, me… James. Her. What that could mean. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. And I know she's been seeing James." He shrugs. "Doesn’t bother me. Seems like it’s been good for her. So yeah… I’ve been thinking too. About what it might mean. For me. For her. Maybe even for all four of us."

I’m quiet for a beat, turning over his words. Cole is surprisingly perceptive. "I was wondering something similar," I finally admit. "Though in my world…" I sigh. "Everything is a transaction. A deal. Leverage. Seeing a beta? Let alone… sharing outside my circle?" I shake my head slowly. "That'd be… unprecedented."

"Doesn't make it wrong, though, does it?" Cole counters.

I study him, this quiet, steadfast man who protects and serves rather than acquires and controls. A man who doesn’t give a damn about circles or image.

What if he’s right? What if I’ve been so conditioned to calculate risk, I’ve forgotten how to recognize something worth the risk? Would it really matter if people talked?

"If something were to happen between Elena and… us," I say quietly, "would you really be open to all of it? Not just the physical side or the idea of sharing… but her fears, her ambitions, her heart?"

"Without a single damn hesitation."

Chapter twenty-six

Elena

I’m curled up on couch, a steaming mug of chamomile tea in hand, finally indulging in an episode of Love & Lattes, the kind of cheesy rom-com series I never usually have time for.

On screen, the brooding coffee shop owner is just about to confess his love to the clumsy barista in the middle of a latte art competition.

Naturally, that’s when my phone rings, shattering the serenity like a tray of cappuccino cups crashing to the floor. I jolt and nearly spill my tea.

"Elena, sweetie! How's my little baking champion doing? Are you out-baking and out-charming everyone, as per usual?" Mom's voice is like a warm hug through the phone.

"Hi, Mom! How's—"

"Oh my," she interrupts, gasping dramatically. "Is that a sparkle in your voice? Elena, sweetie, you sound positively effervescent! Don’t tell me you finally met some dashing young man… or maybe more than one, given that extra glow?"

I nearly choke on my tea. "Mom! Goodness, no. Nothing like that." Or is it entirely like that? "The competition is fierce, as expected. But one of the judges gave me some really… insightful feedback today. It’s got me thinking."

"Oh? Thinking about what, love bug?"

"Just… about not being afraid to put myself out there more. To be a bit more… me, in my baking. You know, experiment a little, not just stick to Pierre’s classic repertoire, as much as I love it." The fearless, authentic me that Dorian seemed to see so clearly.

"Elena Marie, that's the best news I've heard all week!" Mom exclaims, and I can practically hear her beaming through the phone. "You have such a wonderfully creative spirit, sweetie. It’s high time the world saw it!"

We chat for another twenty minutes. Mom, bless her heart, manages to seamlessly transition from enthusiastic life coach to offering unsolicited advice about being open to love. Still, by the time we hang up, I feel like I've been cradled in her arms. Relaxed.

My earlier pasta dinner long digested, I find myself still buzzing. Mom's 'sparkle in your voice' comment echoes. Am I really sounding that different? Does all this… alpha interaction… really reverberates through my being, way beyond just making my head clear?

I think I need a spiritual consultant: Mia.

Houston, we have a situation. Festival Day 3 has officially entered the 'WTF is my life?' zone. Urgent debrief & industrial-strength coffee required. Free for emergency coffee tomorrow morning?

P.S. Haven't forgotten your request for full spice.

Her reply pings back almost before I hit send.

ELENA! My psychic senses were tingling! Can't wait to hear it ALL! Tomorrow, 8 AM, 'The Daily Grind'? I'm clearing my schedule. And I expect details, girl. Names, ranks, and levels of hotness.… don't leave anything out!

I can't help but grin. Mia's ability to read my mind is a superpower.

You have NO idea the half of it. See you at The Grind, 8 AM sharp. Bring a notepad. This might take a while.

Phone tossed aside, I drift over to the window, watching streetlights cast halos in the slight evening mist. Just as I’m contemplating the merits of continuing my show versus just face-planting into bed, three soft, distinct raps sound at my apartment door.

My heart does a startled leapfrog right into my throat. It's around nine, who on earth could that be at this hour? It's far too late for casual visitors. Mia's accounted for so… Cole? After that kiss, could he be back for an encore? The thought sends a little shiver down my spine that’s not entirely unpleasant. Just please, please don't let it be Mrs. Nguyen from 2B with another lecture on the "societal impact of late-night oven usage."

Holding my breath, I creep to the door and peer through the peephole. A knot tightens in my gut.

Dorian.

Standing in my slightly dingy hallway, looking about as out of place as a truffle in a box of Cracker Jacks.

I yank the door open, my brain instantly shifting into panic mode. "Dorian? What in the name of all that is holy and covered in ganache are you doing here?" I hiss, my voice a strangled whisper. My eyes dart nervously up and down the blessedly empty hallway. "Are you actively trying to get me disqualified? Thrown out of the festival? Publicly shamed? If anyone sees you…"

"Relax, Elena, deep breaths," he says, his voice a low, soothing counterpoint to my internal shrieking. "No one saw me. The streets are practically catacombs right now. And it's not that late, is it?" He offers a tentative, hopeful smile that somehow makes him look both incredibly powerful and ridiculously vulnerable, which is just unfair.

I chew on my lower lip, my mind a frantic scramble of pros, cons, and the sheer, unadulterated audacity of him. He looks tired, I notice, but there’s a determined glint in his gray eyes that’s impossible to ignore. With a huff that’s meant to convey stern disapproval but probably just sounds like I’m winded, I grab his arm – god, he’s firm – and yank him inside with more force than I intend.

"Get in here!" I mutter, slamming the door shut behind him and ramming the deadbolt home with a decisive thud. The familiar, comforting scent of my apartment is suddenly overlaid with the unguessable (thanks, DuoBlocks, you mildly competent little chumps) yet distinctly woodsy aroma of him, which is entirely too pleasant.

I lead the way into my small, cluttered-but-cozy living room, hyper-aware of him following just a step behind. My senses are on red alert. Him being here, in my personal space, after everything that’s happened… it's a lot.

"This is," I begin, turning to face him, arms crossing over my chest in what might have looked like a scolding posture if I wasn't wearing koala shorts, "a surprise. A potentially career-ending kind of surprise, but yes, a surprise. To what do I owe this… clandestine visit?"

"Elena, I…" he starts, and for a fleeting second, the polished CEO falters. The man who challenged me, the man I shared electrifying, if complicated, moments with, is standing right there, looking almost… nervous. All my pre-planned sarcastic quips and lectures about decorum dissolve like sugar in hot water.

"Look," he says, taking a deep breath and raking a hand through his perfectly imperfect dark hair. "I know this is… unorthodox. And probably several shades of crazy. But after talking with Cole at the pub, after… well, after today… I just… I had to see you."

He had to see me? The butterflies behind my ribs are now attempting an aerial ballet routine.

"I realize this whole situation is more tangled than a bowl of overmixed spumoni," he continues, his gaze earnest and unwavering, "and my timing is likely terrible, bordering on catastrophic, but I was hoping… I was really hoping we could talk. For real. Somewhere… private. Somewhere we won't be constantly terrified of getting caught when I eventually have to leave… or when you inevitably kick me out."

He takes another breath, the words seeming to rush out now as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve. "I’ve, um, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a car. It should be downstairs in about ten minutes. Ish. It'll hang around for another ten, just in case you need a moment to, you know, find your shoes… and possibly a more substantial pair of pants." A faint smile touches his lips before fading. "It can take us to my villa. It’s quiet. Totally secluded. We could talk. Or just… breathe. No pressure, I swear. Just an evening. A chance to actually connect, away from all this… festival frenzy and the prying eyes of Lakeview." He gestures vaguely, probably encompassing all the competitive stress and public scrutiny. "I promise, Elena, it will be nice."

My jaw is probably somewhere near my kneecaps. His villa? I thought he was staying at The Grand like a normal incognito billionaire. Did he just buy a villa on a whim or something? This man operates on a different planet.

I just stare, my brain feeling like it’s trying to run a marathon in fluffy slippers. Surprise, suspicion, and a giddy, terrifying thrill are engaged in a high-stakes poker game right in the middle of my chest, and they're all bluffing. This is it. The moment of truth. Do I thank him for the undeniably tempting but wildly inappropriate offer and send him packing with a stern lecture on boundaries, or do I… what? Pack an overnight bag and elope to his mystery villa? Take a flying leap into the unknown that could either be the most romantic night of my life or the subject of a very awkward conversation with the festival ethics committee?

"To avoid… creating an even bigger spectacle," he adds quickly, his voice a little tight, "I should probably make myself scarce. Before someone does spot me emerging from your apartment looking like the cat that got the cream. And possibly the entire dairy farm." He attempts a reassuring smile, a valiant effort, but it doesn't quite mask the anxious energy radiating off him. "The driver is discreet. He knows what to do. If you… if you decide to come."

My gaze flits to the window, then back to his ridiculously handsome, hopeful face. I can practically see the risk-reward analysis flashing in his eyes too, the same calculations probably doing a frantic dance on my own face. The allure of a private, uninterrupted evening with Dorian Beaumont versus the very likely, career-ending explosion if this gets out. It's a massive gamble.

"Elena," he says softly, taking a small, almost imperceptible step closer, his voice smooth and intoxicating, "just… consider it." I feel the magnetic pull to close the tiny distance between us, to feel his lips on mine again, to see if our intimate moments together were a fluke or something… more. I wait for him to move further but he doesn't. He waits. Giving me the choice. And that respect, that honorable restraint, makes my resolve wobble precariously.

I’m still silent, my thoughts a jumbled ballet of 'yes,' 'no,' 'maybe,' and 'are you completely insane, Elena Avery?!'. He gives a tiny, almost resigned nod, then turns toward the door. "Might be an idea to check the hallway before I, uh, make my exit? And maybe… a quick glance out your window? Just to make sure the path is clear." His attempt at a casual, debonair departure is endearingly awkward, like a penguin trying to look suave.

I nod numbly, my feet moving on autopilot as I go to peek out my window. The street below is quiet. And there, parked discreetly a little way down, is the same model of sleek, black car that took me to the spa the other day. It's idling patiently, probably waiting for him.

I check the hallway through the peephole. Also empty. I give a jerky nod. Dorian slips out of my apartment as silently as a shadow.

The door closes behind him with a soft, final click, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a decision that feels heavier than a hundred-pound bag of flour.

Chapter twenty-seven

Dorian

I stare out the terrace window, my fingers betraying a tremor I haven’t felt since my first board presentation.

The doorbell's chime sends an unexpected jolt through my chest. I pause at the foyer mirror, smoothing down my shirt. When did I become this nervous about a woman visiting? CEOs have begged for five minutes of my time, and here I am, heart racing like a teenager before his first dance.

Maybe it isn’t even her. Maybe it’s just Marcus, my driver, here to say she's not coming. Maybe she’s realized I’m a complicated billionaire basket case and has wisely opted for a quiet night with a cup of tea and a soap opera.

I check my phone for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. No message. No 'so sorry, can't make it' text. No way to know for sure until I open that ridiculously heavy, carved oak door. What if she—

Stop it, Dorian. Just open the damn door.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders like I'm about to face a hostile takeover, and pull open the door.

Elena.

She actually came.

Seeing her standing on my doorstep, bathed in the soft glow of the porch lanterns, stops all my spiraling thoughts dead in their tracks.

She’s wearing a cream-colored dress, its soft linen skimming her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. It’s understated, unpretentious, and somehow looks more breathtakingly sophisticated on her than anything I’ve seen paraded on the runways at the Milan Fashion Week. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and she’s looking up at me with those remarkable, forest-green eyes, a captivating mix of nervousness and wonder playing across her lovely features.

"Hi," she says, her voice a soft, slightly breathless melody.

"Hi yourself," I manage, my own voice emerging a little rougher than usual. I step aside, gesturing her in. "You look…" I pause, my usual arsenal of compliments suddenly feeling inadequate. "Absolutely beautiful, Elena."

A delicate flush of pink blooms on her cheeks, a lovely contrast to the cream of her dress. "Thank you," she murmurs, stepping over the threshold. "I, uh, I wasn’t entirely sure what one wears to a… a billionaire’s super fancy villa."

"Think of it less as ‘a billionaire’s super fancy villa’ and more as… just my place," the words slip out, honest.

Elena steps further into my two-story foyer, and I watch with fascination as her eyes widen, taking in the cathedral-like ceilings, the original Monet landscape dominating the far wall, and the antique crystal chandelier that probably costs more than a limo. She doesn’t stare with that avaricious gleam I've seen in the eyes of so many visitors though. Instead, she moves with a quiet, almost reverent appreciation, her gaze thoughtful, as if she’s afraid her mere presence might somehow diminish the artistry of the space.

"This is… incredible, Dorian," she breathes, her voice filled with genuine awe as she approaches a Venetian glass sculpture displayed on an antique console table. Her slender fingers hover just above its gleaming surface, a hair's breadth from touching yet not quite making contact. "I feel like I should be wearing white gloves. And possibly a tiara."

"Please don't," I say, a smile tugging at my lips as I move to stand right behind her. The moment I do, the same intoxicating fragrance from our night in the woods reaches me, but with something more. Something fruity and warm. How is it even more potent than I remember?

A protective, deeply possessive feeling I try hard to control stirs within me. "These things," I continue, carefully smoothing the growl out of my voice as I gesture around the room, "they’re meant to be lived with. Not just… looked at." I pause, pressing down the unexpected surge in my chest and regaining a semblance of composure.

"And all this time, I thought you were staying at The Grand…" she chuckles, turning to me with a playful glint in her eye. "Should've guessed you’d just buy a villa for your short stay. You know, a little real estate investing on the side.

"Actually, most people don’t know this, but my grandfather, the one who started the Beaumont brand, he bought this property way back when he had his first successful bakery right here, in Lakeview. It's actually located in the same volcanic area as the Spa where you—"

"Oh my goodness," she cuts in, interrupting my potentially boring ancestral history lesson. Her voice is hushed with awe as she steps toward the heavy crystal decanter on the antique sideboard. "Is that… is that really what I think it is?" Her finger hovers near a dusty, unassuming bottle.

I follow her gaze. "Ah. The Macallan 1947. Yes, it is." I allow a small, proud smile. "You have an impressive eye. Not many people would recognize it."

"My mom and I," she says, turning to me with a wry, endearing grin, "we saw an ad for this on the back of some fancy magazine once. We laughed that we'd buy a bottle one day when my bakery makes its first million." She wrinkles her nose cutely. "Which, at the rate I’m going, might be sometime next century, after I've actually opened one."

I chuckle, pulling the bottle. "Honestly? This tastes like memories and regret with a hint of smoke."

She laughs, an uninhibited laugh that fills the space between us, chasing away some of the room's formidable grandeur. "That may be the most charmingly bleak description of expensive whiskey I've ever heard."

"Here, have a taste." I start to pour, then pause, a better idea sparking, a way to share something more personal. "Actually, while this neat is an experience, I think I can elevate it. For a special occasion." I reach for a few select ingredients.

Her eyes sparkle with a mixture of curiosity and playful suspicion. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Dorian Beaumont?"

"Getting you drunk, Elena Avery, is merely a potential, and possibly quite delightful, secondary objective," I correct with a slow smile, my gaze lingering on her lips for a fraction of a second too long.

I craft our cocktails with a level of care I haven’t put into anything non-business-related in… well, possibly ever. A splash of the Macallan, a whisper of elderflower liqueur I had flown in from a small artisanal producer in France, a squeeze of fresh lemon, a delicate touch of a lavender-infused syrup. When I hand her the beverage in a delicate crystal glass, our fingers brush, the contact landing like a gut punch wrapped in silk. Sharp yet impossibly soft.

"This is… wow," she says after her first sip, her eyes widening in genuine appreciation. "Dorian, this is absolutely amazing. You could open your own cocktail bar with just this one drink."

"Another venture to add to the Beaumont portfolio?" The words come out more bitter than I intend.

Elena studies me over the rim of her glass. "You say that like it's a burden."

I take a large, fortifying sip of my own drink, feeling the peaty warmth spread through my chest. Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s just… her, the way she looks at me like she’s actually seeing me. But I find myself answering with a startling honesty. "Sometimes," I admit, "I do wonder what I would have chosen. If I could start over. If I wasn’t… Dorian Beaumont, born into the Beaumont legacy, with all its accompanying expectations and responsibilities, you know?"

"What would you choose?" she asks softly, her gaze unwavering.

"I think…" I begin, my voice a little rough, "I think I’d want to make things. Real things. Tangible things. With my own hands."

"Like… pastries?" she offers, a tiny, understanding smile playing on her lips.

"Maybe," I concede, a ghost of a smile touching my own lips. "My grandfather, the one who started the Beaumont brand, he was a true craftsman. We used to spend summers together. He'd patiently teach me about different kinds of grains, the art of laminating dough, the satisfaction of creating something delicious from the simplest raw ingredients. The smell of yeast and warm bread is still one of my most potent memories. But that was… before… ‘this’." I gesture vaguely at the opulence surrounding us. "Before it all became about the bottom line, the stock market, the endless obligations."

"It's not too late, you know," she says quietly.

I shake my head, a weary sigh escaping me. "When you’re responsible for the livelihoods of thousands of employees, for billions in annual revenue, for upholding a global brand that bears your family name… You don’t really get to chase vague, romantic dreams."

"So what do you get to chase?" she asks, her gaze still fixed on mine.

The question stops me cold. What do I chase? Quarterly profits? Market expansion? The next acquisition? When did my life become so devoid of actual dreams?

"Come on," I say, desperate to change the subject. "Let me show you something else."

I lead her from the grandeur of the foyer to the music room, a cozier, more intimate space where thousands of vinyls, meticulously curated over decades, span an entire wall from floor to ceiling. Elena’s eyes go wide, her breath catching in a soft gasp.

"Oh. My. God," she breathes, her voice filled with pure, unadulterated reverence. She takes a tentative step forward, then another, as if drawn by an invisible force. "You have… you actually have Kind of Blue!" She practically sprints toward the jazz section, then stops herself abruptly, her hand hovering just inches from the shelf, as if afraid to touch something sacred. "Sorry," she says, a sheepish flush rising on her cheeks that I find utterly endearing. "I just… I really love Miles Davis. And this album… it’s iconic."

"Original pressing," I confirm, a pleased smile spreading across my face as I carefully pull the treasured album from its sleeve. The worn cardboard feels like history in my hands. "My father thinks it's the only way to listen to music, save for a live concert."

"He's right," she says with unwavering conviction, her fingers gently tracing the worn spine of the album cover I’m holding. "Music should be analog. Digital… it just strips away the soul, the warmth, the imperfections that make it real."

Perfect way to put it.

"You know," she adds, looking up at me with a radiant smile that makes my heart do a little flip, "music is exactly like baking. It’s about taking raw, disparate ingredients – notes, rhythms, instruments – and transforming them, with skill, passion and a little bit of magic, into something that touches people. Something that feeds their soul." The air seems to hum with her words, like the drawn-out resonance of a saxophone's final note.

As if on cue, I put the record on the turntable. The faint, familiar hiss and crackle, then the iconic, beautiful opening notes of 'So What' fill the room. Elena closes her eyes, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips as her body sways to the melancholic strains of Miles’s trumpet.

"Dance with me, Elena," I say quietly, extending my hand.

She looks at me, surprise flickering in her eyes, quickly followed by a spark of amusement. "To Miles Davis? In a billionaire’s ridiculously fancy music room? Isn’t that a little… cliché, even for you?"

"Trust me," I murmur, my gaze holding hers.

She hesitates for only a heartbeat, then a slow smile spreads across her face, and she places her hand in mine. It’s warm and fits perfectly.

We do not so much move to the music as slip inside it. She follows my lead with surprising grace, her body seeming to anticipate each gentle dip and turn as if we've danced together a hundred times before.

At the trumpet’s first aching crescendo, I guide her into a slow, unexpected pivot, letting the music swell around us. She laughs quietly, and I feel the vibration of it all the way to my spine, warming places I didn’t know were cold.

As the rhythm deepens, so does our connection. I dip her slightly on a rising brass note, just enough to feel her hand tighten briefly in mine. When she rises again, we lock eyes. God, I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me like this. Or the last time I let myself look back.

The room softens around us. There’s only the hush of her breath, the soulful ache of the trumpet, and the sound of our steps brushing rhythmically over my antique Persian rug. In the amber lamplight, I study the delicate contours of her face: the curve of her lashes, the faint freckles near the bridge of her nose, the way her eyes drift closed as she surrenders completely to the music's embrace.

When the final note hangs in the air before fading to nothing, we're standing impossibly close, her palms resting against my chest where she can surely feel my racing heart. My hands are still circling her waist, and I have no inclination to move them.

"You are," she finally murmurs against my chest, "completely full of surprises, Dorian Beaumont."

"Just getting started, Elena Avery," I whisper back into her hair, the scent of it clouding my senses in the best possible way. Her eyes come up to lock with mine again, a silent question in their depths. "I think there's something else you’ll appreciate." Leading her by the hand, I guide her through the heavy sliding glass doors, out onto the expansive stone terrace.

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the surrounding forest. But it's the view that makes Elena gasp.

The full moon hangs like a giant silver lantern in the inky black sky, its glow turning the vast, dark expanse of Lake Vienne into a sheet of shimmering silver. Steam rises in swirling, ghostly tendrils from my private hot spring, nestled at the edge of the terrace, its surface perfectly reflecting the moon like a captured piece of the night sky. In the far, far distance, the shadowy silhouettes of the distant mountains rise like sleeping giants against the star-dusted horizon.

"This is…" she breathes, her voice filled with wonder as she steps slowly toward the carved stone railing at the edge of the terrace. "It’s… magical, Dorian. Like the spa, but somehow… wilder. More intimate," she pauses, her gaze sweeping across the vista. "Like something out of a dream. Or a fairytale."

"I wanted you to see it like this," I say softly, moving to stand beside her, close but not touching. "Under the moonlight. When it’s… at its most beautiful."

She turns to me, and in that moment, with the stars reflected in her wide gaze, she looks like something from a dream herself. "Why?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes searching mine. "Why are you showing me all of this? Why did you really invite me here tonight?"

Because you make me remember what true beauty actually feels like, Elena. Because you seem to see past the billions, past the Beaumont name, to the actual, flawed, yearning man underneath. Because when I’m with you, I feel like just… Dorian. Not Mr. Beaumont, CEO. Not the heir to a global empire. Just… Dorian, a guy trying to impress a really incredible woman.

"Because you, Elena Avery," I say instead, the words simpler but no less true, "have a real appreciation for beauty."

The air between us crackles, charged with the bewitching magic of the night and the irresistible pull of her scent. She’s close enough that I can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. I could step back. Say something clever. Retreat to the safety of casual flirtation.

But I don’t want to.

So I reach out, my hand trembling imperceptibly, and brush a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek, letting my fingers linger against her soft skin. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into my touch.

And that’s all the permission I need.

I lower my head, our foreheads brushing for the briefest heartbeat. Her breath hitches as my hand slides gently from her cheek to the delicate curve of her jaw, anchoring us both as I close the infinitesimal space between us.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative like a question neither of us is sure we’re allowed to ask. But then she answers. Her lips move against mine with a quiet urgency, a slow deepening that tastes like longing and the lingering sweetness of lavender syrup from our cocktail.

She makes a soft sound sigh, her hands gripping the front of my shirt, grounding us in this moment. The world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the slow brush of our tongues, the warmth of our bodies, the way we seem to fall into rhythm without trying.

And just when I think I’ll never be able to stop, she breaks the kiss, our lips still brushing, her breath coming in soft, ragged gasps.

"Maybe," she whispers, her voice husky, her gaze locked with mine, "maybe we should… go back inside now?"

I don’t need to be asked twice.

* * *

Elena’s breath hitches as I press her against my bed, my hands roaming her curves. Her skin is warm, flushed, and that scent—God, that scent—sweet and heady, like fruits and honey, coils around me, pulling me under. My alpha's been aching for her since the moment she walked into my villa tonight, with her tight little dress clinging to her skin.

“Dorian,” she whispers, her voice a soft plea as she arches beneath me, her thighs parting. My fingers find her, slick and ready, and I groan against her throat. This isn’t like the first time, when I tasted her until she shattered, only for her to fall asleep in my arms. Nor is it like the second time, when we stayed clothed, grinding against each other like desperate teenagers. Tonight, there’s nothing between us.

I shed my clothes, and she watches, her eyes dark with hunger as I free myself, hard and straining for her. I settle between her legs, kissing her deeply, my tongue tangling with hers as I nudge against her entrance. She’s so wet, so warm, and I grit my teeth to keep from losing control.

“Elena,” I rasp, barely holding on. “I need you.”

“Then take me,” she breathes, her nails digging into my shoulders.

"Are you sure you can take my knot?"

She arches toward me, lips brushing my ear.

"Take. Me."

I push into her slowly, savoring the tight, molten heat of her. She gasps, her head tipping back, and I freeze, giving her time to adjust. But then she rolls her hips, urging me deeper, and I can’t hold back. I thrust fully inside, and a low, guttural sound escapes me.

“Fuck,” I rasp, the words spilling out as I start to move. She feels like heaven, her body gripping my knot with every stroke. I angle my hips, finding that spot that makes her cry out, her legs trembling around my waist.

"Dorian, oh god," she moans, her hands fisting the sheets, then finding me; gripping, grounding, pulling me closer. I thrust harder, the rhythm tightening, building. Our bodies are damp, moving in perfect, desperate sync.

Her scent is everywhere and it coils around my brain like smoke. My instincts scream to claim, to bite, to seal her as mine. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in like salvation. My lips graze the tender skin there, and I kiss her, almost bite, my control trembling on a knife’s edge.

She gasps beneath me, hips rising to meet every thrust, and the soft whimpers falling from her lips unravel what’s left of my restraint. I shift my angle, hitting deeper, feeling the growing pressure as my knot begins to swell, locking us tighter with each desperate movement.

"Dorian," she cries out, voice fractured, and that’s all it takes.

She shudders beneath me, her body pulsing around mine. The feel of it makes my knot swell fully, tearing the climax from me with brutal force. I groan her name like a vow, spilling into her as everything else falls away.

I hold her tight through the aftershocks, breath ragged, hearts thundering, our bodies locked together in that perfect, fleeting moment.

* * *

As we lie tangled in the butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets of my oversized bed, the only sounds in the room are our slowing heartbeats and the soft, even rhythm of our breathing.

The air smells of sex and something I can now fully pick out.

Ripe peach… mixed with some kind of honeyed fruit.

When did her smell get so distinct?

"I should probably head home," she murmurs, cutting straight through my thoughts. But she doesn’t move.

Right. Tomorrow is the competition. I go back to being Judge Beaumont, and she goes back to being contestant Elena Avery.

"Stay," I find myself saying, the word escaping before my logical brain can censor it.

She looks up at me then, her eyes shining in the dim moonlight filtering in from the bay window. "Dorian, I can’t," she whispers. "I can’t just… waltz into the festival tomorrow morning wearing this dress... and coming out from one of your cars. People will talk."

I know she’s right. But the thought of her leaving, of this perfect bubble of intimacy bursting, makes my chest ache with a sharp pang of loss. "Let me arrange for a car, then," I say reluctantly, already reaching for my phone on the nightstand. "Marcus can drive you."

"Not the Bentley again, Dorian," she says quickly, a hint of amusement in her voice. "That’s about as discreet as a marching band. Do you have anything… less obvious? Something that doesn’t scream ‘I just spent the night with a billionaire’?"

I nod, a reluctant smile touching my lips. "Understood. I’ll have Marcus bring the Honda. It’s practically invisible." I make the call, keeping my voice low, arranging for the car.

As she begins to gather her discarded clothes, moving gracefully around my ridiculously huge bedroom, I watch her, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in my chest. She looks… right here. Like she belongs. Like this room, this house, this life, has been waiting for her, even if neither of us knew it.

"Elena," I call out softly, just as she reaches for her dress.

She turns, her hair a glorious, tousled halo around her beautiful face. I cross the room to her in three long strides. Before she can speak, I pull her into my arms and kiss her with everything I have left. She melts against me, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me closer, closer still. And for one perfect, timeless moment, nothing else exists.

As we finally break apart, both of us breathless and trembling, I walk her to the waiting car. Before slipping into the back seat, she glances over her shoulder, her green eyes like Imperial Jade in the soft pool of driveway light.

"Thank you," she says simply, her voice a little shaky. "For tonight. For… for everything, Dorian."

And then she’s gone, the unassuming Honda disappearing silently down my long, winding driveway. I stand there longer than strictly necessary, already counting the seconds until I can see her again tomorrow at the festival.

But as I finally turn back toward the house, something strange nags at the edge of my thoughts.

Her scent. That peachy, golden richness. And how she so… effortlessly took me.

Could she—? But then I'd…

I pull out my phone, my fingers scrolling through my contacts, stopping on a name, a number I haven’t used in years. A specialist.

The phone rings twice before it’s answered by a crisp, professional voice. "Mr. Beaumont. This is… unexpected. How can I be of assistance?"

I glance down the empty drive. "I need something. Urgently."

Chapter twenty-eight

Elena

I wake up from a sleep so deep it feels like I’ve been marinating in contentment.

I stretch languidly, every muscle in my body humming a tune of delicious, well-earned soreness. A slow, secret smile curves my lips. Dorian. Last night. His villa. The stars. Mon Dieu…

Right now, all I feel is a warm, fuzzy glow. A bit tired, yes, in that deeply satisfied, bone-weary way, but also strangely, wonderfully energized. It’s like my whole being has been plugged into some high-voltage cosmic charger.

Humming a cheerful, slightly off-key tune, I pad barefoot into the kitchen, my mind already replaying some highlights from the past few days. Cole's strength and the way he makes me feel safe. James dropping his facade and our moments in the hot springs. And Dorian. God, last night…

Everything that should feel complicated somehow feels... right. And I’m enjoying it all.

I open the window in my living room, letting the fresh morning air and the cheerful sounds of Lakeview waking up fill my small apartment. The sun on my face feels glorious.

Two minutes later, I grab my bottle of DuoBlocks from the kitchen counter and tap out the two daily pills that are supposed to keep my hormones in check (I mean, they haven’t been perfect lately. But hey, at least I haven’t ended up bonded or anything). I set them on the small table in the living room, ready to take.

After a quick, refreshing shower where I try very hard not to replay last night some more, I pull on my favorite comfy jeans and a soft t-shirt. Just as I pop two slices of bread into the toaster, my phone rings, Pierre’s name flashing on the screen. Ugh. What does he want?

"Elena," I answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I cross to the open living room window. I lean against the frame, letting the sun warm my skin. "Good morning, Pierre."

"Elena." His gruff voice crackles through the line, thick with his French accent and the usual weight of sky-high expectations. "You are… prepared for tomorrow’s final competition?"

"Yes, Pierre," I reply, though I’m not entirely sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Hmph. You sound different," there’s a pause. "Almost… confident."

Is it that obvious? "Well, I am feeling good about my chances," I say, trying to sound modest. "And actually, I’ve been thinking about what to make. Maybe your classic Lakeview Apple Pie…"

"A masterpiece of generations," he interjects predictably.

"Indeed," I agree quickly. "But I was wondering… what if I were to, say, introduce a subtle hint of cardamom to the apple filling? And perhaps a salted caramel drizzle woven through the lattice top? Just a thought, to give it a modern twist, something… unexpected." I hold my breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion.

Silence stretches on the line. A long, assessing kind of silence that makes me want to check if the call dropped. "Cardamom and salted caramel…" He says at last, before taking another pause. "Perhaps… perhaps we can discuss these… innovations… after the competition. If, and only if, you place in the top three."

My jaw nearly hits the floor. Pierre? Considering changes to his sainted pie recipe? This is monumental. "Thank you, Pierre! And I've got the final covered, I won’t let you down."

"See that you don’t," he grumbles, though there’s now an unexpected lack of his usual bite. "And Elena?"

"Yes?"

"I may be returning to Lakeview a little earlier than planned. Tomorrow, in fact. In time to witness your… performance… in the final."

"Oh! That’s great… Uh, was your trip to France alright?"

"Yes, the… shortened holiday was fine." He clears his throat. "The point is, Elena, I will be there. I expect you to be ready. To honor my bakery’s reputation."

"Understood, Pierre. I’ll make you proud."

"Good." And with a final, curt "Goodbye," he hangs up.

I lean further out the window, a giddy laugh bubbling up. Pierre, the immovable bastion of baking tradition, actually considering my ideas. This day is starting off brilliantly. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, my love life is… delightful, and my curmudgeonly mentor might actually be evolving? Miracles do happen. I’ll definitely rock tomorrow’s final. This is going to be—

The acrid smell of something rudely interrupts my triumphant internal monologue. Smoke!

My head whips around. Oh God. The toaster. My toasts!

I rush back into the kitchen just as the smoke alarm, with a piercing, ear-splitting shriek, decides to join the party. Flames, small but angry, are spreading across the kitchen counter from my toaster slots. And there, right in the danger zone… sits my bottle of DuoBlocks. Close enough to taunt me. Too far to save without risking a trip to the ER.

"No, no, no, no, no!" I shriek, panic a cold fist clenching my heart.

My brain kicks into emergency mode. Fire extinguisher. Hallway. Now!

I fling open my apartment door, the smoke alarm still wailing like a banshee, and grab the heavy red extinguisher from its bracket on the wall. Back in the kitchen, my hands are shaking so badly it takes me three agonizing attempts to pull the pin and get the damn thing operational. All the while, I’m watching in horror as the flames stretch taller.

"Shit! Come on, work, you stupid thing!" I finally manage to unleash a torrent of white foam. After a few long seconds, the fire finally dies with a pathetic hiss, but not before my pill bottle is a melted, blackened mess of plastic.

Silence. Well, save for the dripping of foam and the incessant beeping of the smoke alarm, which I promptly silence by yanking its battery out.

A sudden shout startles me. "Elena! Should I call the fire department?" The unmistakable voice of Mrs. Nguyen (from 2B) rings out from the stairwell, slicing through the quiet

"Sorry, Mrs. Nguyen!" I call back, my voice strained. "Just a small kitchen accident. Everything's fine now!"

She doesn’t reply, but I hear retreating footsteps and the sound of her muttering (something about irresponsible late-night oven usage and now morning fires) until her voice fades entirely.

As silence returns, I turn back to the wreckage on my counter.

My toaster: a casualty of poor wiring.

My favorite box of cinnamon crunch cereal: a smoky mess.

And my DuoBlocks...

My fingers tremble as I sift through the remains.

Burned. Destroyed. Every last one. Gone.

Except… my gaze flies to my small table in the living room. And there they are. The two little blue pills I’d set out just before Pierre called. Two. Only two.

"Okay, Elena, don’t panic," I tell myself, my voice a shaky whisper. "It’s okay. It’s fine." I snatch up my phone, my fingers already dialing the number for the local pharmacy.

"Rosy, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I need an emergency refill of DuoBlocks, please. It’s… urgent."

A sympathetic sigh from the other end. "Oh, I am so sorry. Even with a prescription, we’re totally out. Festival week, you know? It’s like a run on toilet paper before a pandemic. Everyone stocks up."

My stomach clenches. "Out? Completely? Do you know when you’ll get more?"

"Our next shipment isn’t due until Monday, dear."

Monday. The festival ends tomorrow, on Sunday.

I try four pharmacies in the neighboring towns. All the same story. Depleted. Sold out. No DuoBlocks or even suppressants to be had for love or money in a fifty-mile radius.

I sink onto a kitchen stool, staring at the two small, innocent-looking blue pills on my table. My entire supply. Two days of the festival left. Today, and the final tomorrow.

"It’s fine," I say aloud, trying to inject a conviction I absolutely do not feel into my voice. "It’s completely fine. One pill today, one pill tomorrow. That was my old dose anyway. It’ll be enough. It has to be enough."

I swallow today’s pill with a gulp of lukewarm coffee, trying to ignore the voice in the back of my mind whispering that my body is already responding to the alphas even with the medication. That a single dose might not be enough to keep the… symptoms… at bay.

I push the voice away and begin the messy task of cleaning up. The kitchen counter itself is surprisingly almost intact (thank goodness for protective finishes), unlike my peace of mind…

I take a deep breath.

I can't let this throw me off. I’ve handled worse. I can handle this. I just need to stay focused. Positive.

And maybe avoid standing too close to some alphas…

* * *

The chime of the bell above The Daily Grind's door is a welcome sound. Mia, bless her punctual heart, has already claimed our usual cozy corner table, two steaming mugs of what smells like heavenly hazelnut latte already waiting. Her eyes light up when she spots me, then her perfectly sculpted nose wrinkles in confusion.

"Whoa, Elena! Rough morning? Were you attacked by a rogue chimney? You kind of smell like smoke."

I manage a weak grimace as I slide into the seat opposite her. "You could say that. Small kitchen fire. My toaster decided to stage a pretty dramatic protest this morning."

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" Genuine concern flashes across her face, chasing away the teasing glint. "Was it bad? Is the apartment alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. No major damage," I say, deliberately downplaying the incident, and definitely not mentioning the tragic demise of my entire DuoBlocks supply. "Just lost my trusty toaster and a full box of Cinnamon Crunch. I’m kind of bummed about the cereal, actually. It was the limited-edition holiday flavor."

"Oh, thank God it wasn’t worse!" Mia says, visibly relieved. She studies me more closely then, her eyes narrowing with that familiar perception that always makes me feel like she can see straight into my soul. "But wait a minute… there’s something else. Beyond the faint aroma of burnt breakfast. You’re… you’re practically glowing, Elena. What gives?"

I feel the tell-tale heat rise to my cheeks, but for once, I can’t quite suppress the happy dazed smile that’s been plastered on my face pretty much since I woke up—well, incident aside. "So how's the salon going, Mia?"

"Don't you dare try to deflect with pleasantries!" She leans forward, her eyes sparkling with eager curiosity, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've waited long enough. Spill it. Who is responsible for that ‘I-just-had-the-best-night-of-my-life’ look? Wait. Did you see that guy from the bar again?" Oh, she has no idea what she’s missed the past few days.

I take a long, deliberate sip of my latte, letting her squirm with anticipation, savoring the moment. The truth is, I feel lighter than I have in years. More myself. Full of promise.

"Well," I say finally, setting my mug down with a soft clink, watching her jaw practically unhinge as a mischievous smile spreads across my face, "what if I told you yes, but… I also met two more alphas?"

"Elena!" Mia practically squeals, her voice attracting a few curious glances from the other patrons. She claps a hand over her mouth, then leans even closer, her eyes like saucers. "Three? You absolute little minx! You vixen! You… you baking Casanova! I need details! Every single, solitary, scandalous detail! Now!"

"There’s not that much to tell," I protest, but my smile, wider now, totally gives me away.

"Uh-huh. Right. That’s why you’re practically radiating enough bliss to power a small European nation." Her eyes narrow again, then dart to my neck. "And is that… is that a hickey I see peeking out from the collar of your shirt, Ms. ‘Not-Much-To-Tell’?"

My hand flies instinctively to my neck, and Mia lets out a triumphant, if slightly muffled, laugh. "Busted!"

"It’s… it’s probably just ash from this morning!" I stammer, my face now officially on fire.

"Oh my God, Elena!" she whispers, her voice a mixture of awe and delight. "How do you do it? You are literally living every omega’s wildest fantasy right now, and you're not even one! This is… this is epic!"

“It’s not like that,” I reply, something inside me pulsing with the need to tell her the truth. That I’m not really a beta. That I never was. But I swallow it down. “It's just… I don’t know, Mia… It just feels right. Natural. Like this is how things were always supposed to be. Which is totally insane, I know, but…” I trail off, shrugging helplessly.

Mia’s expression softens, her usual teasing glint replaced by a genuine, heartfelt warmth. "Oh, honey." She reaches across the table and gently squeezes my hand. "You deserve this, you know?"

Her words loosen a knot of ingrained caution I didn’t even realize was still there. For so long, I’ve been afraid of wanting too much, of needing anyone, of letting anyone get close enough to potentially hurt me, to derail my laid plans. But now…

"I think… I think I might actually be," I admit quietly, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "Happy, I mean. Really, truly, ridiculously happy."

"Good." Her smile is radiant. "Then it’s about damn time." She squeezes my hand again, her eyes sparkling. "Now, drink your cooling latte, my little beta-in-paradise, and tell Auntie Mia everything. And don’t you dare leave out a single juicy detail! We haven’t had a proper gossip session since… well, since before this whole festival madness started! It feels like ages!"

"Mia, it’s literally been, what, four days?" I laugh.

"Exactly!" she exclaims dramatically. "An eternity! I’ve missed you, babe! We need to schedule some serious bestie time, stat!"

We spend the next twenty minutes in a comfortable, giggling cloud of shared confidences, Mia expertly extracting just enough details to satisfy her boundless curiosity while still respecting my (admittedly somewhat blurry) boundaries. Sharing this feels… so good.

As we finally gather our things to head out for the day, Mia pulls me into a tight, fierce hug.

"I am so incredibly proud of you, Elena," she whispers into my hair, her voice thick with emotion. "For finally letting yourself have this."

Chapter twenty-nine

Elena

The event board stands proudly at the entrance of the competition area, its bold letters announcing today's challenge: 'TASTE IT, NOW MAKE IT.'

A sharp, exhilarating thrill zips through me. This is exactly the kind of event that builds on yesterday’s Foraging Challenge. It's less about memorized recipes, more about technical skill and on-the-fly innovation.

As I weave my way through the gathering crowd of contestants, something feels… different. Off. Several alphas I don’t even know turn their heads as I pass, their nostrils flaring with an unmistakable, almost primal interest. It’s subtle at first, a surprised double-take here, a lingering, slightly unfocused glance there, but the pattern is undeniable. Nearly every alpha I pass seems to notice me.

My gut churns with unease. No way my reduced dose is already ineffective right? It can't be. It’s probably just the lingering smell of smoke from this morning. That’s got to be it. Eau de Burnt Breakfast, irresistibly smoky. I casually sniff my sleeve. Yep. Definite hint of char. And alphas do have those hyper-sensitive noses. That explains it. Phew.

James is already at our station, meticulously organizing his array of gleaming pastry tools. He glances up as I bustle in, attempting to look like I haven’t a care in the world. I watch as his pupils visibly dilate, his hands stilling mid-motion as he polishes a whisk. The look he gives me is different from his usual playful flirtation.

"Morning, Elena," he says, his voice a little huskier than normal. "Sleep well? You look… particularly radiant this morning." His eyes do a slow, appreciative sweep that makes me want to blush like a schoolgirl.

Before I can reply, Dorian’s commanding presence fills the entire area, his voice, smooth and rich as dark chocolate. "Welcome, contestants, to Day Four of the Lakeview Baking Festival!" Dorian's voice cuts through the buzz via a microphone. He’s immaculate, as always, in a crisp white linen shirt and perfectly tailored dark pants; exuding an aura of effortless power.

"Today's challenge, ‘Taste It, Now Make It,’ will test not just your technical skills, but also your ability to think on your feet."

He gestures toward a display table in front of him, where several absolutely perfect, tartes tatin sit nestled under sparkling glass domes, their caramelized, burnished apple surfaces gleaming. "You will each have the opportunity to taste one of Beaumont Patisserie’s signature creations: our classic Tarte Tatin. Then," his gaze sweeps across us, "you will be tasked with recreating it. But, with your own twist. You’ll find everything you need at your stations to get creative."

A collective murmur, a mixture of excitement and sheer terror, ripples through the contestants. Everyone, everyone, in the baking world knows the legendary Beaumont Tarte Tatin. It’s a masterpiece of deceptive simplicity, a notoriously difficult balancing act of bitter caramel, sweet apples, and impossibly flaky pastry. To recreate it with a twist under pressure? That’s just cruel. Beautifully, brilliantly cruel.

"Unlike our previous challenges," Dorian continues, his eyes, I swear, lingering on mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, "today, there will be one, and only one, winner. And the prize for that exceptional baker?" He pauses, a showman’s instinct for dramatic timing clearly one of his many unfair advantages. "The winner of today’s challenge will have the distinct honor, and strategic advantage, of presenting first tomorrow, in the Grand Final Competition. You will set the tone, the standard, for the entire day."

My pulse quickens, a thrill of pure, competitive adrenaline shooting through me. Presenting first… it’s a double-edged sword. A huge advantage if you nail it, setting the bar impossibly high for everyone who follows. A terrible, crushing disadvantage if your creation doesn’t quite live up to the opening slot hype. But I’m definitely not planning on setting any low bars. This is my chance.

"Tomorrow's champion," Dorian adds, his gaze sweeping across us again, but somehow, I feel like he’s speaking directly to me, "will be the baker who doesn't simply try to reinvent the wheel for the sake of novelty. They will be someone who understands tradition, respects the classics, but also has the courage, the vision, to add something authentically theirs to their creation. Innovation within tradition. Evolution, not revolution. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the hallmark of a true champion baker."

The message, so perfectly timed with my own recent creative awakening, lands with the force of a perfectly thrown football. It’s as if the universe itself, or at least the billionaire alpha demigod currently holding us all captive with his gaze, is aligning to give me exactly the push I need.

When my turn finally comes to taste the legendary Beaumont Tarte Tatin, I step up to the display table with a strange mix of reverence and nerves. Dorian stands like a sentinel beside it, as if personally safeguarding every perfectly caramelized inch of his intellectual property.

When our eyes meet, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. And for a fleeting moment, his silver-gray gaze darkens before his expression shutters back into polished judge mode.

He slices a gleaming wedge and places it in front of me with deliberate care.

“Mademoiselle Avery,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I quickly turn my attention to the tarte, trying to regain my composure.

The first bite is… a revelation. A symphony. The pastry, impossibly thin, shatters with a delicate, buttery sigh, giving way to layers of perfectly caramelized, tender-yet-still-slightly-firm apples that melt on my tongue. Butter, rich and nutty. Vanilla, fragrant and warm. A subtle hint of cinnamon, a whisper of star anise… My baker’s mind automatically begins to deconstruct each layer, cataloging flavors, textures, techniques. It’s… flawless. Utterly, intimidatingly flawless.

"Ready to lose to me today, Elena?" James’s voice, smug and far too close, purrs in my ear, making me jump and nearly choke.

I turn to find him grinning, that competitive glint back in his bright blue eyes. There’s an edge to his playfulness today, though, a sharper, more focused intensity that I haven’t seen since our very first, rather contentious, challenge encounter.

"In your dreams," I retort, surprising myself with the sudden surge of confidence my own voice. "Watch and learn. And try not to drool on your side of the station."

His grin widens, but I catch something else in his expression too. A flicker of calculation, maybe?

"Big talk from someone who still smells of burned toast," he says, leaning closer. "Let’s see if you can actually back it up, sugar."

"Contestants, to your stations!" Parker's voice suddenly booms through the area, interrupting our little standoff. "You have two hours! Your time… begins… NOW!"

The area erupts into a controlled, adrenaline-fueled chaos as everyone rushes to their station.

As I gather my ingredients, my mind races with possibilities. The Beaumont Tarte Tatin is a classic for a reason. How will I not mess with that kind of perfection?

I take a deep breath. I can add my own twist. Maybe that lavender-infused honey I’ve been experimenting with, it will add a delicate, almost ethereal floral sweetness… yes. And maybe a subtle whisper of orange blossom water in the caramel, to give it an unexpected lift.

My hands, thank God, move with their usual practiced certainty, measuring flour, cutting butter into perfect, chilled cubes. The familiar, comforting rhythm of baking begins to settle over me like a warm, weighted blanket, soothing some of my earlier anxieties. This is where I belong. This is where I’m most myself. This is where I can shine.

I’m just coaxing the apples and caramel toward that perfect amber hue when I sense a familiar, steady presence at my side.

“Hey, Elena.”

It's Cole. He’s checking the fire extinguisher mounted on the edge of my station, but his eyes keep drifting my way. And I don’t miss the subtle flare of his nostrils.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of my potential scent.

“Everything… alright over here, Elena?” he asks. His tone is casual. Too casual. But his gaze is anything but.

“Perfectly fine, Cole,” I say, aiming for breezy and unconcerned. Not at all like someone whose omega scent might be sending out unintentional come hither signals to every alpha within a five-mile radius. “Just, you know… trying not to set anything on fire today.”

Boy, if he knew…

He nods, but there’s something unsettled in his expression. "You just… you seem a little different today."

A shiver of dread grips my center. Different how? Different like I’m about to go into full-blown heat in the middle of a locally televised baking competition? Different like I reek of desperate omega pheromones? "Different?" I manage, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the sudden surge of panic. "Good different, I hope?"

He opens his mouth, as if to elaborate, then seems to think better of it, closing it again with a slight shake of his head. "Never mind," he says, his voice rough. "Just… good luck with your bake, Elena."

As he moves away, resuming his rounds, I catch him taking one last surreptitious sniff in my direction. A chill, cold and sharp, runs down my spine, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature at my station.

Focus, Elena! Focus! You have a Tarte Tatin to make.

The next hour flies by in a blur of movements and calculated risks. My tart, thank the pastry gods, comes together beautifully: the apples are perfectly caramelized, tender yet holding their shape, the pastry underneath is golden brown and impossibly flaky. I carefully brush on my signature lavender-honey glaze, the delicate floral aroma mingling with the rich caramel and buttery pastry. Then, a delicate swirl of orange blossom-infused caramel, adding a bright, unexpected citrusy note. It’s good. It’s really good.

I’m just about to add small, candied violets for a touch of color and a subtle crunch when James looks over my elbow, his expression serious.

"That looks… incredible," he says, his blue eyes studying my creation with an appreciative gaze. "Really beautiful work."

"Thanks, James," I reply, carefully arranging the delicate candied violets with a pair of tweezers.

"But…" he hesitates, and I look up, my heart sinking a little. I find him frowning slightly, his head tilted as he scrutinizes my tart. "The sugar ratio in your final glaze… it seems a little… light."

I straighten, my tweezers still poised precariously over the tart. "What do you mean, light? It’s exactly what I calculated. The honey adds sweetness, the orange blossom water balances it…"

"The honey in your glaze, yes, it adds sweetness," he explains, gesturing toward my nearly completed masterpiece, "but it’s a floral sweetness. It’s going to mute the overall impact of the caramel, especially with the tartness of the apples. And that orange blossom water, while lovely, it also cuts through the richness. You need more straightforward sugar in that final glaze, to really make those flavors pop, to give it that perfect balance. Trust me on this one."

I look down at my tart, a sudden wave of doubt washing over me. Everything in me is screaming that it’s perfect as is. But James… James has more competition experience than I do. He’s won multiple regional contests, even a national championship. He knows what these judges look for. Maybe he sees something I don’t? Maybe my own palate is compromised by… well, my medication.

"How… how much more sugar are you thinking?" I ask hesitantly.

"I’d say increase it by about seven percent. Maybe even nine, to be safe," he advises, his voice confident. "The judges, especially at this level, they want flavors that really stand out, that make an impact. Not subtle little hints they might miss if they’re not paying close enough attention."

"Three minutes left!" Chen calls out. Three. Minutes. There’s no time for lengthy deliberation.

"Elena," James presses, his voice softer now, but with an undercurrent of urgency. "You don’t want to play it too safe. Not now. Not when you’re this close. Trust me."

Something about his tone, about the unwavering sincerity in his eyes, makes me look at him more closely. There’s no trace of his usual teasing smirk, no hint of playful arrogance. Just… earnest conviction. And that competitive edge, yes, that’s still there, but… he wouldn’t deliberately try to sabotage me. Would he? The thought is ugly, unwelcome, but it flickers there nonetheless.

"Two minutes, bakers!" Chen calls out again.

I notice my hands trembling slightly as I reach for the sugar canister. Every instinct screams no, but I go for it anyway, adding more sugar to the glaze. I work fast, brushing the now unmistakably sweeter mix over the tart’s glossy surface before finishing with a final scattering of violet petals.

"TIME! Step away from your creations, please!"

I place my tweezers down with a trembling hand, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The tart looks beautiful, glistening under the bright sun. But a knot of doubt is already forming in gut. I hope I didn't just ruin my perfect balance…

Chen, Dorian and Parker move through the stations methodically, their expressions carefully neutral as they taste and take meticulous notes. My station is near the end of their route. The wait is agonizing.

When they finally reach it, I hold my breath, trying to project an aura of calm, confident professionalism I am very, very far from feeling.

Judge Chen takes a small bite first, her eyes widening. "Oh," she says, a note of genuine surprise in her voice. "Wow. This is… exceptional, Ms. Avery. The lavender-honey glaze is inspired, and the way you’ve incorporated that hint of orange blossom water into the caramel… it’s the perfect contrast." She takes a second, much bigger bite. "Genius."

Judge Parker, after a thorough, almost forensic examination of the tart’s structure, nods in slow, deliberate agreement. "Yes. This might actually be an improvement on the original Beaumont recipe. The balance, the innovation… it's magnificent!"

My heart soars, along with relief. So I guess James was right.

Then Dorian takes his bite.

His expression remains carefully neutral as he chews slowly, thoughtfully, his silver-gray eyes unreadable. I know him well enough now (or at least I think I do) to catch the almost imperceptible flash of pride, of pleasure, in their depths as he savors the first mouthful. But then… something changes. A tiny, almost invisible furrow appears between his perfectly sculpted brows. He takes another, smaller bite, his expression becoming more critical, more… analytical.

"Beautifully executed, Ms. Avery," he says finally, his voice carrying that formal, impartial, ‘Judge Beaumont’ tone. "The innovation is indeed impressive, as my colleagues have noted. Your technical skills are, as always, flawless." He pauses, and my gut tightens further, bracing for the inevitable ‘but.’ "Though…" And there it is. "Perhaps just a touch too sweet for a truly perfect balance. The delicate subtlety of your lavender, and the grace notes of the orange blossom, they are… ever so slightly… overwhelmed by the sugar."

The words hit me like an anchor. Too sweet. The extra sugar.

I steal a glance at James beside me, his attention locked on the judges. When Dorian makes his comment, I catch the faintest flicker across James’s face. Satisfaction? Disappointment? Regret? It’s gone too quickly for me to tell.

Chapter thirty

James

I sit on a wooden bench at the edge of the festival grounds, absently watching the afternoon crowd drift between the vendor stalls. The ambient laughter and music fade to background noise as my thoughts circle back to this morning's challenge.

More specifically, back to Elena.

Her scent was stronger. More distinct. Like peaches bursting with juice… laced with honey and—

I don’t even get to the end of the thought before the memory makes my fingers curl hard into the wood beneath me.

The moment she stepped into her station today, her scent hit me, and something primal inside me snapped. Something possessive. Territorial. A fierce urge to pull her close, to shield her, to stake a claim. It was… disconcerting. And more than a little terrifying, if I’m being honest with myself. Which I’m trying to be. More often, these days. Probably thanks to her.

Which is why, if I honestly reflect on my advice to her, I'm not one hundred percent sure my intentions were in the right place. I mean, consciously, yes. But unconsciously, maybe my alpha wanted to... exert control? The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Even more so since my advice, however well-intentioned I believed it to be, wasn't quite right.

"I fucked up." The words escape my lips before I can catch them, earning curious glances from a passing couple. I force a smile that feels more like a grimace, nodding awkwardly as they continue on their way.

But yet she still won first place today. I am proud of her for this. Genuinely proud. Even with my father's voice in the back of my head sneering 'Second place is just the first loser, James. Reynolds men don’t settle for second best'.

Ugh, I really hate conflicting emotions.

"Mom, can we try the honey tarts? Please?" A small voice pulls me out of my spiral. Nearby, a little girl with pigtails tugs at her mother’s sleeve, pointing eagerly toward a stall.

"We just had churros!" the mother laughs, but she's already reaching for her wallet.

"But these are special festival churros," the girl insists with the impeccable logic of a child.

I find myself smiling despite my mood. The simple joy of a sugar rush, that's something I understand.

But as my thoughts drift back to Elena, something nags at the edge of my consciousness. A possibility I've been avoiding that makes a terrifying amount of sense.

What if Elena isn't actually a beta at all?

It would explain so much. Notably, the way Dorian, Cole, and I seem to be orbiting her like moths to a flame.

But everyone in town seems convinced she's a beta… and she's been here for three years. Surely, she couldn't have been on medication that entire time? That would be incredibly risky for her health. And if she were, how would I be able to smell her so clearly now?

Wait a minute. Logic aside, if she's an omega, and I can detect her scent this strongly, and I'm reacting to her with this much... possessiveness... could we be...?

"It’s unlike you to be brooding." A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts, low and teasing. "Mind if I join you?"

Chapter thirty-one

Cole

I lean against an oak tree at the edge of the now-quiet competitors' area, clipboard in hand, ostensibly reviewing this morning's safety incident reports. The actual words, however, blur into meaningless squiggles. My mind, much like my heightened senses, is fixed on one thing. Or rather, one person.

How was I able to smell her that strongly? That… specifically? Could she…

"Cole."

My head snaps up. Dorian and James are approaching, their expressions a mirror image of my own internal state: serious, concerned, and more than a little bewildered. Like two men who’ve just witnessed a magic trick and are desperately trying to figure out how it was done. Or maybe, like men who’ve just realized they’re all unknowingly part of the same, fragrant illusion.

"Got a minute?" James asks, his usual easy swagger noticeably absent. He glances around, ensuring we're relatively alone.

I nod, tucking the clipboard under my arm. "What's up, guys?"

Dorian runs a hand through his usually immaculate dark hair. "We’ve been talking, James and I," he begins. "About… Elena."

Something tightens in my chest, protectiveness, possessiveness, a messy surge of alpha instincts still on edge after this morning’s challenge. "What about her?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral.

James steps closer, lowering his voice, though there’s hardly anyone around to overhear. "Did you happen to notice anything… different about her today? Anything unusual?"

I glance between them, two alphas who shouldn’t have anything in common, and yet somehow, they do. We do. A strange, almost brotherly bond formed under pressure, focused entirely on her. “You mean her scent,” I state, not a question.

Dorian’s shoulders relax by an infinitesimal degree, a sigh escaping his lips. "So you noticed it too."

“Hard not to,” I admit, thinking back to the way it hit me at her station this morning. If it had been nighttime, I swear my alpha instincts would’ve had me howling at the moon.

James looks from me to Dorian, then back at me. "What did you smell, exactly? Be specific."

The question feels so intimate, I’d normally growl at anyone else to back the hell off.

“The ripest peach you’ve ever smelled,” I say slowly. “With these deeper notes of…” I pause, trying to pin down the more complex layers. “Honeyed f—”

"Honeyed figs!" James and Dorian exclaim at the exact same moment.

We stare at each other, the implications hanging heavy in the air between us.

"Holy shit," James whispers, running a hand through his hair. "If we're all smelling exactly the same thing..."

"And we really all noticed it independently," Dorian continues, his usually smooth voice now laced with incredulity

"She's not only an omega," I finish, the truth, the impossible, undeniable truth, settling into place. "She's our…"

“Scent match!” we all say at once.

We stand there stunned for a long moment, taking it all in. Around us, the festival continues its cheerful routine: vendors calling out their wares, children laughing, music drifting on the warm breeze. We, on the other hand, are in our own private bubble, separated from the world by this potentially life-altering realization.

"Scent matches," James repeats, finally cutting through the silence. "All three of us. Who just met. With her. Is that even statistically possible?" He looks from me to Dorian, his expression a mixture of utter confusion, dawning wonder, and a healthy dose of ‘what-the-hell-do-we-do-now?’.

"Unlikely," I acknowledge, "but possible."

“But how is she only presenting now?” James asks, frowning. “I thought omegas presented around eighteen.”

I consider this, my mind automatically sifting through everything I know about omega biology. "It’s possible she’s a late bloomer," I offer, the theory forming even as I speak it. "In some very rare cases, omegas don’t fully present until their mid-twenties. Or even later. Their scent remains muted, beta-like, until someone… or in this case 'someones'… trigger the full presentation."

Another heavy silence descends as we all contemplate the implications of that. Meeting us. Her scent matches. Triggering her.

“That would explain a lot,” Dorian murmurs, almost to himself. “Her scent’s been intensifying ever since I met her.” He pauses, and something in his expression falters, like the thought physically pains him. “She probably doesn’t even realize what’s happening. And if she does… she must be so confused. Scared.”

“And since an omega’s first heat usually hits right around presentation…” I begin, the implications hitting me like the business end of a firehose. “If that’s what’s about to happen… with the final competition tomorrow…” I blow out a breath. “Christ. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

If she really is heading into her first heat… I grit my teeth. It’s going to be brutal. There’s no way she’ll be in any shape to compete.

"Wait, so, hang on," James cuts in, his expression a comical blend of dawning comprehension and utter bewilderment. "If she’s our scent match, and she’s about to go into heat… does that mean we’re, like, supposed to form a pack or something? Is that how this works? Because, I mean, I was definitely attracted to her from the get-go, no question there, and I surprisingly really vibe with you guys, but… a pack? How does that even work? Do we draw straws? Take turns? Is there a rota?"

It’s a valid, if somewhat crudely phrased, question. Most alphas in their thirties, like Dorian and I, are already settled, either in packs or in monogamous relationships. If they're not settled, younger alphas like James typically get invited into an existing pack by the dominant alpha if there’s a strong vibe. So yeah, having three single alphas, one newly presenting omega, all scent-matched… it's confusing.

"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, James," Dorian finally says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "One step at a time. Before any decisions are made about… pack dynamics, or rotas, or anything else… Elena needs to know. She deserves to understand what’s happening to her own body. And she deserves to make her own choices, fully informed."

I nod in immediate, absolute agreement. "He’s right. Our first priority, our only priority right now, has to be Elena. Her well-being. Her ability to compete tomorrow. So we have to tell her now, so she can take appropriate measures… like, uh, maybe some kind of medication."

“Agreed,” Dorian says.

James echoes it. “Agreed.”

“…Though,” he starts again, rubbing the back of his neck, “Speaking of medication, I’ve been thinking—well, actually, I told myself I was being paranoid—but… just for the sake of discussion… don’t you think there’s a tiny chance she already knows? That maybe she’s been hiding her designation?”

That stops both of us.

James shifts, eyes darting between us like he’s testing the weight of his own theory. “I mean, I know it's unlikely. Like why would we even smell her if she was on meds? But… what if?" He hesitates. “If that’s the case, springing some big ‘surprise, you’re an omega’ moment on her could go even worse.”

Another silence stretches. Uneasy. Considering.

Then James mutters, “I mean, it's probably dumb. Why would she even hide it? Sure, there’s still some old-fashioned prejudice out there, but it’s not like being an omega is a death sentence for your career anymore. Plenty of omegas have successful, high-powered jobs these days."

“Well,” I say slowly, thinking of my department’s sister division handling omega crises, “while it’s legal and more common now, it’s still not easy. There’s the constant, often unwanted attention from alphas. The pressure to mate, to settle down, to pop out babies. Safety concerns during heats. Subtle discrimination in certain fields." I shake my head. "I'm not saying I agree with your theory, but being an unmated omega who just wants to focus on her career and live her life on her own terms… it isn’t easy. Even in supposedly progressive places."

"Which is ridiculous," Dorian adds, his voice tight with a sudden anger that surprises me. "If she were my omega, I would encourage her to do whatever she damn well pleases. She could run my entire patisserie division, or open her own chain of bakeries, or decide to become a professional dancer. I wouldn’t care. As long as she was happy. Fulfilled. Though," he pauses, an almost sheepish smile touching his lips, "I would also derive immense pleasure from showering her with gifts and ensuring she never had to worry about working another day in her life, if that was her desire." He pauses for a second and sighs. "But I guess it’s precisely that kind of well-intentioned, yet rather possessive instincts that can make it seem… easier for an independent omega to just hide."

"Exactly," I nod, then steer us back to the point. "And circling back to Elena possibly hiding her status… she’s been living and working in Lakeview for over three years. You can’t stay on meds indefinitely without a break, it’s dangerous. Most doctors recommend at least one off-cycle a year. If she’d done that, even once, someone would’ve noticed. Her scent would’ve shifted. She would’ve gone into heat. And in a town as gossipy as Lakeview?" I shake my head. "There’s no way it would’ve stayed under wraps."

"Agreed," Dorian says, nodding slowly. "The late-bloomer theory is far more likely in this scenario."

"Late bloomer it is," James nods.

A beat of silence stretches, each of us now exchanging an uncertain glance.

"So," James finally breaks the silence, clearing his throat. "Who tells her?"

Chapter thirty-two

Elena

"Welcome, bakers, to our final workshop before the grand finale tomorrow!" Judge Chen announces. "This is a low-pressure, purely for-fun session on advanced decorative techniques. Think of it as a chance to play, to relax, to let your creative muscles stretch a bit before the main event. No judging, no critiques, just pure, joyful artistry!"

I try to summon some of that joyful artistry, I really do. My station is a Willy Wonka-esque dream of tempered chocolate in various shades, an arsenal of gleaming piping tips, and tiny pots filled with shimmering edible glitter, sugar flowers, and dragees.

It should be fun. A delightful, low-stakes romp through the prettier side of pastry. But my focus is shot. My hands, usually so steady, tremble as I attempt to pipe a chocolate lace design onto parchment paper. I'm not sure what's happening… only that the single pill I took this morning clearly isn’t enough.

"How’s the… uh… joyful artistry going over here, Elena?"

I nearly snap my piping bag in half as Cole materializes beside my workstation, with a small, hesitant smile.

"About as relaxing as trying to juggle live eels while riding a unicycle," I manage, gesturing with a shaky hand toward my rather pathetic attempt at chocolate lace, which looks more like a melted spiderweb. "One wrong move and the whole damn thing shatters into a million un-artistic pieces." My voice sounds sharper than I intend.

"I'm sure it's not that bad," he says, leaning in for a closer look.

His proximity sends my senses into overdrive. I can clearly smell the cedar coming off him, and it's making my hands tremble harder.

"Are you okay?" Cole asks, his brow furrowing with concern. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," I say too quickly. "Just warm in here."

"It's actually pretty cool today," he says, looking even more concerned. "Do you want some water?"

"No, I—" I break off as I attempt another chocolate decoration and my hand shakes so badly that chocolate splatters across the workstation. "Dammit!"

Cole grabs some paper towels and helps me clean up, his movements quick and efficient. "Maybe you should take a break."

"I don't need a break," I snap, then immediately regret my tone. "Sorry. I just... I'm having an off day."

He studies me for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I… I don’t want to sabotage your focus, or anything. I know how important tomorrow is to you." He takes a deep, slightly awkward breath, his gaze flicking around before settling back on me, his hazel eyes full of a strange mixture of determination and apprehension. "But… actually… there’s something I… need to talk to you about. Something important."

The sudden change in his tone, the gravity in his expression, makes my heart stutter, then begin to pound a frantically. "What’s wrong, Cole?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "Is it… is it about the festival? About my baking?"

He glances around the workshop again, at the other contestants absorbed in their own sugary creations. Then he looks back at me, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "Not here," he says, his voice so low I have to strain to hear him. "Can we… can we go somewhere a little more private? Just for a few minutes?"

Something about his tone sets off alarm bells in my head, but I nod, wiping my suddenly clammy hands on a towel. I’m alone at my workstation. James, for some reason only known to his mercurial alpha brain, decided to commandeer an empty station at the far end of the competition area this afternoon. But even with the relative privacy of my own little station, Cole is right. This conversation doesn’t feel like one for public consumption. "Fine," I agree, trying to keep my voice steady. "Lead the way."

Cole leads me to a quiet spot near the edge of the woods, just a few minutes from the competition area. It’s secluded enough that no one should overhear us.

"You’re scaring me, Cole." I cross my arms, trying to ignore the small pounding starting behind my eyes. "What's going on?"

Cole takes a deep breath, his hands flexing at his sides. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to be direct." He pauses, looking… adorably awkward. And utterly terrified. Which, in turn, terrifies me. "Elena," he begins, his voice rough, his gaze fixed on mine with an almost painful intensity. "James, Dorian, and I… we’ve all noticed something different about you today."

My heart stutters, then plummets. My medication. They know. The thought hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. "Different?" I manage, my voice a strangled whisper. "Different… how?"

"Your scent, Elena," he says, his voice dropping even lower. "It’s… it’s stronger now. More distinct. More… noticeable."

Ice, cold and sharp, slides down my spine. My carefully constructed world, my secret, it’s all… unraveling. "I… I’m not sure what you mean, Cole," I lie, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "You know betas don't have a smell, or if they do, it's usually pretty neutral."

"Elena." His hazel eyes hold mine, gentle but unwavering. "Please. Just listen. We all smelled the same thing from you today. The same underlying notes. In remarkable detail. Which is impossible unless…" He hesitates.

"Unless what, Cole?" I whisper, though I already know. Oh, God. The air suddenly feels too thick to breathe.

"Unless," he finishes, his voice impossibly gentle, yet every word a hammer blow against my crumbling defenses. "Unless… you’re an omega." He takes another deep, shaky breath, his gaze never leaving mine. "And more than that… Elena, we think… that we’re your scent matches."

* * *

"What?" I manage to keep my voice level through sheer force of will.

Cole takes a small, almost hesitant step closer, his expression achingly sincere. "Elena, please, just hear me out. We all smell the same notes in your scent." He takes a deep slightly ragged breath, his pupils dilating as he practically eats me with his eyes. "And the way we’re all… drawn to you. The way our own instincts are reacting… Elena, we believe you are a late-blooming omega and our scent match."

"Omega?" I scoff, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue, even as years of ingrained practice makes it sound almost convincing. "A late-blooming omega? Cole, that’s ridiculous! Don’t make me laugh." My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for escape. "And scent matches? All three of you, whom I'd never met until recently? With me? Come on, what would be the odds!"

"Elena—"

"Look," I continue, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush, "I’m not denying there’s… something between us. Between all of us. An attraction. A connection. You all smell… good. To me. Really good… But I’m not irresistibly pulled to any of you. No offense intended. I’m still… me. Elena. The beta baker." Another lie, but a necessary one. I can’t let them know how much my body responds to them. Especially not now that my control's hanging by a thread.

"But we couldn’t all be imagining it, Elena," Cole insists, his voice still impossibly gentle.

Cold, stark fear, sharp and piercing, curls deep in my stomach. I need to shut this down. Now. Before it’s too late.

"You’re wrong about this, Cole," I say, my voice firmer now, colder, as I cross my arms over my chest. "You’re all wrong. Maybe the three of you have just been spending a little too much time together, sharing theories, letting your alpha imaginations run wild. Or maybe you’re all just… projecting. Projecting some kind of… fetish."

The hurt that flashes across his face makes me want to take it back, but I can't. I can't let them in, I can't let them know the truth.

"I need to stay focused, Cole," I add, my voice softer now, but no less determined. "Tomorrow’s final competition, it’s everything to me. It’s my future. I can’t get distracted by… whatever this is."

Silences stretches between us as he studies me for a long moment.

"I know this is hard to swallow Elena," he says finally. "But if you are just starting to present, then you’re likely to enter a heat cycle. Soon. Which could definitely affect your performance tomorrow. That’s why I felt, we felt, you should know now. So you could… prepare yourself. Maybe take suppressants or something."

"My performance is none of your business," I hiss, just as another cramp twists through my abdomen, a perfect punctuation mark of irony.

"We just… we wanted to give you time," he continues, his voice still impossibly gentle, which only infuriates me. "Like I said… to get proper medical advice. Or suppressants, if that’s what you choose. We just didn’t want you to be blindsided during the final."

"We should talk about this properly, Elena, about what it could mean," he adds, his brows furrowed. "All of us. Together. Tonight, maybe? This way, we can figure this out. As a… group."

The thought of facing all three of them, discussing my biology like it's some sort of group project, makes something inside me snap.

"No," I say firmly. "I don't need a meeting. I don't need your concern. What I need is to focus on winning tomorrow."

Cole looks genuinely confused by my reaction. "Elena, this isn't something you should handle alone. If we really are your scent matches—"

"Stop saying this like you already know it's true."

His brows furrow again. "We're trying to help."

"By deciding what I am without asking me? By assuming I don't know my own body?" The words spill out, sharp and fast.

"That's not—"

"I need space," I say, taking a step back as another wave of heat washes over me. "As I said, I have a competition to win tomorrow, and I can't do that if I'm dealing with... this."

"Elena—" He reaches out.

"Don't," I warn, my voice cracking. "Please, just... leave me alone. All of you."

I walk away before he can respond, my legs shaking with each step. I don't stop until I reach a quiet spot behind a vendor stall, where I sink onto a bench, my head in my hands.

They know. They fucking know.

Not the whole truth, sure. But enough. Enough to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

I press a shaking hand to my chest, trying to force my ragged breathing back under control. The world I’ve so meticulously built around myself. My safe, predictable world is crumbling around me, and I'm not sure what I can do to stop it.

And the worst part is, Cole, James, Dorian, they might just be right.

The pull I feel toward each of them. The way my body responds. The comfort, the unsettling sense of rightness I feel in their presence. Their scents. God, their scents have been affecting me since the moment I met them. And now that my medication seems to be failing, they're starting to drive me crazy.

Scent matches… Not with one, but three alphas. What I've been afraid of my entire adult life…

"No," I whisper to the air. "No. I can’t. I can’t do this."

I’ve seen what happens to omegas who bond with alphas. I’ve watched my own mother wither away after my father left, the severed bond destroying her from the inside out. I’ve witnessed friends, smart, ambitious, vibrant women, disappear into their relationships, into their packs, becoming pale, watered-down shadows of their former selves.

I will not let that happen to me. I will not let biology dictate my future and destroy my dreams.

I dig my nails into my palms, the sharp pain bringing a sliver of clarity. I need a plan. I need to regain control.

I need to win tomorrow. That much hasn’t changed. That much is still within my grasp.

And to do that, I need to create distance. Real, significant, impenetrable distance between myself and those three alphas. Until I can get more DuoBlocks. Until this festival is over. Until they’re all gone from Lakeview. The less time I spend around them, the less I’m exposed to their scents, the better.

I always knew this was temporary anyway. That’s why I allowed myself to give in in the first place. Because it was safe. Because it had an expiration date. I cling to that reminder now like a drowning woman to driftwood… even as tears prick at my eyes.

But I only allow myself this moment of grief.

I straighten my spine, brush away the moisture from my eyes, and force myself to focus. Time to remember what I'm here to do, and what’s at stake if I don’t.

Chapter thirty-three

Cole

I find Dorian sitting on a bench near the competition area, reviewing notes on a clipboard. He looks up as I approach, a silent question in his eyes.

The grim set of my jaw is apparently answer enough.

"It went that well, I take it?" He sets his clipboard aside as he frowns.

"Catastrophic," I confirm with a sigh. "Where's James?"

Dorian jerks his head toward the competition area. "Still at his station, trying to make the most out of the workshop."

Truth is, we’re all probably trying to look less like bewildered puppies and more like the competent alphas we’re supposed to be.

"Let’s go get him."

We navigate toward James, consciously giving Elena’s workstation a wide berth.

James spots us approaching. He makes a rather unconvincing show of checking his watch, then excuses himself from the workshop with a casual air that doesn’t quite mask the tension humming in his shoulders. He meets us near a quiet cluster of empty vendor tents, the faint scent of burnt sugar and anxiety clinging to him.

"Well?" he asks the moment we’re out of earshot of the crowd. "What’s the verdict? Did you talk to her? Did you tell her? Is she on board?"

I exhale slowly, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath. The words feel dry, bitter. "She shut down. Completely," I say, the memory of her reaction twisting something in my gut. "Denied being an omega. Said we were wrong about the scent match. That we were just... projecting."

James’s eyebrows shoot skyward. "Projecting? But that’s—"

"Impossible, yes," Dorian interjects. "Our individual reactions, the specificity of the scent notes we all detected… it’s too congruent to be a 'projection'."

"She’s scared," I say, the image of her face vivid in my mind. "Terrified, more like. This is all hitting her at once… It’s a hell of a lot to process in one go. Especially with the final tomorrow."

James runs a hand through his hair, dislodging several artful waves and looking decidedly less like a charming rogue and more like a startled colt. "Okay. So… what’s Plan B? Because Plan A just went down in flames. Spectacularly, from the sound of it."

"I don't know," I admit, a fresh wave of failure washing over me. "I told her we should all talk tonight, but she declined. Vehemently. Said she needs to focus on the competition. Demanded space."

Dorian nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, though I can see a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Understandable, from her perspective. But, given the potential biological imperatives at play, hardly optimal."

"The point is, she’s not buying it. Or, at least, that’s the story she’s sticking to. Adamantly."

"Maybe I should speak with her," Dorian suggests after a moment, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "I have been… meaning to discuss a separate matter with her anyway. It might provide a more… natural opening."

The almost imperceptible tightening around Dorian’s mouth, the slightly evasive shift of his gaze, makes it clear he’s not about to elaborate on this ‘separate matter’ right now. Fine. Secrets. We all have them. Instead, my mind, true to form, starts mapping out contingency plans, escape routes, worst-case scenarios. Old habits die hard, especially when your instincts are screaming that you’re walking into a burning house.

"She might refuse to talk to you too," I warn. "She seemed really emphatic about wanting to be left alone."

"Then we adapt," Dorian replies with a calm assurance that should be my trademark. "We regroup. We strategize."

"She’s stubborn as all hell," James mutters, though there’s a grudging note of admiration in his voice. "But she’s also pragmatic. If she is just starting to present, if she is about to… you know…" He makes a vague, slightly panicked gesture. "She’ll need to really understand what that means for tomorrow."

Dorian and James launch into a frantic discussion of approach strategies, alternative scenarios, potential logistical nightmares. Their voices fade into a murmur as my own thoughts begin to spiral. Elena’s face when I told her. That flicker of raw fear, quickly masked by anger, defiance. The way she completely shut down... I recognize that self-protective instinct. It’s the same one I’ve relied on my entire career. Don’t get too close. Don’t get distracted. Focus on the job at hand.

And that's when it hits me. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the universe is giving me an out. The festival ends tomorrow. I'm going back to the city soon after. A clean break. I can just go back to my normal life: saving people, doing what I’m good at, what I understand. No distractions. No emotional entanglements. No messy feelings.

No Elena.

The thought is surprisingly painful. A dull, hollow ache that spreads through my chest, making it hard to breathe. Is this… is this what meeting your scent match feels like? This terrifying mixture of yearning and uncertainty?

And if it is… how the hell am I supposed to do my job? How can I be the firefighter I need to be, the leader my crew depends on, when a significant part of my brain is constantly orienting itself toward her like a compass needle?

I can’t do both. I can’t serve the public, can’t fulfill my duty, and serve… her. Someone would get shortchanged. And in my line of work, a single misjudgment, a moment of distraction, could be fatal.

"Cole?" James’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You with us, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I blink, forcing myself to refocus, to shove the fear, the confusion, back down where it belongs. "Yeah. Sorry. Just… thinking through contingencies."

Dorian studies me for a long, unnervingly perceptive moment. "You’re considering leaving, aren’t you?" he asks quietly, his voice devoid of judgment. "After the festival."

"It… it crossed my mind," I admit, the words feeling like a betrayal, even as I say them. "That was the plan when I first came here anyway."

"Running away won’t solve anything," Dorian says, his voice still quiet.

"It’s not running," I retort, my own voice harsher than I intend. "It’s being practical. Realistic. I have responsibilities in the city. A career. People who are counting on me to be focused, to be… present."

"And what about your responsibility to yourself?" James challenges. "To your own happiness? Does that not factor into your equation?"

"I’m a firefighter," I say flatly. "Personal happiness isn’t exactly in the job description."

James lets out a snort that’s surprisingly loud and derisive. "That, my friend, is the biggest, steaming pile of self-sacrificing bullshit I have ever had the misfortune of hearing."

I'm ready to glare him into submission, to put him back in his pretty-boy place, but he meets my gaze unflinchingly, his own blue eyes blazing with an unexpected fire.

"You think you’re the only one here with something to lose, Cole?" he challenges, stepping closer, his usual playful charm replaced by an aggressive honesty. "You think you’re the only one who’s terrified? I’ve spent my whole goddamn life trying to prove myself, trying to live up to impossible expectations. I am this close," he holds up his thumb and forefinger a hair's breadth apart, "to getting everything I’ve ever worked for, everything I’ve ever wanted. And yeah, this whole situation… it complicates things. Spectacularly. But running away? Turning your back and pretending it’s not happening? That’s the coward’s way out, Cole. And I didn’t peg you for a coward."

"James," Dorian warns, his voice a low, soothing rumble, trying to diffuse the sudden tension crackling between us.

"No, he needs to hear this," James insists, his gaze still locked on mine, unwavering, almost accusatory. "You’re not the only one who’s scared, Cole. We all are. Deeply, profoundly, shit-your-pants terrified. But at least I’m willing to admit it. At least I’m not hiding behind some bullshit notion of duty and responsibility to avoid facing what’s right in front of me."

His words hit with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. The kid… damn it, the kid is more perceptive than I ever gave him credit for.

"I'm not—"

"Save it," James interrupts, his voice gentler now, anger giving way to something like weary understanding. "We all have our go-to defense mechanisms, right? Mine's charm. Wit. Acting like I don’t have a care in the world. Dorian’s," he adds, glancing at him, "is control. And yours, Cole? Yours is duty. Carrying the weight of the world on those big, strong shoulders. But in the end, they’re all just armor, aren’t they? Different ways to avoid getting hurt. Different ways to run."

A heavy, loaded silence falls between the three of us, punctuated only by the distant, cheerful sounds of the festival. But in our small bubble, something fundamental is being negotiated. Not just about Elena. But about us. About who we are, and who we might become… possibly together.

"Let’s focus on tonight," Dorian says finally, his voice a soothing balm on our nerves. "Let's stick to my original idea. I will try to speak with Elena. After that…" He shrugs, a small, elegant gesture of acceptance. "We'll see."

With that regal evasion, he turns and heads back to the competition area, his posture radiating an unshakeable determination that I can’t help but admire. James and I watch him go in silence.

"For the record," James says quietly, his gaze still fixed on Dorian’s retreating figure, his earlier bravado replaced by a surprising, vulnerable sincerity, "I… I think you’d regret leaving, Cole. We all would."

Chapter thirty-four

Elena

My chocolate curls finally cooperate, the delicate dark spirals setting perfectly on parchment paper.

Muscle memory is the only thing carrying me through this 'low-pressure' workshop (which feels about as relaxing as wrestling a buttered alligator) since Cole dropped his omega-scent-match-late-bloomer bomb.

"Impressive work, Elena."

I practically jump out of my skin, stiffening at the sound of Dorian's smooth voice right behind me. Oh, great. Another one.

When I slowly turn, bracing myself for another round of ‘let’s discuss your newly discovered omega biology,’ he's examining my display of chocolate decorations with what appears to be genuine interest. His hands are clasped neatly behind his back in that formal way of his. Unlike earlier in the competition, and thankfully unlike Cole’s close-talking routine, he's maintaining a very respectful distance from my workstation. Small mercies.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice deliberately neutral, hopefully conveying absolutely none of the chaos currently happening in my head. "Did you need something, Mr. Beaumont?"

His silver-gray eyes meet mine, making my pulse skip, and I instinctively brace myself for the follow-up to Cole’s earlier ambush. Instead, he gestures vaguely toward the sun-dappled festival grounds, specifically toward the shimmering expanse of the lakefront.

"Actually, Elena," he says, his tone perfectly even, "I was wondering if you'd mind taking a short walk with me? There's something I'd like to discuss with you." He pauses, his gaze direct, unwavering. "And it has nothing to do with what Cole may or may not have spoken to you about earlier."

I eye him skeptically, my internal alarm bells already ringing at a fever pitch somehow finding a higher octave. "Is that so? Because Cole made me understand it was a… group-oriented topic."

"This is an entirely separate matter," he confirms with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his expression sincere.

Something in his calm, measured tone, in the way he holds my gaze without a flicker of deceit, makes me believe him. Or at least, partially. "Alright," I say, unbuttoning my slightly chocolate-smeared apron.

* * *

Lake Vienne shimmers in warm amber tones as we stroll along the relatively quiet waterfront path.

The cheerful cacophony of the festival fades to a muted hum behind us, replaced by the gentle, rhythmic lapping of water against the shore and the distant cry of a heron.

"You obviously know I’ve been watching your work throughout the festival, Elena," Dorian says after a while. He’s looking out over the water, his profile sharp and thoughtful against the hazy backdrop of the distant mountains. "As I’ve told you before, your technical skills are impeccable. That was never in question. And this morning, your tarte tatin confirmed what I already knew you had in you: your creativity." He gives a small shake of his head, almost despite himself. "The slight excess of sugar didn’t matter. What stood out was the vision behind it. The way you took something so rooted in tradition and gave it a fresh, modern twist… on the spot. That kind of instinct is rare. Exceedingly rare."

The unexpected praise warms me, despite the churning anxiety in my gut. "Thank you."

"Which brings me," he says, turning to face me fully now, his expression serious, "to my proposition." He pauses. "If you remember, I told you I was here for professional reasons the night we met. Beyond the honor of judging," he continues, "my goal was to identify promising new talent. Beaumont Patisserie is always seeking individuals who can help us continue to innovate and set the standard for excellence in the baking world."

He pauses, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. "I’d like to offer you a position within Beaumont Patisserie, Elena."

I blink, completely caught off guard. My mind, which had been bracing for a subtle, perhaps even more insidious, version of Cole’s earlier ‘omega intervention,’ struggles to switch gears. "A… position? What?"

"We're launching a new boutique patisserie concept in Chicago this fall," he explains, his eyes lighting up with a genuine, undeniable passion as he speaks. "Small, exclusive, a culinary laboratory of sorts, focused on creating unique, signature offerings that push traditional boundaries. Think… haute couture, but for pastry." He smiles, a quick, charming flash of teeth. "It’s precisely the kind of work at which you'd excel, Elena."

"I… I don't know what to say," I stammer, and it’s the honest truth. Of all the bombshells I’d anticipated today, a life-altering job offer from the Dorian Beaumont definitely wasn't on the bingo card.

"You'd have significant creative control over your contributions, of course," he continues smoothly, as if he’s already mapped out how it's going to play out. "A highly competitive salary, naturally. Comprehensive benefits. A generous housing allowance to facilitate your relocation to Chicago." He pauses, his gaze sweeping over my stunned face. "It's an unparalleled opportunity, Elena, to showcase your unique talent on an international stage. To make a real name for yourself."

As he outlines more of the details (the state-of-the-art kitchen, the dedicated sourcing team for rare ingredients, the potential for international travel and collaboration with other Beaumont artisans) a cold, sinking feeling begins to replace the initial shock, growing steadily in the pit of my stomach. This isn't just a job offer. This isn't purely about my talent, my potential. This is… this is Dorian Beaumont, the powerful, influential alpha, gathering what he wants, what he’s decided now belongs to him.

"I see so much potential in you, Elena," he says, his voice warming, becoming more intimate. "The way your mind works, the way you approach flavor, your sheer, unadulterated passion… Working together, we could create something truly extraordinary."

Working together. The words hang in the air, shimmering with promise, laden with subtext. The subtext, at least to my suddenly hyper-aware, deeply suspicious omega-in-denial brain, is crystal clear: working under me. For me. An alpha, suspecting he’s found his omega, his scent match, already trying to arrange my life, wrapping the whole gilded proposition in undeniably tempting terms to make it irresistible.

Anger, cold and sharp, simmers beneath my skin. So, this is it. This is exactly what I’ve always feared. The subtle, insidious control. The velvet-gloved manipulation. He’s pretty damn sure I’m an omega, his omega, and he’s already trying to orchestrate my future, to keep me close.

But I want my own bakery. My own recipes. My own name above the door, not be another brilliant but ultimately anonymous artisan contributing to the vast Beaumont empire. I don't want a gilded cage, no matter how enticing.

"Dorian, I… I’m incredibly flattered, really, but—" I begin, trying to formulate a professional refusal that won’t completely incinerate this unexpected, yet terrifying bridge.

"You don't need to give me an answer now, Elena," he interrupts smoothly. "Of course not. This is a significant decision. I wouldn't expect an immediate response." Another classic alpha trait: assuming he knows what’s best, effortlessly controlling the conversation to suit his agenda. The polite, almost imperceptible steamroll. "All I ask is that you think about it. Consider the possibilities. The offer will, of course, remain open after the competition concludes. Take your time."

I press my lips together, a fresh wave of annoyance surging through me at being so skillfully managed. "Okay," I say tightly, my gaze flicking toward the path back to the main festival grounds. "I’ll… I'll think about it."

"Elena." His voice, softer now, stops me as I begin to turn away. "There's… one more thing. If you have another moment."

I sigh, a small, involuntary sound of exasperation, and look back over my shoulder, trying to keep the rising tide of resentment from my expression. "Yes?"

"About what Cole discussed with you earlier…"

Irritation, hot and immediate, flares in my chest, sharp as a paper cut. "You said," I practically hiss, "Dorian, that what you wanted to discuss had nothing to do with that."

"I know," he says, and he at least has the decency to look abashed for a fraction of a second. "And it was. The job offer stands on its own merit, Elena, regardless of anything else. This is merely… an addendum. A separate, but equally important, consideration."

"I'm not interested in discussing it further," I state, my voice like ice. "I told Cole how I feel. I thought I made myself perfectly clear."

"Just hear me out, Elena. Please." He takes a tentative half-step closer, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself. Smart. "This isn't just about us, about what we think we might have discovered. It's about your wellbeing, your health and safety, especially now, during what is a crucial, high-stakes moment in your career."

I cross my arms and wait, my jaw tight.

"If what we suspect is true," he continues, his voice low, earnest, almost pleading, "if you are experiencing a late omega presentation, then you could face certain… biological challenges… very likely during tomorrow's final. Challenges that might be significantly easier for you to navigate if you understood them better. If you were… prepared." He holds my gaze, his own earnest and unwavering. "All we're asking, Elena, all I'm asking, is for a chance for us to talk it through. Together. Tonight. Just to make sure you have all the information, all the support you might need."

"So I can be ganged up on by three concerned, overbearing alphas who think they know what’s best for me?" The words are out before I can stop them.

His expression softens unexpectedly, a flicker of something that looks remarkably like genuine empathy. "So you can make informed decisions, Elena. About your own body. Your own health. Your own future. Nothing more. And certainly, nothing less." He pauses, then adds, "And, from a purely strategic standpoint, consider this: addressing it tonight, getting it out in the open, frees your mental space for the competition tomorrow. Allows you to focus completely on your craft. A win-win, wouldn't you agree?"

I hate that he’s right. I hate that I’m even considering it. But the thought of spending the entire night before the final obsessing over what they might do with their knowledge, over whether I'm going to spontaneously combust into a heat-fueled puddle of omega hormones in the middle of the final… it’s at least equally unbearable.

"Fine," I concede, the single word feeling like a monumental surrender. "Where and when?"

"The Harborview," he replies immediately, and the fact that they’ve already chosen a fancy venue only heightens my feeling of being controlled. "Eight o'clock. It will be… quiet. Discreet."

"I'll be there," I say, my voice tight, clipped. I turn away before he can see the toxic mixture of fear and resentment swirling in my eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I’d like to get some more practice before the day is over."

As I walk back toward the festival grounds, each step a tiny explosion of frustration on the gravel path, I feel invisible walls closing in around me.

This is fine, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind. One conversation. That’s all you agreed to. You’ll go, you’ll listen, you’ll clear the air. Then you’ll walk away and focus on winning tomorrow.

And yet, I can’t shake the tight coil of anxiety in my chest. I feel cornered, like I’m being forced into a confrontation I didn’t ask for, one they’ve made impossible to avoid.

I only hope this won't just make everything worse…

Chapter thirty-five

Elena

I stare at my reflection in the Harborview's decidedly upscale bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is a stranger: pale, tense, her eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself. "Just act normal. Deny everything. They can't prove anything."

My pep talk isn't very convincing. But at least, my pre-heat symptoms seem to be under control. Sorta. For now.

When I return to the secluded, private booth they’ve reserved in the corner of the gastropub, all three of them stand as if choreographed. The gesture, meant to be courteous, I’m sure, feels suffocating, almost predatory. Like three handsome, well-meaning wolves politely holding open the door to the sheep pen.

“Your sparkling water,” Dorian says, his voice smooth as silk as he slides a crystal glass toward me. James and Cole are nursing beers, while Dorian sips something amber and expensive-looking. I’d refused alcohol, needing every ounce of my wits about me for this… confrontation.

“So,” I begin, my voice surprisingly steady as I cut through their attempts at polite, pre-ambush small talk. "Let's just get to it, shall we? You think I'm an omega. A late-blooming one, if Cole’s intel was correct."

The three of them exchange a quick, loaded glance.

"Yes," Cole finally says, his voice calm, steady. "Based on your scent."

"Which has changed significantly in the last few days," Dorian adds, his gaze intense, unwavering.

"Intensified," James clarifies, leaning forward slightly, his usual playful smirk noticeably absent. "And it’s… well, it’s very specific."

They’re being careful, measured, trying to be gentle, I guess. But beneath their restraint, I can feel a simmering alpha energy. A potent mixture of protectiveness and possessiveness, of curiosity and… hunger, making my composure feel paper-thin.

"And you also believe," I add, keeping my tone deliberately skeptical, "that you’re all my… what was it again? Scent matches?" I inject just the right amount of incredulity into the words and raise an eyebrow for good measure.

"We all smell the same dominant notes in your scent, Elena," Dorian explains. "Ripe peaches and honeyed figs. That kind of… shared olfactory recognition… it only happens with deep biological compatibility."

As he speaks, something terrifying starts to happen. Their individual scents begin to sharpen and bloom in the air around me. Cedar and musk from Cole. Bergamot and saffron from James. Sandalwood and cinnamon from Dorian. My god… it’s mouthwatering. Worse, they’re not just lingering, they’re merging. Twisting together into a heady, unmistakable alpha musk that makes my body hum with a low, insistent thrum of want. It’s like every instinct I’ve ever tried to suppress is suddenly wide awake.

Oh, God.

I take a large, desperate gulp of sparkling water, the bubbles doing absolutely nothing to clear the sudden, overwhelming fog in my head. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

"If you are an omega, Elena," Dorian continues, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more persuasive, as he leans forward, "and if you are, as we suspect, just beginning to present, then you could experience your first heat very soon. Possibly," he pauses, letting the implication sink in, "during the final tomorrow."

"Which would be…" James begins, then searches for a suitably diplomatic word, his blue eyes flicking between me and the others with a nervousness that’s almost… cute. If I weren’t currently hyperventilating internally.

"Challenging," Cole supplies, his expression carefully neutral, but with an underlying note of deep concern.

"We're concerned for your wellbeing, Elena," Dorian says, his silver-gray eyes intense, unwavering, pinning me to my seat. "Both personally and professionally."

I cross my arms, a purely defensive gesture, trying to create a physical barrier between myself and their overwhelming presence, their intoxicating scents. "How very… considerate of you all." The sarcasm is thick, a desperate attempt to mask the rising panic.

"Elena," Dorian’s voice softens, that smooth tone of his sliding under my defenses like warm honey, "this isn't just about us, or what we believe might be happening. This is about ensuring you're able to compete at your best tomorrow. We want to help you."

"Help me?" I repeat, trying to summon my anger, so I can claw back a shred of control. "Help me how, exactly? By offering me a prestigious job at your new patisserie in Chicago, Dorian, conveniently keeping me under your watchful eye?"

James and Cole both look at Dorian in surprise, their eyebrows shooting up in unison. Dorian’s brow furrows, a flicker of… something… crossing his usually composed features. "That’s not—"

"Or perhaps by giving me unsolicited, ultimately unhelpful advice that almost cost me my win in the ‘Taste It, Now Make It’ challenge?" I turn to James, my voice now sharp.

He has the decency to look chagrined, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "I genuinely thought that would help, Elena. Your scent… it was making me a little…" He trails off, looking flustered.

"Or maybe," I continue, relentlessly, turning my attention to Cole now, "by showing up at my station during the workshop, distracting me until I could barely pipe a straight line?"

"I was trying to warn you," he says quietly, his usual calm wavering slightly, a hint of hurt in his hazel eyes.

"You were all trying to manage me," I counter, my voice rising, fueled by a potent cocktail of fear and fury. "And you're still doing it now. The three of you, huddled together, discussing me, my body, my future, like you’re forming some kind of… pack."

Their scents shift subtly in the small, enclosed space, growing stronger, more potent. My omega instincts, now screamingly awake, recognize it for what it is, a response to my distress. But all I see, all I feel, is three powerful alphas closing ranks, their combined presence and scents becoming almost… overwhelming.

"What we're trying to do, Elena," Dorian says, his voice laced with a forced patience that only fans the flames of my anger, "is provide you with the information you need so you can make your own, informed decisions."

"Decisions like what?" I practically spit the words out. "Pumping myself full of meds or whatever, so long as I play nice?" They have no idea I normally have that covered all on my own…

"That's not what we want at all!" Cole begins.

"Isn't it?" I lean forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, the three of you have been pushing me in directions that suit your agenda, your desires, since this whole insane conversation began. Since this festival began, if I’m being honest."

James shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze dropping. "Elena—"

"No," I cut him off. "I have dreams of my own, dreams that have nothing to do with any of you. I want my own bakery, with my own recipes, right here in this ‘small town’ that you seem to look down on, Dorian."

His jaw tightens, a muscle flexing in his cheek. "I never said—"

"You didn't have to." I feel reckless now, consumed by a desperate rage. "And you know what? You all seem to be actively working against my dreams right now. I told you, I needed to get in the right headspace for tomorrow. This competition, this win, it’s important to me. I’ve heard what you had to say, and my answer is no. I refuse. I'm going back to my life. The one where I’m free to pursue whatever I want, without getting sabotaged by well-meaning alphas." I look directly at James as I say the last word, and he flinches, his gaze falling away.

The tension in the booth crystallizes, becoming sharp, almost dangerous. Their scents intensify again, swirling around me, a confusing, intoxicating, infuriating blend of alpha pheromones that my body, my treacherous omega body, is soaking up like a sponge. I can practically taste their frustration, their concern, their… want.

"You're not thinking clearly, Elena," Dorian says. "If you'd just consider—"

"Why do you even care so much?" I interrupt, the question bursting out of me. "What is it to any of you if I have a ‘biological challenge’ tomorrow?"

Dorian opens his mouth, then closes it, a strange, almost tormented look crossing his face. He takes a breath. "Because, Elena… because I think… I might be falli—" He stops abruptly, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly, as if he’s shocked by his own near-confession. He clears his throat, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second before he regains control.

The air crackles. I freeze, his unfinished word hanging between us, heavy and loaded. Falling? Falling in what? Love? The idea is so ludicrous, so terrifying, yet so… tempting… that my mind goes completely blank.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I should say something. Move. Reassert control. But I don’t. I stay still, too still, my body betraying me with the smallest tilt toward him and his almost-confession. Like some primal part of me is treacherously giving in, little by—

A low growl slices through my trance.

My head whips around. Dorian and Cole are staring at James, their eyes wide with disbelief. James himself looks utterly mortified, his face flaming red, his hand clapped over his mouth as if he could somehow shove the sound back in.

"Sorry," James mutters, his voice muffled by his hand, his eyes darting frantically between the three of us. "So sorry. I… I didn't mean to—"

"See?" I hiss. "That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That’s what it always comes down to with your kind." My gaze sweeps over all three of them, accusing. "You don't respect me. You don’t see me. In fact," the words erupt from me, "I don't think any of you even like me as a person. I'm just… I’m just a piece of meat to you, aren’t I? A biological imperative. An 'omega' to be claimed, to be… owned."

James looks utterly mortified, his eyes pleading. "Elena, no, it’s just… your scent… your anger… it’s making it so much stronger, so… delicious…" he stammers, his words a jumbled apology as his hand instinctively reaches out, briefly touching my arm.

"Take your hand off me." My voice is deadly quiet as I stare at James, my gaze unwavering. "Now."

He jerks his hand back as if burned, his face flushed with shame.

I slide out of the booth, snatching up my purse.

"Elena, please," Dorian says, standing, his height suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

"I've managed just fine without any alpha my entire life," I say, my voice cold. "I certainly don’t need three of them now. And I definitely don't need your 'help'."

I turn on my heel and stride toward the exit, half-expecting them to follow, to try and stop me. They don’t. But I can feel their eyes on my back, heavy and intense, until I’m finally out the door.

My hands are shaking as I begin to walk, needing the crisp air to clear my head. To try and scrub their intoxicating, infuriating scents from my skin, from my senses.

This. This is why I’ve hidden my true designation for years.

Because no matter how charming they are, no matter how considerate they seem, no matter how good they make me feel… in the end, it always comes down to this. Possession. Control. Management. Their alpha nature, my omega biology. A way for the world to define me, to limit me, to reduce me to something less than who I choose to be.

I won’t let them, I vow, my steps quickening, carrying me further and further away from the Harborview. I won’t let anyone define me but myself.

Tomorrow, I will win that competition. I will secure my promotion. I will take one more giant leap toward getting my own successful bakery.

And I will do it all on my own.

Chapter thirty-six

Dorian

The door of the Harborview closes behind Elena with a finality that seems to suck all the oxygen from our booth. For a long moment, the three of us just sit there, marooned in a sea of half-eaten appetizers and the lingering ghost of her intoxicating scent.

James drops his head into his hands with a groan that seems to emanate from the very depths of his soul. "That was a five-star disaster." His voice is muffled, thick with regret.

Cole merely stares at the spot where Elena was sitting, his expression a mixture of concern and a weariness that mirrors my own. He picks up his beer, takes a long, slow swallow, then sets the glass down with a heavy thud. "Pretty sure that growl wasn’t the best contribution to our crisis summit, James."

"I know, it just… slipped out!" James lifts his head, his face mortified. "Her scent… when she got angry… it was like… mainlining pure, uncut sunshine and rage. I’ve never smelled anything so… exquisite." He shudders. "I basically short-circuited."

I take a slow, deliberate sip of my 1952 Bowmore, the smoky peat a welcome anchor in the swirling chaos of my own senses. "It’s not entirely your fault, James," I admit. "Her scent was remarkably intense." Understatement of the millennium. It took every ounce of my considerable self-control not to react similarly. My own alpha is still pacing the confines of my mind like a caged panther. I suspect Cole is wrestling with similar demons, judging by the white-knuckled grip he has on his beer glass.

"We all mishandled this," I continue, because blaming James alone is neither fair nor accurate. "We pushed her. Too hard, too fast." Damn, this was a masterclass in how not to approach a potentially terrified, newly presenting omega. "She felt cornered. Managed. And, I suspect, deeply misunderstood."

"So, that job offer…" Cole begins, turning his perceptive gaze on me, one eyebrow slightly arched. "Was that really just about recognizing talent, Dorian? Or were you already mentally decorating a new omega den in Chicago?"

"I wasn't trying to spirit Elena away," I defend, feeling inexplicably like I've been caught doing something underhanded. "The offer was based entirely on her talent. She's exceptional. Any employer would be lucky to have her."

"Uh-huh," James smirks. "And the fact that she'd be working for you in Chicago was just a happy coincidence?"

"It's a legitimate opportunity," I insist, straightening my cuffs. "And had she accepted, of course I would have consulted both of you about arrangements."

Cole's eyes widen. "Arrangements?"

"You know..." I gesture vaguely. "Living situations. Pack dynamics."

"Wow," Cole's lips twitch with amusement. "For someone who was lecturing us about not getting ahead of ourselves, you sure had us picking out curtains already."

"I was merely being practical," I say primly, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "Planning for contingencies is what I do."

"And your contingency plan was... what? All of us moving in together like some kind of alpha Brady Bunch?" James is openly grinning now.

"I don't see what's so amusing about considering practical solutions," I mutter.

The server arrives with a plate of truffle arancini none of us remembers ordering. As she sets everything down, her beta scent hits a little stronger than usual; pleasant but nothing close to the layered symphony Elena’s creates.

"So how do we fix this?" James asks after she leaves. "Do we send flowers? A fruit basket?"

"I believe," I say, swirling the amber liquid in my glass, "that we do… nothing."

Both James and Cole look at me as if I’ve just suggested we all take up interpretive dance.

"Nothing?" James echoes, aghast. "But—"

"Elena made herself clear," I remind them gently. "She needs space. And frankly, so do we. Tomorrow is the final competition. We all have roles to fulfill."

"So, we just… ignore her?" Cole asks, his brow furrowed. "Pretend tonight didn't happen?"

"We respect her boundaries," I correct. "We give her the space she’s requested. And after the final tomorrow, we see what happens. But we do not expect a miracle. In the meantime, no pressure. No… interventions."

James slumps back against the booth, looking utterly defeated. "So, drinks then? To drown our sorrows and collectively mourn the very likely implosion of our nascent pack?" He looks hopefully from me to Cole.

Cole nods slowly. "One more couldn't hurt, I guess. Might help me forget the sound of my heart breaking."

I shake my head. "Thanks, but I’m good. I’ve got an early start, and I’d rather keep a clear head than go for another round." I need to think. To process. To try and disentangle the bewildering knot of instinct, emotion, and… something else… that Elena has so effortlessly tied me into.

After James and Cole depart, presumably in search of more alcohol and mutual commiseration, I remain in the quiet booth. I stare into my scotch, the aged peat and complex notes a familiar comfort in a world that suddenly feels… uncomfortably unfamiliar.

My life is a careful edifice of logic, strategy, and control. I make decisions based on data, on projections, on calculated risk. The Beaumont empire was built on these principles. And yet… this. Elena. With who I have a visceral connection that bypasses strategy and makes a mockery of control. Is it just biology, the primal pull of a scent match? Or is it… something more?

I think back to that moment when I almost told her I might be falling in love with her… My God. Where did that come from?

As I finish my scotch and rise from the table, I find myself mentally reviewing my schedule for the coming week with a sigh. Board meetings in Paris. A new acquisition in Singapore. The Chicago boutique planning that had initially been my excuse for accepting this judging position.

My real life, waiting for me to return to it.

This small-town interlude, this whatever-it-was with Elena and these two unlikely companions… it was an anomaly. A pleasant deviation in an otherwise orderly existence.

By this time tomorrow, the competition will be over. A winner crowned. And I'll literally be thousands of feet above it all, returning to my boardrooms, balance sheets and the endless dance of corporate power. A world where relationships are strategic, beneficial alignments rather than messy emotional entanglements.

It's probably for the best. Business is what I'm good at. What I control. What makes sense.

Even if, for a brief moment, I'd started to believe that something else might matter more.

Chapter thirty-seven

James

"Hit me again," I signal, shoving my empty glass across the sticky bartop of The Rusty Spoon. It’s probably drink number five, or maybe six. Who’s counting? Definitely not me. Smart move before the final? Hell no. But after the way Elena looked at me today, smart moves are officially off the table.

The dive bar is packed, a cacophony of clashing music from the jukebox, shouted conversations, and the clatter of pool balls. It's a universe away from the polished veneer of the Harborview, and exactly what I need. A place to get loud, numb, invisible.

Cole, nursing what I swear is still his first beer of the night, sits on the stool beside me.

"You should slow down," he says, his voice a low rumble against the bar’s din.

"You should speed up," I counter, raising the glass in mock toast. "Cheers to fucking everything up." I take a long swallow, the cheap beer doing little to wash away the bitter tang of regret.

"You didn't single-handedly ruin this," Cole says.

"Tell that to Elena." I take another gulp. "Did you see how she looked at me? Like I was some kind of feral animal."

"You growled," replies, deadpan.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Obvious. I was there." I run a hand through my hair, wrecking what little order it had left. "God, I'm such an idiot."

The jukebox belts out a slightly warped 90s rock hit, full of nostalgic charm. On the makeshift dance floor, some festival contestants sway to it, the pressure of tomorrow's competition temporarily forgotten.

"Fuck it," I say, straightening on my barstool. "Who cares anyway? I came here to win. That's what matters. That's always been the plan."

"Is it?" Cole asks quietly.

"Yes! The competition. The TV deal. Proving my father wrong." I tap my temple with more force than necessary. "Eyes on the prize, baby."

"And Elena?"

"Elena can… Elena will be fine," I say, a little too forcefully. "Besides, I can have any omega I want. Or beta. Whatever. This town’s crawling with them for the festival." The boast sounds hollow even to my ears.

Cole gives me a long look, unimpressed. "Didn’t you give me a whole lecture earlier about not hiding behind bullshit to avoid what's in front of you?"

I let out a slow breath. "Yeah, I did." I scrub a hand through my hair. "Turns out I'm a massive hypocrite."

His stare doesn't waver. "Alright, fine!" I throw my hands up. "I'm lost, okay? I care about her. I care way more than I should about a woman I've known for less than a week."

"Same," Cole replies simply, finally turning his attention to his drink.

"She doesn't want us," I continue. "She made that pretty clear tonight." I take a long gulp of my beer. "I’m terrified of feeling this much, this fast." The admission slips out. "It's not just… scent, or whatever. It’s… her."

Before Cole can respond, a wave of obnoxious laughter crashes over us from a nearby table.

"—she was giving off vibes today man," Max Fleming says, gesturing wildly with his beer, sloshing some on the floor. "That Avery girl. The pretty one, with the eyes."

My spine stiffens. Every nerve ending goes on high alert.

"Can't believe she's a beta," another one sneers.

"I don't give a shit about that," Fleming declares with a lewd smirk, his words slightly slurred from both alcohol and his swollen nose. "All that… flavor… is just waiting for someone to tap it, I tell you."

I'm halfway out of my seat, fists clenched, a snarl ripping from my throat before I even register moving.

But Cole, damn him, is already halfway to their table with a steady, measured approach that somehow feels even more menacing.

The effect is immediate.

Max's face drains of all color beneath his bruises. His beer slips, crashing to the floor. His buddies follow his horrified gaze to Cole's approaching figure.

"Oh shit, oh shit," Max whispers, practically shrinking into his chair.

Cole stops beside their table, looking down at Max with calm expectation, not saying a word.

"I'm sorry!" Max blurts out, his voice cracking. "I'm really sorry! I was just—I didn't mean—please don't—" He's practically hyperventilating now, one hand unconsciously touching his bandaged nose.

His buddies are already backing away from the table, mumbling their own apologies and excuses as they scatter.

Cole nods once, satisfied, then turns and walks back to our table as if he'd simply gone to check the weather.

Max remains frozen in his chair for exactly three seconds before bolting for the door.

The bar falls silent for a moment before erupting in scattered chuckles and approving murmurs.

I stare at Cole returning, a mixture of awe and something akin to hero-worship bubbling up. "Damn, Cole. Again. That was… surgical."

"You were about to get disqualified throwing a punch," he says, sitting down and taking a sip of his beer as if he just finished discussing the weather. "Couldn't have you disqualified before the final."

I can’t argue with that. I signal the bartender. "Get this man another beer. On me." I raise my own glass. "Thanks. For… you know."

Cole just nods with a tiny smile, accepting the fresh beer.

We drink in companionable silence for a while. The bar's energy swirls around us, but it doesn’t quite penetrate the bubble of our thoughts.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Cole says eventually, his gaze fixed on the condensation trailing down his glass.

"What?" My head snaps toward him.

"After the morning briefing, I'm handing responsibilities to my second and heading back to the city."

"Why?" I object, though I already know the answer.

"It's just that… I can’t be effective if I'm distracted. And I am. By… all of this." He makes a vague gesture that seems to encompass me, him, Elena, maybe even Dorian. "Being a good firefighter means one hundred percent focus. Can’t do that if my head’s not in the game."

"Distracted by Elena," I clarify, the words tasting bitter again.

"It's the right call," he says, his voice firm, but his eyes betray a hint of vulnerability.

"So you're just… bailing?" I demand, the irony not lost on me. "Let me get this straight: I called you out for hiding, you threw it back at me, and now you’re doing the exact same thing?"

Cole's jaw tightens. "This is different."

"How? How is this different?" I press. "You're still using your job as an excuse to avoid dealing with your feelings."

"Because people could die if I'm not focused," he snaps, meeting my gaze. "That's how it's different, James. My distractions don't just affect me, they could cost someone their life."

The gravity in his voice stops my argument cold. Because he's right about that.

"So that's it, you're giving up. On Elena, on..." I wave between us, "whatever this is."

"She made her choice, James," he says after taking a long sip. "Sometimes the best way to protect something, or someone, is to step back."

"So," I start, resignation settling over me like a thermal blanket, "tomorrow we all go back to our separate worlds, pretend none of this ever happened."

Cole doesn't contradict me, which is answer enough.

"Well then," I raise my glass, "here's to what might have been."

He clinks his bottle against mine, our expressions equally bleak as we drink to a future that's evaporating before it even had a chance to form.

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.

The way his body moves against mine, taking control with every thrust, pushing me higher… it feels too good. My fingers grip the brittle twigs beneath us, knees shaking as he finds a steady, relentless rhythm. His hands move over my breasts, teasing my nipples through the thin fabric of my chef's jacket.

“Fuck, Elena,” he groans, his voice rough, almost feral. Every thrust sends sparks through me, building to a crescendo. My body tightens, the pressure coiling until it snaps, and I come hard, a shuddering release that rips a cry from my throat. It’s exactly what I needed, the tension unraveling in waves, leaving me gasping, my body pulsing around him.

But I’m not done. I need all of him. “Dorian,” I pant, glancing back at him, his face taut with restraint. “Finish. Inside me.”

He hesitates, his thrusts slowing for a moment, and then he leans forward, his lips brushing my neck. “This is such a mistake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conflict and desire.

“I don’t care,” I gasp, pushing back against him, urging him on. “I need—”

I don't have to finish my sentence before I hear a branch snap, followed by a shocked gasp.

* * *

"What in the—" Judge Parker's voice cuts through my haze like ice water.

Time stalls.

Dorian and I scramble apart, breathless and tangled. My chef’s jacket is tousled to hell, and my pants are bunched awkwardly around the backs of my knees. His shirt hangs open, and he's pantless, his manhood exposed. We fumble to fix ourselves, hands shaking, faces flushed from the sex and being caught.

But it’s too late. The scene is unmistakable. Indefensible.

“I knew it,” Parker says, each word steeped in smug triumph. “I told you they were together before the competition.”

Judge Chen stands just behind him, her expression shifting from shock to disappointment. “Ms. Avery,” she says evenly, “this is a direct violation of the competition’s code of conduct. Any intimate relationship between a contestant and a judge is grounds for immediate disqualification.”

“You’re out,” Parker adds, enjoying every syllable.

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. Disqualified. All my work, all my preparation, all my dreams. Gone in an instant of weakness.

"You can't—" I start, but Chen raises a hand to stop me.

"The rules are clear, Elena. I'm sorry."

Dorian straightens his jacket, his face unreadable. "This is as much my fault as hers," he begins.

Chen inclines her head, her voice careful but firm as she cuts him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Beaumont, we can’t turn a blind eye to this. The integrity of the festival is everything. I hope you understand."

They turn and leave as Dorian and I stand in horrible silence among the bushes. The moment that had been so urgent just minutes ago now feels sordid and foolish.

"Elena, I—" Dorian starts.

"Don't," I cut him off, trying to straighten my chef's jacket. "Just... don't."

I expect him to argue, to offer some comfort or solution. Instead, he gives me one last unreadable look and walks away, leaving me alone among the rhododendron.

* * *

When I return to my station, moving on autopilot, my beautiful tart sits cooled on the rack, the fruits arranged in preparation for the final assembly I'll never complete.

A commotion at the entrance of the competition area draws my attention. Pierre strides toward me, his face a thundercloud.

"Pierre? What are you doing here?" I ask stupidly.

“What am I doing here?” he repeats, his accent thickening with emotion. “I told you I’d be back in time for the final. I was watching the competition and I just got a call that my apprentice was caught in a compromising position with a judge and disqualified. And you ask what I’m doing here?”

The nearby contestants pretend not to listen, but their stiff postures give them away.

“I was just… packing up,” I manage, my voice flat, detached from my own body.

“Good,” he mutters. Then he leans in, his voice a harsh whisper. “This is a small town, Elena. In an hour, everyone will know what happened. I can’t have that kind of scandal tied to my bakery. Do you have any idea how disappointed I am? I had high hopes for you.”

The words don’t register at first. My brain stalls.

"You're… firing me?"

“Effective immediately,” he says without hesitation. “I want you out of the apartment by tomorrow.” He straightens his cuffs.

The blow lands before I can brace for it. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the edge of the table. Not just disqualified, but fired. Homeless. Everything gone in a single, stupid hour.

“But—it wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” I stammer, but the words feel weightless.

Pierre just shakes his head. The disappointment rolling off him feels heavier than anger. “I thought you were different, Elena. I thought you understood what it meant to be a professional.”

Then he turns and walks away, without another glance. No goodbye. No forgiveness.

I stand there, surrounded by the quiet buzz of the festival continuing without me. My vision blurs, hot tears slipping down my cheeks as I slide the rolling pin I'd brought for good luck into my bag, right next to my everyday clothes.

When I sling the bag over my shoulder and glance up, I catch James watching me from his station, frozen, eyes wide with confusion and something that looks like heartbreak. He doesn’t say a word.

Cole is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Dorian.

Chapter thirty-nine

Elena

The cheap suitcase I arrived in Lakeview with three years ago stares at me from the middle of my living room. It’s open, already half-filled with a haphazard jumble of clothes.

My hands tremble as I shove another sweater into the burgeoning pile, not bothering to fold it. What’s the point? Everything else in my life has unraveled so spectacularly, why should my packing be any different? Disqualified. Fired. Humiliated. The words repeat in my head like a taunting mantra, each one another twist of the knife in my bleeding pride.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, I mutter, the word a bitter punctuation mark to every item I toss into the suitcase. Stupid to let my guard down with those alphas. Stupid to believe that I could somehow have it all: my career, my independence, and… whatever I started to feel.

I catch my reflection in the small mirror by the door. I look flushed and wild-eyed, my hair a complete disaster. The unbearable urge that hijacked my body has calmed down since the 'incident' in the woods. But I’m still furious. Furious that it happened at all. That my biology turned against me at the worst possible moment.

You got exactly what you deserved, Elena, a vicious little voice whispers in the back of my mind, poisonous and persistent. You played with fire, denied your own nature, and now you’ve been truly burned.

I’ve become my own cautionary tale. The omega who thought she could outsmart biology, who believed she could control her destiny, only to have it all blow up in her face.

Tears, hot and angry, prick at the backs of my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. I will not cry. Not anymore. Crying won’t change anything. It won’t un-disqualify me. It won’t un-fire me. It won’t un-expose me as the out-of-control mess I am.

I can't stay here. Not in this town where people will soon connect the dots, realizing I'm an omega. I need to escape. To disappear. To lick my wounds in private.

The bus. That’s the answer. An anonymous bus, taking me back to Mom, where no one knows I'm a disgraced baker.

* * *

My phone buzzes on the slightly blackened kitchen counter, Mia’s name lighting up the screen, along with a succession of increasingly frantic messages.

WHAT HAPPENED???

Everyone's talking about you and Dorian! Are you okay?

CALL ME!!

Of course, she’s heard. News travels faster than a wildfire here, especially news this juicy. Everyone in Lakeview must already know about the baker who threw away her shot at the final for a quickie in the woods.

I let Mia's calls go to voicemail, each ring tightening the ache in my chest. I can’t talk to her, not yet. Not until I’m miles away from here. She'll understand why I had to leave. Why I couldn’t tell the truth… We'll still see each other… just not in Lakeview.

Before I realize, my fingers move on their own, dialing a different number. The one I know will always pick up.

"Elena? Honey, is that you? Are you alright?" Mom's voice, warm, steady, familiar, wraps around me like a balm, and for the first time all day, I breathe.

And then the dam breaks. The tears I’ve been holding back spill over. Everything comes pouring out: the DuoBlocks, the alphas, the disqualification, the firing, losing the apartment. I confess it all in a tangled rush of words and self-blame, punctuated by hiccuping sobs.

She listens patiently, her silence a comforting, non-judgmental embrace reaching me across the distance.

"Oh, sweetie," she says softly when I finally run out of words. "You’ve been carrying such a heavy burden, all by yourself, for so long."

"I just… I messed everything up, Mom," I whisper, fresh tears blurring my vision. "Everything I worked for… it’s all gone."

"Is it, Elena?" she asks gently. "Or does it just feel that way right now?"

"Pierre fired me. I’m disqualified from the festival. I need to vacate my apartment. And the whole town probably thinks I’m some kind of… lunatic."

"Pierre is a curmudgeon, yes but he has a heart. I'm sure he adores you, even if he’d rather chew off his own arm than admit it," she says, a hint of fond exasperation in her voice. "He’ll cool down, leave you the apartment. And as for the town… people have short memories, Elena, especially when there’s fresh gossip to be had. What they’ll remember is the way you make magic with flour and sugar."

"But what about… what about the alphas?" I manage, the words almost sticking in my throat. "After how I acted toward them… they probably want nothing to do with me. And even if they did… it’s too complicated, Mom. Too dangerous. I can’t… I can’t lose myself the way you did." The unspoken words, the way you did with Dad, hang heavy in the air.

"Oh, Elena," she sighs, and I can hear the years of her own quiet pain in that single, breathy sound. "You’ve always been so afraid of repeating my mistakes, haven’t you? So determined to be independent, to be strong, to never let anyone have power over you."

"Isn't that a good thing?" I ask, a defensive edge creeping into my voice.

"Independence is a wonderful thing, my love," she says softly. "But sometimes, I think you’ve confused independence with isolation. You’ve built your walls so high trying to protect yourself, that you’ve forgotten how to let anyone in. How to trust. How to… connect."

"Alphas want to control, Mom," I argue, the old, familiar refrain rising to the surface. "They want to possess. It’s their nature."

"Is it, Elena? Or is that just the story you've been telling yourself for so long that you've started to believe it's the only truth?" She pauses, and I can hear her settling into her chair. "These men, these alphas... they were clumsy, maybe a little overbearing in their concern. Alphas can be like that sometimes, all good intentions and zero finesse." Her voice grows gentler. "But from what you've told me, sweetheart, it sounds like they genuinely care about you. Enough to be concerned for your safety, even if they expressed it like emotional bulldozers."

I hear her sigh softly through the phone. "The way you sounded when you called me the other day, it reminded me of myself when I first met your father. That mix of excitement and joy..." Her voice turns melancholic. "We both know how that story ended, and I'd die before I'd want you to repeat my mistakes. But Elena, I also don't want you to close yourself off to love because you're terrified of being hurt. These alphas you've described... they sound nothing like your father."

Her words, so simple, chip away at the icy wall of my certainty.

"You won't know what might be possible, Elena, unless you talk to them," she continues, her voice gentle but insistent. "Honestly. Openly. Without the fear, without the anger, without all those old stories getting in the way."

"And say what, Mom?" I ask, my voice laced with weary sarcasm. "Sorry I tried to gaslight you into thinking you were fetishizing me, when really, you were right—not that you needed further confirmation, since I jumped Dorian in the bushes."

She actually laughs at that, a warm sound that makes the tight knot of misery in my chest loosen just a fraction. "Maybe lead with something a little less… dramatic, honey," she suggests, a smile in her voice. "Honesty, real honesty, about what you’re feeling, what you’re afraid of… it’s usually a pretty good place to start."

I look down at my open suitcase, at the tangible evidence of my fear, my shame, my impulsive decision to run. "I don’t know, Mom," I whisper, the fight draining out of me, leaving behind a vast, echoing emptiness. "I’m not sure I can make it here anymore. Not after today. Who’s going to trust me now? Who’s going to hire a baker who literally imploded during the biggest competition of her career?" My voice cracks. "And even if someone would, I can't keep lying to people about what I am. But I'm terrified to tell the truth."

"Sweetheart, people forgive mistakes when they understand they came from fear, not malice," she says gently, her voice like a warm blanket around my frayed nerves. "Be honest with them. Accept who you are, all of who you are. You're not just an omega, Elena. You're someone with incredible talent and a heart of gold. When people see the real you, that's what they'll remember."

We talk until the knot in my chest slowly unravels, her steady voice gradually quieting the panicked voices in my head. And by the time we finally hang up, I’m no longer so sure about my desperate escape plan.

Chapter forty

James

I stand behind a red curtain on the same stage we greeted the judges on day 1. Around me, backstage, voices whisper nervously, and sugar perfumes the air in every conceivable form.

Normally, this is where I thrive: the adrenaline, the pressure, the hush before the spotlight finds me. I live for this.

But today, it’s different. Today, the usual anticipation is overshadowed by the turmoil consuming my thoughts. Elena. Disqualified.

The news ripped through the competition area like a shockwave an hour ago. I can feel people watching me with pity, probably thinking I'm some pathetic alpha cuck. Not that their opinions matter, the anger and guilt consuming me for failing to prevent this disaster are far more overwhelming.

We tried to warn her dammit, but she wouldn't listen. She didn't believe us. And now this. It's so damn unfair. How was she supposed to control what must have been a heat spike when she'd never experienced one before? No medication. No support system. She just got thrown into this completely unprepared.

We failed her. I failed her.

"James Reynolds!" a voice calls from the stage, jerking me from my guilt-ridden reverie.

Right. Showtime.

I take a steadying breath and force myself to channel this raw emotion into something that might actually make a difference. Time to summon my signature charming-rogue smile, the one that usually works wonders on judges and spectators.

With theatrical flourish I don't entirely feel, I wheel out not one, but two gleaming stainless-steel carts draped with pristine white linen, their contents tantalizingly hidden. The crowd gasps in amazement while I catch a flicker of surprise on the judges' faces: Chen, Parker, and... is that Pierre Dubois? Elena's grumpy mentor has apparently replaced Dorian, his face a mask of stoic French disapproval.

Interesting. That's an unexpected development.

"Welcome, judges," I begin, my voice smooth and confident, betraying none of the internal turmoil. "For my final presentation, I've decided to offer you not one, but two distinct yet thematically linked culinary experiences."

I pause for dramatic effect, letting the anticipation build. Then, with a flourish, I whip the cloth off the first cart, revealing my first creation.

It's a symphony of textures and temperatures: crisp, paper-thin apple crisps dusted with cinnamon-vanilla sugar; a velvety Calvados-infused apple mousse set in delicate spun-sugar nests; warm, buttery cubes of sautéed honeycrisp apples; a quenelle of tart green apple sorbet; and a drizzle of glistening, slow-cooked cider caramel.

"My Golden Apple Fantasia," I announce with a grand gesture, "is an exploration of the apple in its myriad forms. We have the crunch of the baked, the silk of the mousse, the warmth of the sautéed, the chill of the sorbet. Each element is prepared using a distinct technique, designed to highlight a different facet of this humble yet endlessly versatile, fruit."

I walk them through the intricate techniques involved, the precise temperature control required for the perfect apple crisp, the delicate balance of aeration in the mousse, the exact moment the caramel reaches that ideal deep amber hue. They listen intently, expressions carefully neutral, though I catch a flicker of impressed surprise in Chen’s eyes. I can almost hear the crowd's stomachs echoing in response to each explanation.

The tasting is, as always, agonizing. They sample each element separately, then in various combinations, their faces unreadable. Parker actually pulls out a small magnifying glass to examine the lamination on my pastry shards. Seriously, Parker?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silent chewing, Chen clears her throat. "Mr. Reynolds," she begins, her voice betraying genuine admiration, "this is exceptionally well-executed. The technical skill on display is truly remarkable."

Parker concurs. "One hundred percent. The flavor balance is impeccable. Each component shines, yet they all work in perfect harmony. A masterful display."

Even Pierre Dubois, who Elena said was impossible to please, offers a nod of approval. "The caramel," he says, his French accent thick, "it has depth. Character. It is not merely sweet. C'est bon."

High praise indeed. I allow myself a small, gratified smile. My apple masterpiece has landed. But this is just the appetizer. The opening act.

I move to the second cart. A different kind of adrenaline kicks in, more reckless. I place my hand on the pristine white cloth, my gaze sweeping across the judges' expectant faces.

"And now, judges," I say, my voice dropping slightly as I hear a hush from the crowd, "for my second offering. My pièce de résistance. Something I believe may very well be the single best, most memorable pastry you will taste in this entire festival."

I pause again, letting the weight of my audacious claim settle over the suddenly silent area. Then, with slow, deliberate movement, I pull back the cloth.

Chapter forty-one

Cole

The Lakeview Bus Station. It hasn't changed a bit since I was seventeen, full of misguided teenage angst and a desperate need to escape this town.

Same cracked linoleum floors that sticks to the soles of your shoes, same faded route map on the peeling paint of the wall. I’ve been staring at that map for a good twenty minutes from my seat, my gaze tracing the bold lines that lead away from Lakeview. Toward the city. Toward my promotion. Toward my dutiful life, the one where I supposedly have things figured out.

My duffel bag, containing the sum total of my worldly possessions for this supposedly straightforward week of festival, sits at my feet. A tangible symbol of my impending departure. Or maybe my cowardly retreat. Semantics.

I handed in my resignation from my festival duties this morning, right after… well, right after Elena made it abundantly clear that my presence was about as welcome as a skunk at a garden party.

The bus to the city glows on the flickering departure board. Thirty-seven minutes until it leaves. Thirty-seven minutes to try and fully convince myself this is the right call.

The station door creaks open in a symphony of rust and neglect, ushering in a gust of warm, late-afternoon air. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, hoping whoever it is doesn’t notice me (small town chatter being my kryptonite right now).

But then, a distressed scent hits me, and my head snaps up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

Elena.

There she is. Framed in the doorway like a tragic heroine in an indie film, clutching her battered suitcase, looking small, lost, and so damn beautiful. Her incredible forest-green eyes are red-rimmed, her usual spark dimmed. Seeing her like this, vulnerable and obviously hurting, sends a surge of protectiveness roaring through me. Protect. Comfort. Fix. So much for emotional detachment.

"Cole?" Her voice is a shaky whisper, her eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing, shaded with something harder. Suspicion, maybe… or resentment. Or just the exhaustion of a woman who’s had an absolutely miserable day.

"Elena." I’m on my feet before I even decide to move, my voice rough. "What… what are you doing here?"

She gives a small, defeated shrug. "Running away from home, apparently. Or, you know, what used to be home before I got spectacularly disqualified, publicly humiliated, and promptly fired, all in the space of about thirty minutes. You?"

"Disqualified? Fired?" I repeat, stunned. "Why?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously? You don't know? I figured it was broadcasting on every gossip channel in town by now."

"I left during the final," I reply. "Been avoiding… people. Anyway, that's not important. What happened Elena?"

She looks away, heat flaring in her cheeks. "I… uh… I was caught engaging in… inappropriate behavior…"

It takes me a moment to process this. "Dorian?"

She nods miserably, staring at her sneakers. "We were… caught. And now I've lost everything, the competition, my job, my apartment. Pierre fired me on the spot."

"Elena, I…" I take a step closer, fighting the urge to pull her into my arms, to shield her from… well, from everything. Another wave of her distressed scent hits me, and my jaw tightens, a low growl rumbling in my chest that I have to physically swallow. Control yourself, Cole. "I had no idea. I’m so sorry."

She offers a small, brittle smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Not your fault, Cole. It’s a mess of my own making." She looks down, then back up. "So, again, what about you?"

I gesture to my bag of shame. "Checked out of my Airbnb. Resigned from my festival duties. Heading back to the city a little earlier than planned."

Her eyes narrow, the flicker turning into a definite spark. "So you were just going to leave without saying goodbye?"

There’s an edge to her voice, a hurt I suspect she’s trying (and failing) to hide under anger. And damn it, it ignites my own banked frustration.

"Goodbye?" My voice raises, surprising both of us. The handful of other people in the station look over. Great. "What kind of goodbye were you expecting, Elena? The one where I thank you for blowing me off?"

She looks surprised. "Cole, I never—"

"Didn't you?" I step closer, lowering my voice but not the intensity. I can feel my own scent sharpening, a mix of anger and something else, something I refuse to name, but that smells a lot like longing. "You build walls so high, Elena, it’s a wonder anyone can even see you, let alone get close. You push and you push because you’re terrified someone might actually stay. You made it pretty damn obvious I wasn't wanted. So yeah," I say, the word tasting like ash, "I was leaving. What did you think I was going to do? Stick around like some pathetic puppy, hoping you'd throw me a scrap of attention?"

The anger drains out of her, replaced by a wide-eyed vulnerability that stops me dead in my tracks, tears welling up in her eyes. "I… I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's just… I've had so much on my mind and… I’m scared, Cole."

"You think you're the only one?" The anger deflated, leaving behind a hollow ache as my own fears echo back at me. You can’t do both. Saving people. Loving. You’ll do neither right. You'll screw everything up. Maybe I already have…

We stand there, two fugitives in the drab bus station, the scent of stale coffee and diesel fumes mingling with our distress.

Suddenly, a crackly voice erupts from the radio speaker at the ticket counter, startling us both. "And we've just received word from the Lakeview Baking Festival, folks! After a truly astonishing final round, the judges have crowned their champion!"

Elena and I both look toward the radio, our personal drama momentarily forgotten.

"James Reynolds," the announcer continues, his voice practically buzzing with excitement, "a crowd favorite throughout the competition, has claimed first place! His final creation wowed the judges with its technical brilliance and innovative flavor combinations!"

"Good for him," I say, genuinely meaning it. "He deserved to win."

Elena nods, though I can see a flash of what might be regret cross her face. What might have been, if things had gone differently.

The announcer continues with details about the competition until suddenly his tone changes to excitement. "Wait, I'm getting new information... In a shocking turn of events, James Reynolds has just made an unexpected announcement during his acceptance speech!"

Elena and I exchange a glance, our eyebrows lifting in sync.

"In a stunning display of sportsmanship, Reynolds just revealed that the second pastry he presented, the one judges described as 'transcendent' and that secured his victory, was actually Elena Avery's creation that he assembled and decorated after her disqualification earlier today!"

Elena gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Reynolds stated that he completed Avery's half-finished work, saying it would have been 'a tragedy not to experience the best pastry in the competition, regardless of who created it.' "Festival judges are currently in an emergency meeting to determine how to proceed. Stay tuned to Lakeview Radio for updates."

"James," Elena whispers, tears welling again, but this time, they look different. They look like hope. And my own heart, the one I was trying so hard to pack away, gives a stupid, hopeful lurch right alongside hers.

Chapter forty-two

James

The silence that follows my revelation is so complete you could hear a soufflé deflate. The judges and the entire crowd, at least three hundred people, stare at me in collective shock.

"I'm sorry," Judge Chen says, blinking rapidly. "Could you please repeat that?"

I lean into the microphone, channeling my inner dramatic hero. "The mixed fruit tart with pistachio cream," I declare, my gaze sweeping across the shocked faces of the judges and the crowd, "the creation that ultimately secured the highest marks in today’s final, the tart that you all unanimously agreed was exceptional… isn’t mine. It's Elena Avery's."

The crowd erupts in another round of gasps and murmurs. Parker's face cycles through several interesting colors before settling on an alarming shade of purple, while Pierre's expression becomes as inscrutable as an undercooked puff pastry.

"The perfect crust, the exquisite pistachio cream, the fruits, the mirror-like glazing… it was all Elena's work," I continue. "I simply assembled and decorated everything she had already prepared, after she was… unable to continue.""

"This is highly irregular, Mr. Reynolds!" Parker sputters as he grabs his microphone, finally finding his voice.

I raise my hands in a gesture of peaceful defiance. "I am well aware of that, Chef Parker. And I accept full responsibility for any breach of festival protocol."

"I don't believe there are any rules that specifically cover this particular contingency," Chen says, a bewildered but intrigued smile playing on her lips. "But I’m fairly certain that if there were such a rule, this would most definitely be against it."

"Rules were definitely not designed for a situation like this," I reply, allowing myself a small, charming smile. "But the fact remains, Elena Avery was disqualified for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with her extraordinary baking talent. Her creation, this tart right here," I gesture again to Elena’s masterpiece, its delicate beauty a stark contrast to the uproar I’ve just caused, "is, by your own admission, 'the single best thing presented in this entire competition'. It deserves to be judged on its merit. She deserves to be judged on her merit."

Parker stands, indignation radiating from him like heat from an overworked oven. "This is outrageous! You've manipulated the entire competition!"

"No," a familiar voice calls from the crowd. "He's demonstrated integrity. Shocking, I know."

All heads swivel as a new voice, calm and authoritative cuts through the tension. Dorian Beaumont. He strides onto the stage from the wings, immaculate as always, his presence radiating an aura of quiet power that instantly commands the area. What in the fresh hell is he doing here? I thought he’d recused himself, vanished into his billionaire Batcave.

"Mr. Beaumont," Chen says, surprise evident in her voice. "We weren’t expecting you."

"My apologies for the intrusion," Dorian says smoothly, his silver-gray eyes sweeping across the judges, then lingering for a moment on me, a flicker of respect in their depths. "But I felt compelled to… offer a point of clarification. A perspective, if you will." He gently takes the microphone from my hand, then turns to face the audience, his voice resonating with aristocratic confidence. "I have had the distinct pleasure of tasting Miss Avery’s work on multiple occasions throughout this festival. Her talent, her innovation, her dedication to her craft, are, quite frankly, exceptional."

He pauses, then turns back to the judges, his expression serious. "Her disqualification, as Mr. Reynolds so eloquently pointed out, was due to circumstances entirely unrelated to her baking abilities. To deny her the consideration she so clearly deserves, simply on a technicality… that, to me, seems not only unjust, but also a disservice to the very spirit of this competition, which is, after all, about celebrating culinary excellence." He then looks pointedly at the pie. "And it is worth noting that this particular creation achieved its acclaim without my potentially biased input, as I was not part of this final judging panel."

Pierre Dubois, who has remained silent and stony-faced throughout this entire drama, finally speaks, his voice a low, rumbling growl. "I had no idea Elena was the maker of this tart," he admits. "I expected her to create my Lakeview Apple Pie with her own twist, but this..." He pauses, studying the creation with what looks like paternal pride. "The tart is exceptional. The work of a true artist. It deserves to be judged as such."

My heart gives a small, grateful leap. Pierre, who Elena kept referring to as the curmudgeonly traditionalist, is defending her innovation. Wonders, it seems, will never cease.

I step forward again, taking the microphone, my earlier bravado replaced by a sincerity, a passion, I didn’t know I possessed. "Baking," I say, my voice surprisingly emotional, "at its best, is an act of generosity. It’s about sharing something beautiful, something delicious, something made with care and with heart, with others. Elena Avery embodies that spirit. She is, without a doubt, one of the most talented, passionate, and inspiring bakers I have ever had the privilege of competing alongside. And that," I look at the judges, my voice ringing with conviction, "is why I must respectfully decline the championship title."

A stunned silence, then the spectators erupt. Cheers, applause, gasps of disbelief. The crowd is on its feet, a joyful wave of support washing over the stage. And then, a chant begins, soft at first, then growing louder, more insistent: "E-le-na! E-le-na! E-le-na!"

The judges, looking more than a little flustered, exchange panicked glances then huddle together, conferring in urgent whispers backstage as the public pressure mounts.

Dorian moves to stand beside me, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "That was… remarkably noble, James," he says, his voice low. "And remarkably reckless. I confess, I am… impressed."

"Someone had to do the right thing," I say, shrugging, though my heart is still pounding a frantic rhythm. "Besides," I add, a grin breaking through, "my father always said a Reynolds man knows how to make an exit. Though I’m not entirely sure this is what he had in mind."

Dorian actually chuckles at that, a warm, genuine sound. "Maybe not. But in this instance, I suspect he might approve."

After what feels like forever, but is probably only a few long minutes, the judges return to the stage, their expressions resolved. Chen steps up to the microphone, a hush falling over the expectant crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she begins, her voice regaining its usual professional poise, "after careful consideration of the… unique circumstances presented to us today, and in light of Mr. Reynolds's extraordinary gesture and the undeniable merit of the pastry in question…" She pauses, taking a deep breath. "The judges have unanimously decided to reverse Miss Elena Avery’s earlier disqualification."

The roar from the crowd is deafening. I feel a grin, wide and slightly goofy, spread across my own face. We did it. Elena did it.

"Which means," Chen continues, once the applause has died down to a dull roar, "based on the exceptional quality of her mixed fruit tart, we are delighted to award first place in the Lakeview Baking Festival Grand Final to Miss Elena Avery!"

More cheers, more applause, more ecstatic chaos. I catch Dorian’s eye, and he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod of shared triumph.

"Additionally," Chen holds up a hand, quieting the crowd once more, "we also wish to recognize Mr. James Reynolds for his extraordinary sportsmanship, his integrity, and his unwavering commitment to fairness. Therefore, we are creating a special award for Ethical Excellence, which we are proud to present to Mr. James Reynolds."

More applause, and I duck my head, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with stage lights or adrenaline. It’s nice. To be recognized not just for talent, but for… well, for trying to be a decent human being. A novel experience, that.

"The only remaining question," Chen concludes, her smile warm and genuine as she looks out over the still-cheering crowd, "is… where is Miss Avery? Does anyone know where Elena is, so she can come and claim her championship?"

Chapter forty-three

Elena

"Where is Elena Avery?"

My heart launches into a panicked drum solo against my ribs. I’m rooted to the spot at the edge of the crowd, my trusty purse still clutched in my hand. My suitcase? Oh, that’s probably enjoying an impromptu vacation by the festival entrance after I ditched it in my mad dash here. People are starting to look around, a confused murmur rippling through them.

Me, I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened. One minute I was at the bus station, the next, I was racing back here, only to catch the tail end of a mic squealing with feedback… and then James’s voice. Did he really just give up his championship, for me? Did the judges actually reverse my disqualification? And Dorian— did he just stand up for me too?

"Elena Avery," Chen repeats, her voice cutting clean through the noise in my head.

Right. Okay, Elena. Deep breath. In. Out. Try not to trip over your own feet. It's now or never.

"I'm here!" I manage to squeak, but it’s promptly swallowed by the general hubbub.

Taking another breath, big enough to inflate a bounce house, I try again, channeling my inner town crier. "I'M HERE!"

That got their attention. Heads swivel and the crowd starts to part like the Red Sea. My legs feel wobbly like under-whipped meringue as I navigate the aisle, every single eye boring into me. The sheer weight of public attention, a thing I’ve dodged my whole life, presses down. But I keep moving, one foot in front of the other.

James spots me first. His face, usually a mask of charming roguishness, lights up with a joy so genuine it could power a small kitchen. "Elena!"

Dorian turns, and a wave of relief washes over his features. Even Pierre straightens, a flicker of something suspiciously like pride breaking through his stern expression.

And then, just as I reach the foot of the stage, I see him. Cole. He’s at the edge of the crowd, looking like he just sprinted a marathon. Our eyes lock for a beat, a silent exchange that speaks volumes, and he gives me a small, almost imperceptible nod. You got this.

The stage steps feel like climbing Mount Croquembouche, but somehow, I ascend. Chen approaches, holding the championship medallion. The medallion. The one I’d mentally kissed goodbye, convinced it was destined for someone else's neck.

"Ms. Avery," she announces, her voice amplified for the eager crowd, "on behalf of the Lakeview Baking Festival, we are incredibly pleased to award you this year's championship. Your mixed fruit tart was unanimously declared the superior creation of the competition!"

The applause is a tidal wave. Someone lets out an enthusiastic whistle that nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I just stand there, stunned into silence, as Chen places the surprisingly heavy medallion around my neck.

"Would you like to say a few words?" Chen asks, offering me the microphone with an encouraging smile.

I take it on autopilot, my mind a blank canvas. Hundreds of faces blur before me, all expectant, all curious. The spotlight feels hotter than a blast furnace.

"I..." My voice cracks, a mortifying squeak. I clear my throat, trying for composure. "Thank you. I... wow. I honestly don’t know what to say. I wasn't expecting this."

A ripple of gentle laughter from the audience. Good, they're not going to stone me.

"I wasn't here for the initial judging," I begin, taking a steadying breath. "I was at the bus station, contemplating a dramatic life change possibly involving llamas and Peru. Well, not really, but I was conflicted and confused. Then I heard about… the unexpected turn of events on a radio, and I came running back."

My eyes find James, who’s now lurking at the side of the stage. "I owe this, all of this, to James Reynolds. He could have sailed to victory, taken the credit, all the glory. He had absolutely everything to gain by just… staying quiet."

James shakes his head, a blush creeping up his neck, trying to wave off the praise, but I’m on a roll now.

"What James did today, that’s the real icing on the cake. It’s the true spirit of what we do. Baking isn't about cutthroat competition, it’s about generosity. It’s about sharing something beautiful, even a little bit magical, with the world."

My gaze shifts, landing on Dorian. "And to Dorian Beaumont. Who championed my tart when he had every perfectly good business reason to distance himself from me. Your unwavering belief in excellence, in the integrity of the craft, even after being caught in a… compromising position," I say, catching the brief glance Parker and Chen exchange, "is nothing short of inspiring."

The words are tumbling out now, a torrent of truth I can’t, and don’t want to, stop.

"The truth is," I continue, my voice gaining a surprising steadiness, "I’ve spent most of my life hiding a pretty significant part of who I am. I was terrified that if people knew, I’d be instantly slapped with a label. That I’d lose my independence, my dreams, my very sense of self, all because of a biological lottery ticket."

A new murmur ripples through the crowd. This is it. No more hiding.

"I'm an omega." The words ring out, clear and unexpectedly steady, echoing through the speakers as the crowd erupts in surprised gasps and chatter.

"And I've been on medication for years. I'm not a late bloomer," I continue, glancing at James and Dorian, then at Cole. "Just… a somewhat convincing actress." I draw a breath as the crowd fades back into silence.

"I hid it because I believed that being an omega, independent, and career-driven were mutually exclusive. I thought that letting anyone get too close would eventually mean being... diminished. Controlled." I take another deep breath.

"To all of you here in Lakeview who've known me for three years, and to you Dorian, James, Cole, I owe you a sincere apology. I'm so, so sorry I deceived you. I was terrified."

I sneak a peek at the alphas. James’s jaw is set, a muscle twitching. Dorian looks stunned, his expression cracking to show surprise and dawning understanding. Cole's gaze is locked on mine, intense and unwavering. I can smell a blazing fury rolling off them… but it seems… protective. Like they're not angry at me but for me.

"Today," I continue, drawing strength from their silent support, "I’ve been shown otherwise. By three extraordinary alphas who saw me, not as a possession to be claimed, but as a person to be supported. Someone, dare I say, to be respected."

My voice catches as emotion overcomes me. "I was so petrified of losing myself that I almost lost everything else. Including the very people who, it turns out, don't make me weaker, but make me feel like I could take on a whole army of temperamental soufflés."

A lone tear escapes, making a break for freedom down my cheek. I don’t bother wiping it away. This is me, unfiltered.

"I’ve been incredibly stupid," I admit, the rawness in my voice carrying. "Blinded by my own anxieties. Pushing away connection because I thought independence meant standing entirely alone."

The crowd hangs on every syllable. You could hear a macaron drop.

"I know I messed up," I choke out, tears falling fast now. "But I—"

Movement in my peripheral vision stops me mid-sentence. Cole barrels forward like he's about to miss a flight. The crowd parts around him as he rushes up the stage, stopping just feet from me.

"Elena," he says, his voice a low rumble that doesn't need a microphone to reach my very core. "I'm sorry. For what I said at the bus station, for walking away, for making you feel like you had to face all of this alone." His jaw tightens as he continues. "You didn’t mess up. Not even close. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. Brave, relentless, completely infuriating sometimes—" he almost smiles, but his eyes are serious, burning. "—and somehow still the only person who’s ever made me question where my real duty lies."

A collective "aww" ripples through the audience, but before I can process Cole's words, another voice cuts through the moment.

"Hold on just a goddamn minute!"

James strides onto center stage, his swagger cranked to maximum.

"If we’re doing dramatic declarations now, you better believe I’m not missing my cue." He spins to face the audience with a grin that earns appreciative laughter, then turns back to me. The grin fades, replaced by something achingly sincere.

"Elena Avery, you are absolutely the most talented baker I’ve ever met. You see ingredients like a composer sees notes." He takes a small step closer, eyes never leaving mine. "And every time you look at me like I’m somehow both your rival and your favorite teammate… I lose a little more of the mask I’ve spent years holding together."

He swallows hard before continuing. "And even if I never get to kiss you again, I’ll still be grateful. Just to have stood beside you in that workstation and watched magic happen."

Now I'm full-on ugly crying.

"I believe I have a few words of my own," Dorian says, stepping forward as he adjusts his immaculate jacket.

"Elena." His gray eyes meet mine, and there’s so much tenderness in them "You are the most maddeningly independent person I’ve ever met." His voice carries the edge of a smile, but it’s laced with awe. "You turned down every shortcut. Earned every single win. And you reminded me over and over that passion isn’t something you can spreadsheet into existence."

He hesitates, then steps closer.

"You made me see that all the control in the world can’t match the kind of strength it takes to care. To try. To throw yourself into something without guarantees."

I can hardly believe it. The three of them. Cole. James. Dorian.

Not just standing before me.

Standing with me.

All as I bare my soul to the town that took me in.

"I… I don’t deserve this," I whisper, forgetting I still have the mic, my voice carrying over the stunned, silent festival crowd.

"You deserve everything, Elena," Cole replies, steady and sure like it's the simplest truth in the world.

“You do, Elena!” someone yells from the audience. Then a wave of cheers breaks over the area: applause, whoops, even a few wolf whistles. I even catch Pierre with the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth followed by shake of his head, like he’s pretending to be exasperated when really, he’s proud.

And suddenly, it’s all too much, in the best way. My chest swells with something wild and radiant. Tears blur my vision once more, but they’re the good kind.

I turn to each of my alphas, one by one. Cole. James. Dorian.

I am so, so done running.

“I… Ouch—”

A sharp cramp stabs through my lower abdomen, punching the air from my lungs. I gasp, hands flying instinctively to my stomach.

Fuck—Is this…?

Chapter forty-four

Elena

"Elena? You okay?" Cole’s voice is a warm wave of concern, his hand instantly, steadyingly at my elbow as his scent flares with protective worry.

"Mostly," I manage, my voice strangled into a squeak that’s definitely not champion material. "But, um… I think our romantic moments on stage might have just officially kicked my heat into gear."

The three alphas exchange glances that could only be described as ‘Oh, crap.’

Their scents, which had settled into a simmer after my… quickie… with Dorian, now roar back to life, swirling together into a heady, knee-weakening cocktail that my body is very interested in sampling. Extensively.

"Holy cannoli, what do we do?" James blurts out, his usual swagger deflating into wide-eyed panic.

Dorian, ever the cool-headed strategist, is already whipping out his phone, his thumb tapping with terrifying efficiency. "My villa. We'll take one of my cars." He says it with the calm authority of someone who regularly navigates hostile takeovers.

A laugh, slightly hysterical, bubbles out of me despite the next wave of discomfort making my toes curl. "Of course this would happen now. Because my life’s motto is clearly 'Timing is everything.'"

Another cramp hits, sharper this time, and I sway. Cole steps closer.

"Permission to deploy Operation: Human Chariot?" he asks quietly, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

I nod, past caring about dignity. "Permission desperately granted."

In one smooth, surprisingly effortless motion, he scoops me into his arms (making my inner omega squeal in the best way). The contact, even through layers of clothing, sends little zings of electricity across my hypersensitive skin.

Dorian and James, bless their alpha instincts, immediately flank us, parting the now-gaping crowd like seasoned bodyguards clearing a path for royalty. Faces rush past in a blur of wide eyes, parted lips, and the flash of phone cameras. But my focus narrows: Cole’s strong arms, the heady mix of alpha scents wrapping around me like a shield… and the demanding throb building deep inside me.

"Marcus is bringing one of the cars to the east exit," I hear Dorian say, snapping his phone shut, his voice a calm command cutting through the din. "It'll be waiting. James, handle the local press."

"Journalists? Now?" James exclaims with mock horror, then winks, his swagger snapping back into place. "Don’t worry, Elena, darling! I shall dazzle them with my verbosity and rugged charm. They won't know what hit 'em."

As we near the exit, a small gaggle of local reporters, smelling a story juicier than my tart, descends. Camera flashes pop like rogue fireworks.

"Mr. Beaumont! Ms. Avery! Over here! What’s the scoop? Are you dating?"

James steps forward, a shield of grins and distracting banter. "Whoa there, folks! Give the champion some air! She’s overcome with joy, and possibly too much sugar. Normal after such a sweet victory. We’re just taking her for a quick check-up to make sure her heart isn't confusing excitement with cardiac arrest." I bury my face against Cole's chest, half mortified, half giggling.

A Bentley, clearly part of Dorian's fleet, glides to the curb. Cole, with surprising gentleness for a man his size, maneuvers me into the plush leather backseat, the cool material a temporary balm. He slides in beside me as Dorian takes the other side. A few seconds later, James appears slightly breathless, hopping into the front passenger seat.

"North road, Marcus," Dorian instructs the driver. "Let's avoid the main highway bustle."

"Yes, Mr. Beaumont."

I rest my head against Cole’s shoulder, trying to breathe through the escalating waves of heat. Every nerve ending is doing the tango. The car is now saturated with three prime alphas and one rapidly ripening omega. It should be overwhelming. Instead, it feels… right. Safe.

"How far to this sanctuary of yours?" Cole asks, his voice a low rumble.

"Twenty minutes, give or take," Dorian replies.

James bounces his knee. "Should we make a pit stop? You know, for… supplies? Champagne, maybe?

Dorian offers a rare, small smile. "The villa is fully stocked. One must always be prepared for the… unexpected."

I manage a sound that's half groan, half snort. "Of course it is. It’s completely normal to have a heat-readiness kit on standby."

"Well," Dorian replies, with a perfectly straight face, "let's just say I had a small hunch on the events..."

The car winds its way into the wooded hills, weaving past sprawling estates tucked behind stone walls and iron gates. Eventually, we turn onto a private drive, where terraced gardens spill gracefully down the hillside, framing a view of the lake.

A quiet sigh escapes me. The villa is every bit as breathtaking in the daylight as it was under the stars.

"This is your little weekend spot?" Cole asks, his voice tinged with awe.

"More than that," Dorian replies, a touch of warmth in his tone as the car glides to a halt. "It's legacy. My grandfather bought and restored it decades ago."

A butler straight out of a luxury estate brochure opens my door, bowing slightly. "Ms. Avery, Monsieur Beaumont. Refreshments are prepared." He offers a silver tray with chilled, lavender-scented towels that feel divine against my forehead.

"Ah, Gerard, wonderful timing," Dorian says.

Cole lifts me again. I wrap my arms around his neck, inhaling his scent as another cramp washes through my lower stomach.

"Will you be requiring anything further, Monsieur?" Gerard asks, impeccably neutral.

"We are settled, thank you, Gerard. You may take the rest of the day off."

"Very good, sir."

Cole carries me through the arched doorway, Dorian deftly unlocking his massive oak door. The interior literally steals James's and Cole's breath away as they take it all in.

"Sweet mother of pearl," James mutters. "This must have cost more than Lakeview itself."

Dorian chuckles, leading us toward a wing I hadn't seen, stopping in front of a beautiful mahogany door. "The primary suite. Just redone. Best views, most comfortable amenities."

The bedroom is… palatial. The bed could host a small slumber party. Windows open onto a private terrace. A door hints at a spa-sized ensuite. And yes, scattered across the bed are the softest, fluffiest blankets and pillows imaginable. It’s an omega’s heat-nest dream.

Cole gently sets me down. "This is…" I start, but a twinge steals the rest. "It's beautiful."

"Only the best for our Pastry Queen," Dorian quips, concern softening his eyes. "For now, let's get you some water and food," he continues. "Cole, you'll find fresh linens and more comfortable clothing for Elena in the en-suite. James—"

“On it,” James cuts in, already heading to the terrace. “Fresh air coming right up.” He slides the windows open, letting in a soft breeze that smells of pine and lakewater. "And with all the switches in here, I'm betting there's mood lighting."

I watch them, a little dazed, as they move with unspoken coordination. These three powerful alphas, who, in another dimension, could be at each other's throats over me, are working together, creating a haven for my comfort. It’s unexpected and overwhelmingly sweet.

Cole returns from the ensuite with an emerald green silk robe. It shimmers.

"Would this be more… comfortable?" he asks, his gaze gentle.

I nod, my skin practically screaming to be free of the clothes I’ve been in all day. As Cole, ever the gentleman, turns his back and James frowns at the wall of switches (trying to figure out which of the dozen controls what), I slip into the robe. Bliss.

James finally finds how to dim the lights, and Dorian returns with Fiji water, crackers and artisanal cheese.

"How are you feeling, chérie?" Dorian asks.

"Like my skin is too small," I admit. "And everything smells… intense. Distractingly so."

"Including us?" James asks, mischief glinting.

A blush rises. They all smell divine. Cole's cedar and musk, James's bergamot and saffron, Dorian's sandalwood and cinnamon. A symphony just for me.

"We're here for you, Elena," Cole says sincerely. "Whatever you need. What you choose."

Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. "This probably isn’t how any of you planned to spend your Sunday."

Dorian chuckles. "Candidly, I can think of far worse predicaments."

I laugh, then wince. "Surreal. This morning I was fired. Now I'm a champion, with three amazing alphas… and about to go into heat in a mansion that could have its own zip code."

"Villa," Dorian corrects smoothly. "And as for being fired… surely you don’t still believe that. You’re Pierre’s most valuable asset. He’d be insane not to hire you back." His expression shifts, turning thoughtful. "But honestly, you're ready for more. You should think seriously about opening your own bakery."

I gasp, not from pain. "My own… You think I could?"

"Undoubtedly," Dorian replies, smiling now. "I’ve seen hundreds of bakers rise and fall, and I know you'll succeed more than anyone I've ever met." He pauses, his gaze steady. "You know I could help you, right? With getting it started."

"W-what?"

He leans in slightly, his voice soft but sure. "Let me invest in you, Elena. Call it a loan, if that makes it easier. Or a gift, if your pride allows. You deserve it."

"You’d make it the best damn bakery this side of the Atlantic," James adds.

Cole nods, eyes shining. "You have the talent. The fire. All you need now is the launchpad."

"Oh my god," I breathe, "my own bakery…"

"Which would mean you wouldn't be an employee anymore…" Dorian smiles, "but an entrepreneur."

My tears spill freely. After the humiliation, the certainty that my career was toast, I not only have a future, but it’s the future I’d barely dared to dream of. My own creative space. My own business…

"But I don’t… I don't deserve this," I whisper, my voice thick. "Not after how I pushed you all away."

"This isn't about what you did or didn't do," Dorian says, his voice steady and grounding. "It's about your talent. Your heart. What you've accomplished despite everything working against you." His gaze softens. "Besides, can any of us really claim we haven't screwed up at some point? I mean, I literally got caught with my pants down during a baking competition."

I snort-laugh despite the heat building in me. "That's one way to put it."

"What matters," he continues, a smile tugging at his lips, "is what we choose to do next. And I'm not just talking about a bakery anymore, Elena."

He swallows hard, his usual composure flickering. "What I'm trying to say is... I want you, Elena. I'm pretty sure we all do." He looks at James and Cole.

James grins, though there's something vulnerable in his eyes. "Damn right I do. You've got me wrapped around your little finger, Elena. Hope you're ready for that level of devotion."

Cole nods slowly, his usual stoic mask softening. "Couldn't have said it better myself. We all want you, Elena. And honestly?" He glances at the other two with something like fondness. "I think we work well together."

"I… I want you too," I say, my voice soft but clear, meeting each of their gazes. "All of you. As incredibly different and wonderful as you are. Even if we're all figuring this out as we go."

Another wave of heat pulses through me, making me shift restlessly against my silk robe. "Also…" I twist my fingers together, looking down shyly. "Just… just to be one hundred percent sure… Will you all… help me through this? My heat, I mean?"

The air shifts. Their expressions turn hungry. Primal. But they fight it, their eyes locking onto mine, filled with something deeper than just lust.

"Of course, chérie," Dorian says, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that makes my knees weak. "It would be my profound honor to take care of you."

"Sugar, I've been fantasizing about this since our first 'fake' kiss," James adds, his usual swagger replaced by something raw and honest. "I'm happy the script finally caught up."

Cole steps closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper meant just for me. "Nothing would mean more to me, Elena. I want to take care of you, to be there for you through every moment of this."

The moment shimmers. Then another rush of heat crashes through me. I gasp, arching.

Chapter forty-five

Elena

The cramps aren't just cramps anymore; they're full-blown construction projects, rolling through me in waves that leave me gasping and clinging to the bed's expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool breeze wafting through the open terrace doors. But underneath the pain and the desperate, thrumming arousal, an equally powerful and entirely unfamiliar urge is taking over.

"It's not right," I mutter, my hands twisting in the sheets, bunching them with a growing agitation I don't understand. "It's all wrong. Too… flat. Too…" I push myself up, my movements clumsy, my body buzzing like an espresso machine. My inner baker wants to laminate dough, my inner omega apparently wants to laminate bedding.

James, bless his concerned heart, hovers nearby, radiating alpha-level worry. His scent, that intoxicating bergamot and saffron, is driving me half-mad with need yet his presence feels… wrong right now.

"What's wrong, Elena? Talk to us," he asks, his voice carefully gentle, his blue eyes wide.

"Everything!" I snap, the word tearing from me, raw and hormonal. I immediately regret it, wincing as he flinches slightly.

"Sorry," I manage, my voice choked. "It’s just… I need…" My gaze sweeps the room, a frantic interior decorator on a deadline. What do I need? Softer. Warmer. Them, but… not them? "I need… I need…" My gaze sweeps the room, searching.

Cole steps forward though not too close. "What do you need, Elena? Tell us. We’ll get it for you."

"I need you to get out," I blurt, the words surprising even me. My cheeks flame. "Oh God, sorry! That sounded awful. I just… I need to be alone for a moment. But also—" I grab the expensive sheets, trying to simultaneously rub my cheek against them and wrestle them into something resembling a pile. "I need— uh… could I… could I maybe borrow your shirts before you go?" I peek at them through my lashes, feeling utterly ridiculous.

The three men exchange glances. It’s a complex look: a dash of confusion, a sprinkle of dawning comprehension, and a hefty dollop of pure alpha pride. Then, without a word, they comply like a synchronized stripping team. James pulls off his soft undershirt. Cole sheds his navy t-shirt. Dorian unbuttons his crisp, probably-costs-more-than-my-rent Supima cotton shirt. They offer these items like sacred tributes.

For a split second, my instincts waver between their delicious, athletic bodies and the precious fabric they're offering. But the latter wins, my hands darting out to snatch the bounty.

I immediately bury my face in all of it, inhaling deeply. Cedar, bergamot, sandalwood, mine. I rub my cheeks against the soft fabrics, a low, contented purr rumbling in my chest. This is weird. This is so weird. Why am I doing this? Why does it feel so good?

"Nesting instinct," Dorian murmurs as if on cue, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Normally, this would be a pre-heat symptom, but given how long you've been on medication, and the stress of the competition..." He trails off. "But it's starting. As I suspected." He glides toward a set of tall, lacquered doors on the far side of the room. "Elena," he says, "maybe this will be of assistance?"

He opens the doors, revealing not just a closet, but an Aladdin's cave of textiles. Bolts of velvet, piles of faux fur throws, cashmere blankets, silks, and a mountain of plush pillows in every conceivable soft shade. It’s an omega’s fantasy.

My jaw drops. "Is that… is that cashmere?"

Dorian’s lips curve. "And Belgian linen, Andean alpaca wool, and yes, hand-spun Panjore silk. I ordered them the other night. Had a hunch… wanted to be prepared." He looks genuinely pleased with his foresight. "I contacted a rather exclusive importer. He was very efficient, everything arrived on time."

This must have cost an absolute fortune. Gratitude wars with the sharp, insistent urge to be alone with these treasures. I need to bury myself, arrange, create. I open my mouth to thank him, but all that comes out is a low, impatient whine.

The sound has an immediate effect on all three alphas. They go rigid, alert, their bodies practically vibrating with the need to respond to my distress. James takes a half-step forward before catching himself, while Cole's hands clench at his sides. After a moment to compose himself, Dorian, reading me like an open book, nods. "Gentlemen," he says, turning to the others, "I believe Elena requires privacy for her… preparations." He turns back to me, his gaze softening. "Water and food are on the console. There's a call bell by the bed. Ring it if you need anything. We'll bring it to you."

A wave of relief and desire crashes over me as I realize they understand what I need.

"We'll be near," Cole promises, his voice steady.

"Take all the time you need," Dorian adds.

"No pressure," James chimes in, his smirk softened with understanding.

Their care penetrates my hormone-fogged brain. It’s… so sweet.

"Soon," I promise, clutching their shirts. Then, with an apologetic but firm look, I shoo them toward the door. The moment it clicks shut, I turn, my eyes gleaming, ready to face my mountain of fluff.

* * *

Time dissolves into a blur of folding, fluffing, and arranging. I work like a woman possessed, driven by an instinct older than words. The base needs to be sturdy, the sides secure, the center perfect.

I tear open pillowcases and scatter the plush cushions throughout. Cashmere blankets are folded and refolded for the perfect foundation. The velvet bolts become luxurious walls, while faux fur throws add texture and warmth to the outer edges. Silk scarves and fabrics are woven through the structure like ribbons, and throughout it all, I incorporate their shirts; creating an intricate tapestry of soft materials and their combined scents. My alphas.

The nest grows, taking over the huge room's corner, a soft, inviting cocoon large enough for four but built for intimacy. It’s… perfect. I sit back, admiring my handiwork, when another heat wave crashes through me, stronger, sharper. It steals my breath, making me clench my thighs together. The silk robe is suddenly unbearably hot. I tear it off, a whimper escaping me.

"Alpha," I pant, the word tasting new but right. "Need alpha."

My trembling fingers find the bell. I ring it, a frantic jingle. At the same time, an uncontrollable, high, keening whine escapes my lips. It's the omega's call, pure distress, pure need.

The reaction is instantaneous. Footsteps. Three distinct sets, pounding down the hallway like they’re running the Pamplona Bull Run, and I’m the finish line.

A loud knock. "Elena? Princess? Are you alright?" James's voice, breathless and urgent. Looks like he's the first one to arrive.

James.

"James?" My voice is a ragged whisper. "You can… come in."

The door bursts open. He’s there, filling the doorway, eyes wide, scanning until they land on me: naked, flushed, surrounded by my… creation. Concern wars with a dawning, possessive heat in his gaze. Dorian and Cole appear behind him moments later, their expressions equally intense, scents flaring as they take in the scene. Together, they form a wall of protective, hungry alpha energy.

"What do you need, princess?" James asks, his voice rougher now.

The sight of him, ready to charge to my rescue, flashes with the memory of him at the festival, risking everything for me. Lust, sharp and sudden, jolts through me.

"James," I breathe. I push myself up, slick already pearling on my inner thighs. "I need you, James. I need your knot." The words tumble out, bold and desperate. "It's been… too long. Since the spa… the shower…"

His eyes darken to sapphire, a feral intensity flaring. A low growl rumbles in his chest. Dorian and Cole exchange a quick, loaded glance. It’s not disappointment, it’s… understanding. A silent acknowledgement. Cole gives a subtle nod toward James, while Dorian steps back slightly, his expression unreadable but conveying a sense of… guardianship. They won’t leave, not really. They’ll wait outside. Guard the nest. Let James have this first answer to my call.

James doesn't hesitate. He crosses the room in two strides, his gaze locked on mine. He lifts me easily, my skin igniting. He carries me the few feet to the nest, laying me gently on the blankets in its center. The combined scents of my alphas in the nest are dizzying, pure bliss.

"Are you sure, Elena?" he whispers, cupping my flushed cheek. "Me? Now?"

I nod, pulling his head down. Our kiss is fire, desperation, and a deep, soul-shattering need. The world fades. His hands find my breasts, kneading, while my hips grind against his rock-solid cock through his pants.

Instinct takes over. I position myself on my hands and knees, presenting. He sheds his clothes, his scent intensifying, darker, muskier. His hands grip my hips as he presses against my wet folds.

"James…" I whimper, clawing at the blankets. My heat is starting, and only his knot can begin to soothe it.

He enters slowly, thick and heavy, stretching me with a delicious burn that’s half pain, half ecstasy. I cry out, pushing back, urging him deeper.

“Fuck, Elena,” he groans, each thrust deliberate, filling me completely. The knot at the base of his cock swells, catching at my entrance, and I moan, the sensation overwhelming. We find a rhythm, frantic and desperate, my hips meeting his, our bodies damp with sweat. His hands roam, one cupping my breast, the other gripping my hip, anchoring me as he drives deeper.

The world narrows to the delicious stretch of his knot against my walls, the intoxicating scent of our combined arousal, the way his breathing grows ragged against my neck. I can feel myself getting wetter, slicker, my body opening for him completely as the heat demands more. He shifts slightly, hitting that perfect spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I arch beneath him with a broken cry. "Right there," I gasp, my nails digging into his forearms. "Please, don't stop." His responding growl vibrates through his chest as he maintains that angle, that perfect rhythm that has me climbing higher and higher.

The pressure builds, my heat coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps, my orgasm crashing through me like a tidal wave. Slick gushes as my walls pulse around his knot, clenching him tighter inside me. The release is sharp, shattering, leaving me trembling. Sated but still hungry.

“James,” I pant, glancing back at him. His face is tight with need, and I feel his knot almost fully swollen. “Now.”

“You want me to finish, sweetheart?” he says, grinning.

"Do it James, I need—"

I don’t get the words out.

With a guttural groan, he thrusts deep one final time. His knot swells fully, sealing us together as he comes. The heat of his release floods me, and his body sinks over mine, heavy and solid, grounding me in the nest.

We stay like that, tangled and breathless. His cock pulses inside me, and I whimper, the aftershocks of my orgasm mingling with all his fullness.

As our breathing slows, he rolls me on the side, his arms coming around me, holding me close. His touch is gentle, caressing me with a tenderness that nearly undoes me all over again.

Chapter forty-six

Dorian

"God, I want to be in there."

Beside me, Cole stands like a sentinel, his gaze fixed on the closed bedroom door, his scent a thrum of barely leashed alpha energy. Every cry from Elena, every guttural groan from James, strikes against our heightened senses like a match to kindling.

We’ve already tried burning off our restless alpha energy with quick errands through the villa. On our last round, I grabbed every flavor of iced herbal infusion I could find, and Cole showed up right behind me with what can only be described as an obscene amount of berries. We added them to the growing spread of food and drinks just outside her room. And we're ready to fetch her anything else she might want.

I know trying to distract two alphas from their omega's heat is a fool's errand, but it beats just standing here… like we're doing now.

Another breathy moan slips through the door, setting my thoughts into a relentless spiral. Elena must be so ready for us right now. Open in all the right places, an omega in heat producing enough slick to take even an alpha knot in the ass without prep.

Add to that the fact our knots will deflate much faster than normal, meaning we'll go round after round…

And that she's been on medication for years, meaning her heat will be I-N-T-E-N-S-E…

Let's just say the next few days are going to be… brutal. Primal.

I'm so eager I texted my assistant just a few minutes ago to clear my schedule for the entire week, with a hold on the one after. Just in case.

I take a step toward the door before forcing myself to stop. A fresh wave of need claws up my throat, a command to barge in, to claim. It takes everything I have not to obey it. Damn, I'm usually so in control…

"She’ll call for us," Cole murmurs beside me, his voice a grounding rumble. "You'll see."

He’s right. I know he’s right.

I wrestle the instinct back.

This isn’t jealousy. James was her choice this time, and I respect that.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not restless as hell.

The sounds inside intensify, building to a cascade of desperate cries and deep moans. Elena screams in pure, shattering release, so intense it makes my cock twitch.

Then, silence.

Just ragged breathing, soft murmurs. Cole and I wait, unmoving, breath suspended.

The moment stretches. Every instinct I have is locked on that door, waiting.

One minute. Five. More.

Each second winds tighter in my chest.

Then, her voice. It's soft but clear, cutting through the door.

"Dorian. Cole."

Chapter forty-seven

Elena

James smirks as he pulls out with a low, satisfied groan, his release spilling from me onto the rumpled blankets of my nest.

My gaze drifts toward the doorway where my other alphas are watching with dark, hungry eyes.

"Come here," I murmur, extending a hand.

That's all it takes.

Dorian reaches me first, his hands framing my face as he captures my lips in a slow, consuming kiss. Cole follows a breath later, his fingers gliding down my body to find my clit, teasing slow circles that pull a helpless whimper from my throat.

"You look so beautiful," he breathes, voice rough.

I arch under their touch as Dorian now presses soft, open-mouthed kisses along my throat.

"Fill me now," I pant, half plea, half demand.

Cole smirks and obliges. A gasp escapes me as he shifts me onto my side and enters me from behind, burying himself to the hilt in one delicious stretch.

I tremble, my nails digging into Dorian's arms as he positions himself on his side, right in front of me, admiring the scene.

"You're so perfect," Cole breathes, hands gripping my hips as he thrusts in slow, teasing strokes. My breath stutters, pleasure building unbearably.

Dorian groans low, tilting my chin toward him. "You look so good Elena." He claims my lips, swallowing my moans as Cole continues thrusting into me. I whimper into his mouth, my fingers now tangling in his hair.

"You're so wet," he mutters, fingers moving to my clit.

I cry out, my body quaking under the steady rise of pleasure. Cole’s rhythm stutters, his breath hitching in a sharp inhale.

"Fuck, Elena. You're clenching me so hard."

"She’s taking it so well," James says, voice thick. "Look at her. She’s coming apart for us."

I am. My body’s buzzing, every nerve singing. The deep stretch of Cole inside me, Dorian’s fingers teasing my clit. It’s too much, and exactly what I need.

James grabs my breast, his touch folding into the heat of Dorian’s fingers and the relentless pounding of Cole’s cock, making my whole body tingle. My walls tighten further around Cole, making him snarl.

"Fuck, Elena—" His knot starts swelling.

A deep tremor starts in my core, spreading outward like wildfire as Dorian circles my clit with unwavering precision. I reach for him blindly, curling my fingers around his cock and stroking in time with his touch.

"Come for us, princess," Dorian breathes, his lips brushing softly along my jaw.

The orgasm hits hard, searing through me in a wave of white-hot bliss. A hoarse scream rips from my throat as I clench around Cole. He groans, driving in hard one last time as he cums inside me, his knot locking us together.

Dorian follows moments later, groaning as he cums across my stomach.

For a long moment, everything is still. All I can hear is the steady thrum of heartbeats and the sweet, sated hum of my omega, purring with satisfaction as I'm cradled between my alphas.

Slowly, the heat haze begins to lift, just enough for a touch of lucidity to slip back in.

I’m going to need a shower... Maybe a snack first.

Chapter forty-eight

Elena

The cool marble tiles of the ridiculously opulent ensuite are a welcome shock against my flushed skin.

I step into the shower, a glass-walled behemoth that could easily host a small dinner party, and let the hot water cascade over me. It washes away the sweat, the lingering traces of my alphas, but it does little to quench the fire still simmering within. It was good. Oh, yes it was so good. But my heat, it seems, has a multi-day agenda and we've only checked off the first items.

Wrapped in one of Dorian’s impossibly soft bathrobes, I find myself drawn back to the bedroom, back to the nest. It calls to me, a primal hum deep in my bones. It's my fortress of fluff, my den of desire, and stepping back into its center feels like coming home.

I begin to rearrange it—fluffing pillows, smoothing layers, tugging one blanket into place, shifting another. Then I head to the closet and grab more supplies. I weave in more cashmere and alpaca wool, layering warmth and softness into every fold.

When I finally sink into the center and breathe deep, their scent is still there, flooding my senses.

My alphas.

The phrase, once so terrifying, now settles into my chest like it’s always belonged there. It feels warm, comforting, and surprisingly… right. Maybe love isn't a cage after all. Maybe, it’s a custom-built nest filled with handsome alphas who bring you berries and respect your boundaries.

I slowly move out of the nest, my decision made. The fluff-fort is definitely prepped for a full-on knot-pocalypse.

I am ready.

My hand reaches for the small bell on the nightstand. I lift it and ring it once. A single, clear chime that cuts through the silence.

The sound barely has time to fade before they’re there, a solid wall of alpha energy just beyond the mahogany door, their presence so potent I swear I can feel the air pressure change.

I take a deep breath, lift my chin, and speak. My voice is strong, certain.

"Alphas."

I let the word hang in the air, tasting its power, its newness, its rightness.

"I need you now. All of you."

I hear three distinct, sharp intakes of breath. Then, the door handle turns and it eases open. The air pressure shifts even further, becoming saturated with pure, unadulterated desire.

* * *

"I need you now," I call again, my voice stronger. "All of you." And maybe a fire extinguisher. Just in case.

They're standing in front of me, door open, their scents hitting me in a wave so powerful it draws a whimper from my throat.

They pause at the threshold, their expressions a delightful mix of awe and something akin to 'we've hit the jackpot' as they take in the freshly rebuilt nest. My fortress of fluff, my sanctuary of softness.

Did I go overboard with the materials? Probably. Do I care? Not one bit. I see approval in their eyes, pride even, at what their omega has built.

Their omega. The thought no longer frightens me. In fact, it sends a rather pleasant, possessive thrill right through me.

"Elena," Cole says, his voice deeper than I've ever heard it, like he’s been gargling gravel and pure alpha intention. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes," I whisper, then more firmly, because an omega demanding her alphas shouldn’t sound like she’s ordering a particularly daunting dessert. "Yes. I need all of you."

Unlike when my nesting instincts first kicked in, I can now fully appreciate the view as all three of them shed their clothes: Cole's powerful, broad-shouldered frame, looking like he could wrestle a bear and make it apologize; James's lean, athletic build, promising another round of agility and fun; Dorian's elegant, surprisingly well-muscled form, like a classical statue that hit the gym. My omega gives them a resounding ten out of ten.

"My God," I breathe, reaching for them, my earlier bravado momentarily replaced by sheer, giddy awe.

They settle around me as we enter the nest, and I find myself surrounded: Cole at my back, a warm, solid mountain; James at my front, practically vibrating with playful energy despite our earlier round; Dorian at my side, his calm presence a counterpoint to the inferno within me. Their combined warmth, their mingled scents, their gentle touches on my overheated skin, it's overwhelming in the best possible way, like being wrapped in the world's most amazing alpha-weighted blanket.

"Tell us what you need," Dorian murmurs against my temple, his voice a silken promise.

"Everything," I whisper, then with a surge of heat-fueled boldness, I meet their eyes. "I need everything. And don't hold back." A mischievous glint appears in James’s eyes, Cole’s jaw tightens, and a slow smirk spreads across Dorian’s face. "Ruin me."

Cole’s grip tightens on my wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle for all its strength. "Eyes on me, Elena," he barks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me, compelling my focus to him as his thumb brushes my lower lip.

Under any other circumstance, an alpha bark would have sent me running the other way. But I find myself surprisingly turned on by it. Maybe too much.

Before I can fully process the thrill of it, James, already settled on the blanket-floor, tugs me forward with a playful growl. My knees hit the padded nest as I straddle him, his cock impressively hard beneath me.

Dorian follows, his broad chest pressing against my back as his own considerable length grinds against my ass. Cole leans in, his breath hot on my cheek, fingers twisting into my hair, not painfully, but with a firm possession that makes my toes curl. "Open," he orders, his bark leaving no room for argument, not that I had any.

I part my lips, and he feeds me his cock, thick and heavy on my tongue. My mind briefly whites out. James yanks me down at the same moment, sheathing himself inside me in one ruthless, perfect thrust. My scream is muffled by Cole’s dick, my body arching under their incredible fullness. This is… a lot. A wonderful, terrifying, amazing lot.

Dorian’s teeth graze my neck, right over my pulse point. "Tell me if it’s too much," he murmurs, a stark contrast to the raw animality of the moment, yet his fingers are already gliding through the slick on my thighs, inching toward my asshole. He curses, low and awed. "Gods, Elena, you’re dripping. And so open… completely ready for us."

James chuckles beneath me, a joyful, possessive sound, as he snaps his hips upward, making me gasp. "Had a feeling you'd beg for all three of us," he teases, his voice strained.

Dorian, ever meticulous, presses into my ass slowly, the glide effortless as he slicks himself with my arousal. I gasp at the exquisite filling, my body welcoming him. "Damn," he groans, buried to the hilt. "It's like you were made for this, Elena. Perfectly made for us."

Cole’s fingers tighten in my hair, forcing me to take him deeper. "Let me hear you choke on me, sweetheart," he grits out, and I obey, gagging helplessly as he hits the back of my throat. The rhythm is brutal, overwhelming, yet somehow perfectly synchronized: James driving into me with powerful thrusts, Dorian’s slow, grinding pace stretching me in the most exquisite way, Cole fucking my mouth like he owns it. Fuck I wouldn't mind if he did. If they all did.

Dorian nips the sensitive skin just below my ear, a pseudo-claiming bite that sends lightning through me. My pussy clenches hard around James, wrenching a guttural groan from him. "That’s it, Elena," James rasps, slamming into me harder, his earlier playfulness replaced by raw need. "Squeeze me just like that."

Pleasure bleaches my vision as Cole pulls back. I gasp, spit trailing from my lips, feeling debauched and surprisingly okay with it. His pupils are blown wide, focused entirely on me. "Sit on my face, Elena. Now." The command is absolute, and my body trembles in response.

Dorian and James withdraw with a groan of reluctance, their hands steadying me as I scramble forward, my limbs feeling like overcooked noodles. Cole lies back, a wicked grin on his face, and my thighs tremble as I straddle his face, his tongue dragging over my clit with devastating accuracy. "That's it baby, bless my face," Cole growls against me, lapping at the flood of slick. "Drown me in it." And I thought he was the quiet one. Oh, how delightfully wrong I was.

James fists my hair, not ungently, dragging my mouth to his cock. "Show me how much you love this, my champion," he taunts, his voice thick with arousal as he thrusts past my lips. Dorian’s growl vibrates against my back as he kneels behind me again, his presence a scorching heat. "Hands on me, princess," Dorian orders, his voice gravel-rough, no trace of his usual polished tones. I blindly obey, reaching back to jerk him. He hisses as my fingers wrap around his thick, velvet length, moving back and forth. "Fuck, Elena, just like that."

The overload is cataclysmic: Cole’s tongue circling my clit with relentless precision, James fucking my throat with a rhythm that leaves me breathless, Dorian pinching my nipples just so as he thrusts his hips into my hand. My moans vibrate around James’s cock, the fingers on my free hand clawing at Cole’s hair, trying to anchor myself in this storm.

"Come, Elena," Cole orders, his voice muffled against me, pulling back just enough to rasp the command before diving back in, sucking harder. James’s thumb brushes my cheek, a moment of tenderness in the beautiful chaos. "Do it, baby. Break for us." Dorian’s palm splays over my stomach, pressing down. "Fuck you’re so good," he grits out, his breath hitching as his cock pulses in my hand. "You're going to finish me before I even knot you."

I shatter.

My scream tears through the room as my orgasm detonates, a supernova of pleasure. Slick gushes over Cole’s face, drenching him, and he groans like a starved man, licking me clean through the spasms. Dorian’s thrusts turn jagged, his knot beginning to swell at his base. James’s cock pulses in my mouth, his own release teetering on the very edge.

Before I can collapse into a boneless puddle of omega, Dorian drags me down on my back, forcing James to slip out of my mouth while Cole quickly repositions himself from beneath me. Dorian quickly settles on top of me while Cole and James loom over on each side of me, guiding their cocks to my lips once more. My head is spinning. Are we playing musical alphas? If so, I'm the only chair.

Dorian thrusts into my pussy with a deep growl. "Elena, you're so tight." James's hand cradles my jaw as he guides his cock between my lips. I take him in, moaning around him as Dorian sets a relentless rhythm. James groans, his fingers tightening just a little. “Fuck yeah, just like that.”

When he pulls back, Cole is there to replace him, his length thick and already slick with anticipation. He slips past my lips, his other hand resting lightly on my shoulder, steadying me as my mouth works him in rhythm with Dorian’s thrusts.

They take turns, slow and deliberate. One filling my mouth while the other strokes himself, their movements fluid and practiced. Each time they withdraw, I find myself aching for the next.

“Work my knot, sugar,” James murmurs, voice rough as his eyes track every movement. “Show me what those talented hands can do.”

Cole’s voice is rough, his control slipping. “Come again, Elena. With us. Now.”

They move as one unit, a three-headed, multi-limbed pleasure machine: Dorian’s hips snap into my pussy, his knot slowly inflating further; so is James’s cock as my hand works its magic on him, aiming it toward my breast; and Cole’s knot fills my mouth as he becomes impossibly big. The pressure builds, unbearable yet wonderful, until their combined roars shake the room, and probably the foundations of the house.

I come screaming, my body convulsing around Dorian as his knot swells inside me, locking us together. His release pours into me, hot and claiming, triggering another wave of tremors through my limbs.

Above me, James groans, his knot twitching in my grasp as thick ropes of his release streak across my breasts. Cole withdraws from my mouth with a gasp, his hand taking over in quick, desperate strokes before he finishes beside James, warmth splashing across my tits in messy, possessive patterns.

When it finally, finally ends, my body gives out, and my nest looks like a hurricane had a party in it. A very fun hurricane.

Cole strokes my hair, his voice rough. "Fuck, Elena, you absolutely destroyed us."

I whimper, a smile tugging at my lips as I melt into the mattress, boneless and utterly sated. "Mission accomplished, then." I manage to slur.

Dorian and James collapse on either side of me, their warmth pressing close, their scents clinging to me like a second skin.

James presses a kiss to my forehead, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Relax now, baby," he murmurs.

Dorian nuzzles my neck, his knot still lodged comfortably inside me. "We’ve got you." He sounds so sure, so content.

Chapter forty-nine

Elena

My body is slowly returning to itself, sensation creeping back into my limbs while my mind drifts back from somewhere far, far away. Dorian has slipped out of me, and now the four of us lie tangled together in the nest.

Physically, I feel so much better. The relief is deep and grounding, but a quiet ache lingers, deeper than my heat.

“I want…” My voice trembles. “I want each of you to claim me.”

The alphas stir. "I never wanted anything more than this…" Cole begins, his voice a rumble I feel through my entire body as all three sets of hands find mine. "But… are you absolutely sure?"

I can see the weight behind his words, and it only makes me want this more. The claiming bite isn't a maybe, it's forever. It's the physical seal of our bond, an irreversible act that will tie us together in the most primal, permanent way.

"Yes," I whisper, "All of you. Please."

They exchange a quick glance, then look back at me, their expressions warm and certain. "You got it, beautiful," Cole says, his voice ready and gentle.

Without needing words, they move: Cole straddles me while James and Dorian flank my sides, their mouths finding my nipples. Their tongues send jolts of exquisite sensation through me as my hands instinctively seek out both their cocks, stroking them erect.

Cole enters me in one powerful stroke, filling me all the way to his knot as his body leans slightly forward. I gasp at the feral satisfaction as my body arches in ecstasy. His hips begin a driving rhythm, each thrust echoing the divine attention my breasts are getting. I'm overwhelmed and overloaded, spiraling toward the edge, stars exploding behind my eyelids.

"Cole!" I cry out, my nails digging into his powerful back as each thrust drives me higher. When he releases inside me with a possessive growl, I break apart. James and Dorian follow, their cocks pulsing and spilling all over my thighs.

As the waves of my climax crash through me, James and Dorian shift back to give us space. Cole settles over me, pulling me close against his chest, his lips finding my neck to trail kisses along the sensitive skin where neck meets shoulder. I tilt my head instinctively, offering better access; an age-old omega gesture of submission and trust that feels utterly natural.

"You know," I mumble, "for a man of few words, your actions are incredibly eloquent."

He just chuckles, a warm puff of air against my skin. "Elena," he says, my name a prayer on his lips. "I love you."

Then, his teeth break my skin. The sensation is like nothing I've ever experienced, a sharp pain that immediately dissolves into pleasure so intense my vision whites out. Something fundamental shifts inside me, an invisible thread connecting us, binding us. I feel his emotions as if they're my own: his protectiveness, his devotion, his absolute certainty that this is right.

When he’s done, I feel dazed. "Wow," I breathe. "That’s… more effective than a morning espresso." Cole just nuzzles the bite, purring, his body locked with mine.

Before I can fully process what's happened, Cole repositions himself to straddle me, giving James room to return to my nipple, sucking urgently. Before I can catch my breath, he releases it with a soft pop and moves to eye level, his blue eyes dark with desire and something deeper, softer. His mouth finds the other side of my neck, the symmetric spot to Cole's mark.

"My brave, brilliant partner," he murmurs against my skin, his voice husky. "My Elena. The only woman who could look this good while being on fire. I love you."

His bite feels different. It's quicker, more playful, a spark igniting alongside the profound connection. Another thread forms, this one vibrant and bright, carrying his joy, his admiration, his love that burns like a cheerful flame.

I giggle through the pleasure-pain. "You always know how to make an entrance, James."

Finally, Dorian turns my face toward him, his gray eyes intense as they meet mine. He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears of quiet joy I didn't know I was shedding.

"You okay there, princess?" he asks softly.

When I nod, he continues, "You've changed everything. My life. My heart. My five-year forecast…"

I snort-laugh, which isn't very elegant, but he doesn't seem to mind. Instead, his gaze drops to my neck, to the spot just above Cole's mark.

He bites me slowly, deliberately, slightly higher than where Cole did. The final thread clicks into place, elegant and strong, carrying his devotion, his respect, his love that runs deep as an underground river.

"Mon amour," he whispers against my skin, his voice raw with emotion. "I can feel you… us." He pauses, then breathes, "Je t'aime."

"I love you too," I reply, my voice trembling with all I feel. "I love you Dorian. James. Cole." And I mean it. I love them all, fiercely and equally.

My body feels impossibly relaxed against the plush floor of my nest, my heart overflowing. Cole's knot has deflated and he's shifted to rest his head on my stomach while James and Dorian remain on either side of me, their bodies creating a protective, loving embrace.

In this intimate a cocoon, I can feel their bonds solidifying. Not competing but complementing each other, creating a tapestry of connection I never imagined possible. I feel them all, not just physically but emotionally, spiritually; as if parts of them live inside me and parts of me inside them. It's like having three extra heartbeats, all perfectly in sync with mine.

* * *

The heat remains, but it's changed. It's no longer a desperate, painful need but a warm, pulsing desire, like a cozy fireplace on a winter night. We continue to explore each other through the night, learning how four bodies can move together (sometimes gracefully, sometimes with a comical bumping of elbows), how three alphas can share an omega without rivalry (mostly, there was a minor, playful dispute over who got to cuddle my left foot), how boundaries dissolve and reform in this new dynamic.

Sometimes they take turns. Sometimes they work in concert. Sometimes one rests (or rather, engage in intense napping) while the others continue. They're attentive to each other as well as to me: gentle touches, compliments, small gestures of affection that tell me this is more than about me. This is about all of us, this strange, beautiful, currently sleep-deprived pack we've formed.

In quiet moments between waves of heat, we talk: soft confessions, shared dreams, plans for the future. My bakery. Dorian's business (which might need a new line item for 'omega nest supplies'). James's ambitions (which apparently now include mastering the art of the foot rub). Cole's career (and how he’s going to have to learn to balance fires with another kind of heat). How we will make it all work together.

"My assistant is going to have some interesting scheduling challenges." Dorian says at one point, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my thigh.

"And I'm going to need to explain some very interesting time-off requests," Cole adds dryly, his arm draped protectively across my waist.

James presses a kiss on my shoulder. "And I have to admit, I never pictured myself curled up with the two of you, no offense." He flashes a grin. "But we’re like one of those complicated jigsaw puzzles. The kind with no corner pieces. But somehow it fits.”

“Different shapes,” I add as sleep begins to pull at me, “but made to fit.”

I finally drift off near dawn, boneless and sated in the center of the nest, which now looks like someone dropped a grenade in it. The claiming bites throb pleasantly, reminders of the invisible bonds I can feel humming between us.

As sleep claims me, wrapped in the arms of three alphas who see me for exactly who I am, I realize something.

Mom was right.

Love doesn't take away. It expands.

Chapter fifty

Elena

4 MONTHS LATER

The bell above the door of "Elena's Creations" chimes merrily as Mrs. Henderson, my last customer of the day, leaves with a box overflowing with my signature lavender-honey éclairs and a mini apple pie.

I flip the "Open" sign to "Closed," a contented sigh escaping my lips, one I’ve become quite familiar with these past four months. My little bakery, nestled in the heart of Lakeview, isn't just surviving, it's thriving. It's become a warm, aromatic haven where dreams rise as beautifully as dough.

I catch my reflection in the polished glass of the front door as I draw the blinds. My cheeks are pleasantly flushed from the warmth of the ovens and the cheerful chaos of a busy Saturday. A light dusting of flour clings to my apron like a badge of honor, and there’s a soft smile on my face (one I'm still getting used to seeing).

But most noticeable, even in the dimming late afternoon light, are the three distinct claiming marks on my neck. Cole’s is slightly rugged, sun-kissed and bold. James’s is playful, star-shaped. And Dorian’s is elegant, crescent-shaped.

They’ve healed beautifully, and I wear them with pride. A map of my heart, a testament to the unexpected, and utterly wonderful path my life has taken.

It still amazes me how much can happen in such a short time. DuoBlocks (which I later learned were 'bound to be unreliable' in the presence of my true scent matches) failing. Ten days of heat. Being claimed by three amazing alphas. And now, running my own slice of pastry heaven.

I sigh, glancing around. Even at the end of a long day, the bakery smells like heaven: a comforting blend of yeast, caramelized sugar, and warm spices.

I’ve kept many of Pierre’s beloved classic recipes in my offering, along with my own creations: lavender-honey éclairs, a rosewater and raspberry panna cotta, and, of course, my now-famous (or perhaps infamous, depending on who you ask) mixed fruit tart with pistachio cream. Tourists sometimes wander in, asking for "the tart that caused all the drama," and the locals? Well, the locals just call it "Elena’s Special" and order it by the dozen.

"Closing up shop for the day, chérie?" Dorian’s perfect French wraps around the word like a caress as his voice drifts from the small, cozy office I insisted he set up in the back. He emerges, looking impossibly dapper in his cashmere shirt and creased dark pants, his silver-gray eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at me. He’s holding two steaming mugs. Apparently, his version of embracing part-time small-town life, and the role of 'supportive alpha mate', includes personally brewing my end-of-day chamomile tea.

"Right on schedule," I reply, leaning into the warm kiss he presses to my lips. His sandalwood and cinnamon, wonderfully mingled with the aroma of yeast and sugar from the bakery, wraps around me, grounding and intimate. "How was the Beaumont Patisserie's global domination planning session today?"

"Exceedingly productive," he says, handing me a mug, his arm slipping around my waist.

The move to what he calls his new 'West Coast operations hub' initially caused quite the stir in business circles, but his productivity has actually increased. Turns out the scent of baking bread and a satisfied mate work better than any corporate motivational strategy.

"The sustainable sourcing initiative is launching ahead of schedule, and we just secured the South American expansion." He pauses, that familiar teasing glint in his eyes. "Though I'll admit, my concentration did slip a few times thinking about your lemon-thyme shortbread."

The bell above the door chimes again, and James bursts in, a whirlwind of charm and infectious energy, carrying a ribbon-tied box. "Good news, everyone! The prodigal pastry chef returns, bearing gifts!" He deposits the box on the main counter with a flourish. Inside, nestled on a bed of pristine white tissue paper, are two perfect, jewel-like petit fours, miniature works of art, almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.

"Straight from Beaumont Lakeview," he says with a proud grin—referring to the boutique patisserie Dorian opened on the other side of town, which is thriving under James’s creative direction. It’s a perfect complement to Elena's Creations' more rustic charm, and a testament to how much room there is for everyone's dreams.

"A new white chocolate and raspberry creation," he continues. "For your discerning palate, sugar." He winks, stealing a quick, playful kiss that tastes faintly of sugar and ambition.

"They look divine, James," I say, genuinely impressed. "You’ve outdone yourself."

"Only the best for my favorite omega," he grins, then his expression softens, his blue eyes full of a warmth. "Seriously, though, Elena, you’re going to love these. I used the new ganache technique you suggested. Absolute game-changer."

The door chimes a third time and Cole walks in, his firefighter uniform smelling faintly of smoke and heroism. His warm hazel eyes finding mine across the room instantly make my heart settle and my soul feel… anchored.

"Hope I’m not too late for the pastry party," he says, his lips curving into that slow, easy smile that still makes my knees weak. "Brought early dinner. Italian. Figured you’d all be too tired to cook after another day of conquering the baking world."

"You, Cole Mercer," I say, walking over to give him a long, welcoming hug, inhaling his earthy scent, "are a lifesaver. Literally and figuratively."

We unfold a large wooden table in the middle of the bakery, the heart of my little empire. The scent of lasagna mingles with the lingering sweetness of pastries, and the combined scents of my three alphas. Cole recounts a minor kitchen fire at the diner down the street (no injuries, just a very singed batch of pancakes), James regales us with a hilarious story about a particularly demanding catering client who insisted on gluten-free, sugar-free, vegan wedding macarons ("Basically, she wanted delicious air," he quips), and Dorian shares an amusing anecdote about a video conference call with his stuffy Parisian board members, who were apparently rather taken aback by the faint, but persistent, bell chiming sound of his Lakeview office.

"By the way," I say, taking a bite of lasagna, "Mia came by earlier. She had some interesting news."

James perks up. "Oh? Spill. Is she finally going to franchise 'Curl up & Dye' and heal the world one hairstyle at a time?"

I laugh. “Not quite, but it does involve the salon, big time. A beta woman came by the other day asking for her email, said she was representing an interested buyer."

"A mysterious prospect?" Cole raises an eyebrow, a hint of intrigue in his voice.

“It gets better,” I continue. “Later, Mia got an email from the prospect. Apparently, it's a man who works in real estate management, mostly based in Hawaii. He was recently visiting Lakeview on holiday, saw the salon while walking by, and apparently loved what he saw; enough to make a fantastic offer without ever stepping inside.”

“Hawaii?” Dorian muses, eyes narrowing with interest. “And he made an offer just from seeing the storefront?”

“Yup. And in the email,” I add, “he said that if Mia’s seriously considering it, he’d love to invite her to Hawaii to discuss the terms in person.”

Dorian whistles. “Real estate person based in Hawaii, sending a representative, offering to fly her out… That’s quite uncommon. If she gets a name, I might be able to dig up some background. I might even know him, or at least of his family or holdings."

“I'll let her know,” I reply, “but anyway… the whole situation got me thinking.” I grin. “If Mia ends up going to Hawaii to explore the deal, it could be the perfect excuse to finally take my mom on that trip she’s always dreamed of. We could all go: support Mia, relax a little… maybe sip something tropical while pretending to be helpful.”

James grins. “Elena, my love, that is a flawless plan. I’m already mentally packing my best swim trunks.”

Cole chuckles. “We can bring moral support and sunscreen.”

I laugh. “We’ll see how it goes. She’s still thinking about it…"

"Regardless," Dorian smiles, "that's great news for Mia. This town never runs out of surprises, does it?"

“Funny you say that…” I glance at him. "Because Mia also told me Pierre's been talking about innovating."

James snorts into his lasagna. "Pierre Dubois? Innovating? The world must be ending."

"Apparently," I continue, a fond smile playing on my lips, "he said that if his rule-breaking apprentice could win the whole damn festival by daring just a little, then maybe there’s something to this whole ‘modern twist on a classic’ nonsense after all. According to Mia, he’s even considering entering the competition himself next year. Says that seeing me succeed has somehow… rekindled his own competitive fire."

"Well, he won’t have to worry about us as competition," James says, reaching for a piece of garlic bread. "Right, Elena? We’re officially retired from the festival circuit. Too busy being ridiculously successful and happy."

"Definitely retired," I agree, my heart full.

And I mean it.

After all, why would we need the validation of competitions when we have this?

Each other… everything.

THE END

Thank you for reading Elena's story! If it brought you a smile, I’d really appreciate it if you could drop a quick review or rating (it means the world to indie authors like me)!

***

If you'd like to read more in the Snugverse RomCom Omegaverse series, follow my author page so you can be notified when Mia's story drops (Elena and her alphas will make appearances in it).

amazon.com/author/evewolfe

Want more?

If you’d like to stay updated on new content (and get an upcoming Omegaverse novella for free), visit my mini-website!

To visit my site, simply scan this QR code. Or type the URL in your browser:

smartpa.ge/evewolfe