The walk back to their private suite was a silent, dripping procession. The saltwater drying on Althea's skin felt like a crystallized reminder of the memory the cold, dark sea and Haven's desperate rescue. But it was the lingering, cloying scent of Emara's perfume and the phantom of her flirtatious smile that truly set a fire simmering in Althea's blood. The jealousy was a physical heat, coiling tight in her stomach, a possessive, territorial instinct she didn't fully understand but couldn't suppress.
The moment the suite door clicked shut, sealing them in the quiet, opulent space, something in Althea snapped.
She didn't think. She just moved.
In two swift strides, she closed the distance between them. Her hands, still slightly sandy, came up and fisted in the soaked, transparent fabric of Haven's collar, yanking the taller Alpha down to her level. And then she kissed her.
It wasn't like the desperate, tie-pulling ambush in the driveway. This was different. This was deep, possessive, and hungry, a raw claiming born of a primal need to erase Emara's presence, to reaffirm a connection that felt both ancient and terrifyingly new. She poured all her confusion, her gratitude for the rescue, her burning jealousy, into the kiss.
For a heart-stopping second, Haven was rigid with shock, her lips unyielding. Althea felt a wave of panic I've gone too far, I've violated her again but then, with a low, shuddering groan that vibrated through both of them, Haven yielded.
Her hands came up, not to push Althea away, but to frame her face, her touch surprisingly gentle amidst the storm of the kiss. She kissed her back with a matching, frantic intensity, a dam of suppressed emotion finally breaking. It was a clash of salt and need, a silent, furious conversation of all the things they couldn't say. Althea could feel the frantic beat of Haven's heart against her own chest, or maybe it was her own, a wild, synchronized drumming.
They broke apart only when the need for air became imperative, both of them panting, foreheads resting together. Haven's stormy eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide, her lips kiss-swollen. She looked utterly, devastatingly undone.
"Stop it, Althea," Haven breathed, her voice a ragged whisper, though she made no move to increase the distance between them. "We have a dinner to attend. We should... prepare."
Althea's own breath hitched. "I'm sorry, Haven," she whispered, her voice thick. "I don't know what came over me. My heart was just... screaming that I should kiss you after we saw Emara earlier. That I needed to... I don't know. Mark my territory?" She gave a weak, shaky laugh.
Haven didn't answer. She simply closed her eyes for a long moment, as if gathering the scattered pieces of her composure, then gently disentangled herself. "I need to change," she stated, her voice regaining a semblance of its usual control, though it was layered with a new, husky depth. She turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.
Althea slumped against the nearest wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, her legs too weak to hold her.
Althea's Internal Monologue: Fuck. I did it again. I just… I pounced on her. Again. I feel like I violated her. Again! Shit, why am I like this? Is this my Dominant Omega side? This… this uncontrollable, possessive, physical impulse? She was just starting to trust me, to open up, and I go and maul her because some other Omega batted her eyelashes. I'm a monster. A horndog monster with no self-control. She must be in there regretting every second of it.
She buried her face in her hands, the intoxicating high of the kiss crashing into a wave of intense self-loathing. The memory of Haven's initial hesitation replayed in her mind on a torturous loop.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Haven emerged, transformed. She wore a stunning, floor-length gown of deep emerald green that made her grey eyes look like stormy seas and hugged her powerful frame in a way that was both elegant and intensely alluring. Her hair was smoothed back into a sleek chignon. She was the picture of a poised, untouchable CEO, a stark contrast to the drenched, passionate woman from moments before.
"It's your turn, Althea," she said, her voice carefully neutral. She wouldn't meet Althea's eyes. "I'll be waiting here. Please, get dressed."
Numbly, Althea pushed herself up and went into the bathroom. Hanging on the back of the door was a dress she hadn't noticed before. It was a masterpiece of crimson silk, the same shade as her swimsuit, with a daring neckline and a slit that promised drama. It was a dress meant for a queen, or at the very least, a woman who knew how to make an entrance. A silent apology, or perhaps a challenge, from Haven.
She put it on. It fit perfectly, as if it had been tailored for her. Staring at her reflection the woman in the powerful red dress, with kiss-swollen lips and eyes full of turmoil she barely recognized herself.
When she emerged, Haven's gaze swept over her. A flicker of something approval? heat? crossed her features before being schooled back into neutrality. "Shall we?" was all she said.
They walked to the private pavilion in a silence that was thick with unspoken words and the lingering electricity of their kiss. The pavilion was set for an intimate dinner, with soft lighting and a table overlooking the now-dark ocean. And there, seated at the head of the table, was an old man.
He had a kind, weathered face, a full head of silver hair, and eyes that held a familiar, intelligent twinkle. He smiled warmly as they approached.
Haven gave a slight, respectful bow of her head. "Grandfather. You're here."
"Of course, I am," the old man Haven's grandfather chuckled, his voice a warm, rumbling sound. "I heard the news! And look at that, our little songbird has returned!" His kind eyes turned to Althea, full of genuine affection. "How are you, my dear Althea? I've missed you. I'm so glad to see you doing so well after that terrible accident."
Althea felt a wave of relief. He was… nice. "Ah, yes, hahaha, thank you, sir," she said, slipping into her charming public persona, though it felt more brittle than usual.
The grandfather's face fell into a comical expression of remorse. "Oh! I forgot, you had the… thing." He winked, a broad, conspiratorial gesture that left no doubt he knew about the amnesia. "Oh, sorry about that, my dear. Force of habit. And I'm sorry about back then, I didn't mean to pressure you and Haven so much."
Althea's social smile froze on her face. "Excuse me?" she asked, her voice carefully light. "Pressure on what, exactly?"
The grandfather leaned forward slightly, his expression turning a touch more serious, though still kind. "Having an heir, child. You see, your parents left this entire company to you. And since I'm one of the big investors and shareholders, the board and I… well, we couldn't just hand over the reins fully to a young, single Omega, no matter how brilliant. The bylaws, the trust, it's all a bit old-fashioned. We needed stability. A successor. Someone to continue your family's legacy." He sighed, a genuine sound of regret. "And for the accident part… I'm sorry, child. This must be too much information for you all at once."
The world tilted on its axis. An heir. The pressure wasn't just about the business; it was about a baby. A biological imperative to secure the Vale dynasty. The "necessary structure" of their marriage suddenly had a terrifyingly specific, physical dimension.
Althea's Internal Monologue: An heir. A baby. Holy shit. So the "contract" wasn't just about merging assets and keeping trustees happy. It was about producing a tiny, human successor. No wonder Past Me felt trapped. And this old man… I thought he'd be some harsh, disapproving patriarch. But he's just… a kindly old man who was following the rules of a game set up long ago. I thought wrong.
Despite the bombshell, the dinner wasn't tense. The grandfather, whose name was Arthur Hartwell, was a delightful raconteur. He told hilarious, slightly embarrassing stories about a young, fiercely determined Haven, and shared fond memories of Althea's parents, painting them as vibrant, loving people. He drew Althea out, asking about her plants and her music with a genuine interest that made her forget, for moments at a time, the weight of his revelation. They laughed, and for the first time, Althea felt a flicker of connection to a past that wasn't shrouded in pain or confusion.
When the dessert plates were cleared, Arthur sighed contentedly and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Althea, my dear, that was wonderful. Truly. It does an old man's heart good to see you like this." His expression turned slightly more businesslike. "I'm sorry, but I might have to borrow your wife for a little while. Some tedious board matters best discussed without the charming distractions." He winked again. "You can go on back to your private room. We won't be long."
Althea looked at Haven, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The spell of the pleasant evening was broken, the reality of their situation settling back over them like a heavy cloak.
"Of course," Althea said, standing and offering Arthur a genuine smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you properly, Arthur."
"The pleasure was all mine, songbird," he replied warmly.
As Althea walked away, the emerald green and crimson of their dresses a stark contrast in the moonlight, she couldn't shake the feeling that the real meeting the one that would determine her future was just beginning. And at the center of it all was the unresolved, electrifying tension of the kiss that hung between her and Haven, more powerful and confusing than any corporate bylaw.
As the door to their suite clicked shut behind her, the silence was absolute and deafening. The pleasant warmth from the wine and conversation instantly curdled in her veins, transforming into something else entirely something hotter, darker, and far more primal. A restless, crawling energy ignited under her skin, a live wire of frustration and need. The memory of the kiss wasn't just a memory; it was a physical brand. She could still feel the desperate pressure of Haven's lips, the frantic clutch of her hands, the intoxicating taste of salt and something uniquely, essentially her.
A sudden, dizzying heat surged through her, so intense it made her knees weak. It centered low in her belly, a hollow, demanding ache that was entirely new and yet felt terrifyingly familiar. A flush spread like wildfire across her chest and up her neck, painting her skin with a telltale warmth. Her senses felt unnaturally sharp the hum of the air conditioner was a roar, the texture of the silk dress against her skin was abrasive yet everything was profoundly wrong. The room smelled sterile, empty, lifeless. There was a scent missing. The one scent that had become the anchor in her chaotic world. Haven's scent.
A frantic, panicked need seized her, bypassing all rational thought. It was a biological imperative, a scream from her very DNA. I need to find it. Where is it? I need to smell her. Now.
Her composure shattered completely. She scrambled through the room, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, a woman possessed. She yanked open drawers on Haven's side of the dresser, finding only neatly folded, scentless clothes that offered no comfort. A sound of pure frustration, half-groan, half-sob, ripped from her throat. She stumbled into the bathroom, her eyes wild, scanning the pristine surfaces.
And there, in a discreet hamper, she found it. The linen trousers and the white blouse from the beach, still slightly damp, carrying the potent, mingled scent of seawater, sun-warmed skin, and that intoxicating, essential Alpha musk of grape old wine.
A ragged, desperate sound escaped her, a whimper of relief and deepening madness. She gathered the clothes in her arms, a frantic collector, clutching them to her chest like a lifeline. The scent flooded her senses, a temporary, agonizing balm. But it wasn't enough. Her eyes landed on Haven's open luggage. She fell to her knees beside it, pulling out a sleek silk blouse, a soft cashmere sweater, burying her face in each one, inhaling deeply until her head spun.
Fuck. It smells so good. It smells like… like her. Like safety. Like mine. What the hell is wrong with me?
This wasn't just emotional whiplash. It was a biological trigger, a switch flipped deep within her Omega biology. The conversation about an heir, the possessive kiss—it had lit a fuse. Fuck. Shit. Is this what they called a pre-heat? A cycle? The vague, clinical descriptions from the books she'd skimmed out of boredom flashed in her mind—the heightened sensitivity, the overwhelming, singular need for a specific Alpha's scent, the pervasive, aching emptiness that was both physical and spiritual.
The truth landed with the force of a physical blow, both terrifying and exhilarating. I think… I need to touch myself.
The thought was a shockwave of shame and undeniable, primal truth. She was already drenched, her silk underwear soaked through. The beautiful crimson dress suddenly felt like a suffocating prison. With trembling, impatient hands, she ripped it off, letting the expensive fabric pool on the floor like a discarded skin, and collapsed into the center of the vast bed, surrounded by the stolen, aromatic haul of Haven's essence.
She tried at first, a hesitant, clumsy touch over her slick, aching flesh, but it was meaningless, a hollow imitation that only heightened the frustration. It wasn't friction she needed; it was a specific, imagined possession. It was Haven she needed.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered completely to the delusion. It wasn't her own fingers anymore. In the dark, desperate theatre of her mind, it was Haven's hands. Those same CEO hands that signed billion-dollar deals and applied sunscreen with such devastating, meticulous care. She imagined them here, now. Not hesitant, but sure. Commanding. Owning.
She let out a low, broken moan as she thrust two fingers inside herself, the image crystal clear: Haven above her, her stormy eyes dark with a feral desire that mirrored her own, her powerful body a solid, warm weight pinning her to the mattress. "You're mine, Althea," the phantom Haven growled in her mind, a delicious, punishing echo of her own words in the driveway.
Althea's Internal Monologue: Oh, god… Haven… Fuck, you should be here right now. Not in some stupid meeting. You should be here, on top of me, inside me, breeding me, making that heir baby thing they all want so damn much. This is what you'd feel like. This is what it would be to have you claiming me. Not for a contract. Not for a legacy. For this. For the way you taste. For the way you looked at me when I sang for you. Fuck, Haven!
She arched her back, a sharp cry tearing from her lips as her hips met the frantic, punishing rhythm of her own hand, chasing the phantom with a furious desperation. She pictured Haven's mouth, not on her lips, but traveling a hot, wet path down her neck, her chest, lower "Tell me where it hurts," the fantasy Haven whispered, throwing her own song lyrics back at her in a husky, carnal promise.
The climax crashed over her with a violence that stole her breath, a shuddering, full-body convulsion that ripped a guttural scream of Haven's name from her throat. It left her gasping, trembling, and utterly spent in the nest of clothes, the sacred scent of grape old wine filling her lungs with every ragged, sobbing inhale.
For a long moment, there was only static, the frantic, slowing beat of her heart, and the wet heat between her legs.
And then, the crash.
The feverish heat receded, leaving behind a cold, clammy shame that seeped into her bones. The vivid fantasy dissolved, leaving her horrifyingly alone in the rumpled bed, surrounded by stolen laundry like a pathetic, scent-obsessed pervert, her fingers sticky with the evidence of her own pathetic release.
What… what did I just do? Oh, my god. I'm disgusting. I'm pathetic. I just… I masturbated in a pile of my wife's dirty clothes. I fantasized about her… I came screaming her name… while she's probably in a boardroom discussing stock options and shareholder equity. This isn't just a crush. This is a sickness. I'm so conflicted. I feel violated and I was the one doing the violating. To myself! With a ghost! she mumbled into the cashmere sweater, her voice thick with tears of self-loathing.
But her body, her treacherous, traitorous body, wasn't done with her. A fresh wave of heat, weaker but stubbornly insistent, pulsed through her, a taunting reminder that her own touch was a poor, hollow substitute for the real thing. The emptiness returned, sharper now, an ache that was both physical and a profound loneliness of the soul.
With a sob of pure frustration and defeat, she grabbed the damp blouse from the beach the one that held the strongest, most complex notes of sea and sun and her and pressed it hard against her face, inhaling the fading scent as another, weaker, sadder orgasm washed over her. It was less about pleasure now and more about a desperate, animal need to quell the fire, to quiet the screaming need in her blood, if only for a few minutes.
She lay there afterward, completely spent and hollowed out, the evidence of her total breakdown surrounding her. The self-loathing was a toxic fog, but beneath it, a terrifying truth was crystallizing.
I really do like her. I might even… No. But my body… my body knows. Even with the amnesia, even with all the confusion and the pain of our past, my body remembers how to want her. It knows exactly what to do, who to crave. It's programmed for her. Aa, what does that mean? That the real me, deep down, is still in love with her? Or is this just biology? Just a stupid, dominant Omega responding to the most powerful, most frustrating Alpha in her vicinity?
She didn't know. She had no answers. All she knew was that the line between corporate duty and raw, desperate desire had been irrevocably blurred, and she was left trembling in the aftermath, more lost and more achingly, shamefully aware of Haven Hartwell than ever before. The abstract question of an heir was no longer a distant corporate mandate; it was a terrifying, intimate possibility that her own body was now desperately, unequivocally, and humiliatingly begging for.
Exhausted, ashamed, and utterly conflicted, she curled into a ball amidst the stolen scents, and a fitful, troubled sleep finally claimed her.
Haven's POV: The Archivist of Desire
The moment Althea was out of earshot, the warm, grandfatherly demeanor on Arthur Hartwell's face melted into something sharper, more intense, though the kind twinkle in his eye remained.
"So," he began, steepling his fingers. "How is the actual investigation into the accident proceeding? Any new leads from our friends in the black box division?"
Haven's posture, already rigid, tightened further. "The leads are… convoluted, Grandfather. They all seem to point back towards the Sinclairs. Emara's faction is making aggressive moves, but it's all circumstantial. There's a shadow, but I can't grasp it."
Arthur nodded slowly, his expression grim. "I heard a nasty rumor," he said, his voice dropping. "That she passed you divorce papers just before it happened. At first, it made me think it was your doing, Haven." He held up a hand as Haven's eyes flashed with icy fury. "I know, I know. You wouldn't. I raised you better. But you must understand, from the outside? A powerful Alpha, desperately in love with an Omega who wants to leave… we are known to do… drastic things for our mates." He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his years. "I know you've loved her since you were both kids, long before I ever offered her that business proposal disguised as a marriage."
"You know I would never harm her, Grangran," Haven said, her voice low and absolute, using the childhood nickname that betrayed the depth of her feeling.
"I do, my dear. I'm just teasing an old man's paranoia," he said, his face breaking into a sudden, goofy grin that was at odds with the serious topic. It vanished just as quickly. "But the truth is, I feel terrible for the kid. It seems some unknown players really want to eradicate the last Vale heir. Please, for now, Haven, watch her. Be her shadow. Her family… your parents were good friends with them. They wouldn't forgive me if I met them in the afterlife, you know? I'd never hear the end of it."
"Yes, Grangran," Haven affirmed, the vow etched into her very soul.
"Enough of that gloomy talk!" Arthur declared, clapping his hands together, the intense investigator replaced once more by the doting grandfather. "I've missed you too, you know! How are you? I heard the business is booming, especially after that delightful PR stunt our little songbird pulled yesterday. That was very sweet, you know. Reminds me of my courting days with your grandmother! I once hired an entire orchestra to play outside her window! She threw a shoe at me!" He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Haven's lips. "I am fine, Grangran. And she is… progressing. I was surprised by the performance. Knowing how much she despised me before."
Arthur's laughter faded into a wistful sigh. "Well, we have the amnesia to be thankful for that, don't we? She really did hate our guts back then. Called me a 'scheming old badger' once. Had to look it up. Quite the insult!" He waved a dismissive hand. "Go on, get out of here. Go back to your wife. And Haven?" he added, his voice softening. "Be careful with that heart of yours. It's always been your most vulnerable asset."
Dismissed, Haven left the pavilion, her mind a whirlwind of corporate espionage, shadowy enemies, and the lingering, phantom pressure of Althea's lips on hers.
She opened the suite door slowly, the meeting with her grandfather having concluded with a frustrating lack of resolution. The first thing that hit her was the scent. Not the sterile, air-conditioned air she'd left, but a thick, humid cloud of Vanilla Strawberry pheromones, so potent and distressed it was like walking into a physical wall. It was laced with salt, sweat, and the unmistakable, musky tang of Omega arousal.
And then she heard it. A low, broken moan. Her name. "Haven…"
Her initial, instinctual reaction was a surge of protective panic. Was she hurt? Was she in pain? But the tone wasn't one of distress. It was… raw. Needy. Wanting.
She took a silent step inside, her sharp eyes immediately cataloging the scene. The open, ransacked luggage. The trail of her clothes the linen trousers, the damp blouse from the beach leading from the doorway to the bedroom. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and from within, the sounds became unmistakable. Ragged breathing. The soft, wet sounds of skin on skin. And Althea's voice, a husky, desperate litany.
"Oh, god… Haven… Fuck, you should be here right now. Not in some stupid meeting. You should be here, on top of me, inside me, breeding me, making that heir baby thing they all want so damn much…"
Haven froze, her own breath catching in her throat. The words, so brazen and primal, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted heat straight to her core. She stood there, a statue in the dimly lit living room, and listened. She was an archivist, and this was the most intimate, unfiltered data stream she had ever intercepted. The Sushi-collar recordings were child's play compared to this. This was the sound of Althea's very soul, stripped bare and calling for her.
She heard the crescendo—the guttural, screaming climax of her name—and the subsequent, muffled sobs of self-loathing that followed. Her fingers itched to push the door open, to go to her, to gather her up and soothe the shame away. But she couldn't. She was rooted to the spot, her own body thrumming with a sympathetic, aching need. The scent of Althea's release was an aphrodisiac, and the knowledge of what had caused it—fantasies of her—was a power trip that threatened to short-circuit her carefully maintained control.
She's thinking of me. She's touching herself, screaming for me, surrounded by my scent. My clothes. She's building a nest.
The thought was possessive, dark, and intensely satisfying. She had to get away before she did something she would regret, something that would shatter the fragile progress they'd made.
She retreated silently into the bathroom, locking the door. Leaning against it, she pressed a suppression patch to her neck with trembling fingers, then dry-swallowed two of the strong, fast-acting tablets she always carried. She ran a cold bath and sank into it, the shock of the water a poor counterpoint to the fire in her blood.
As she soaked, her mind replayed the evening. The kiss. The raw, unvarnished hunger in it. The song Althea had sung, the lyrics a ghost of their shared past. And now this. This undeniable, biological cry for her.
There you go again, Althea, she thought, a wry, pained smile touching her lips. Back to the old you, playing with my feelings as if they were one of your discarded guitars. Tuning me, plucking my strings, making me sing for you until I'm raw, and then walking away. But the old anger felt hollow now. But you're different now. You listen to me. You see the pain you caused, even if you can't remember it. You acknowledge the mess. You sang my song. You screamed my name. You're building a nest with my clothes. You are, in your own chaotic, amnesiac way, trying to come home to me. And that… that is a dangerous, intoxicating thought.
She stayed in the bath until the water grew tepid and the suppressants had firmly leashed her own raging hormones. When she emerged, wrapped in a robe, the suite was quiet. She pushed the bedroom door fully open.
The sight stole the air from her lungs. Althea was asleep, curled in a fetal position in the center of the bed. She was surrounded by, and partially buried under, a haphazard nest of Haven's clothes. The damp blouse from the beach was clutched in her hand, pressed against her cheek. She looked young, vulnerable, and utterly beautiful in her post-release exhaustion.
A wave of such fierce, overwhelming tenderness washed over Haven that it was almost painful. Oh, so she was nesting, she thought, her heart clenching. Pft. Cute.
She moved to the bedside, her steps silent on the plush carpet. She sat down, the mattress dipping slightly, and just looked at her. The famous Althea Vale, the untouchable Dominant Omega, reduced to this a scent-drunk, needy creature who had sought solace in the essence of the Alpha she claimed to despise.
Haven reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Althea's damp forehead. Her skin was still fever-warm. She traced the line of her cheekbone, her thumb softly stroking the soft skin.
"My tyrant," Haven whispered into the quiet, the words a caress, a confession, and a promise all at once.
She carefully picked up the clothes scattered on the floor, her movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to wake her. She placed most of them in the washer, but then paused. Looking back at the sleeping form, she selected a soft cashmere sweater and the silk blouse Althea had seemed most attached to. She folded them neatly and placed them on the pillow beside her, within easy reach.
Satisfied, her own chaotic emotions now locked down tight, Haven turned and walked out of the bedroom. She lay down on the couch, the phantom sounds of Althea's pleasure and the lingering scent of her nest a lullaby more potent than any unreleased demo. She fell asleep with the ghost of a smile on her lips, the archivist now the cherished subject of her own most prized collection.