Heat Clause

Chapter One: The Hire

Elliot Voss did not flinch when people threatened him.

He flinched when they were subtle.

The email arrived at 6:12 a.m., buried between earnings projections and a compliance reminder, subject line blank. No sender name. No signature.

You have been very careful.

Careful enough that it would be a shame if someone stopped you.

Elliot read it once. Then again. Then he deleted it.

He finished knotting his tie in the mirror of his penthouse bedroom, posture straight, expression calm. The city sprawled behind him in glass and steel, already alive, already hungry. From forty stories up, it looked obedient. It never was.

He pressed two fingers briefly to the gland suppressor at the side of his neck, checking the seal. Secure. Invisible. Necessary.

Omega.

The word never existed in Elliot’s professional vocabulary. It lived nowhere near boardrooms, shareholder meetings, or hostile takeovers. It was a biological footnote he had spent fifteen years erasing with discipline, chemistry, and relentless control.

He was the CEO of one of the worlds biggest tech company. That was the only truth that mattered.

By the time he stepped into the private elevator, he had already called his head of security, his legal counsel, and after a moment’s hesitation a number he had never needed before.

The elevator descended in silence.

Ronan Hale did not like glass buildings.

Too many angles. Too many reflections. Too many places for a sniper to hide if they were patient enough. The Voss Global headquarters rose like a blade from the street, all steel confidence and curated intimidation. It was designed to make people feel small before they even walked inside.

He adjusted the cuff of his jacket as he crossed the lobby, movements economical, eyes already mapping exits. Former military habits never died. They just learned how to wear suits.

“Mr. Hale?”

The woman at reception was polished, sharp-eyed. She did not smile.

“That’s me.”

“This way.”

No small talk. Good.

The elevator ride was short. The silence inside it wasn’t. Ronan was acutely aware of his own presence the weight of his body, the steady hum of alpha awareness that never fully switched off. He kept it locked down, buried deep where no one could accuse him of anything inappropriate or uncontrolled.

He had been very clear about his conditions when the call came in.

No long-term assignments involving omegas.

No bonding risks.

No blurred lines.

The fact that Voss Global had still insisted on a meeting meant one of two things: desperation, or arrogance.

The doors opened onto a private floor.

The assistant led him into a conference room and left without a word.

Ronan stood alone for exactly thirty seconds before the door opened again.

Elliot Voss entered like he owned the air.

He was taller than Ronan had expected—lean, tailored, composed to the point of austerity. Dark hair, precisely styled. A face that had learned how to reveal nothing and command everything. His suit was custom, understated, expensive without screaming for attention.

Power recognized power.

Then Ronan smelled him.

It was faint. Controlled. Wrapped in layers of suppressant and chemical neutrality—but underneath it was unmistakable.

Omega.

Ronan went very still.

Elliot’s gaze sharpened, just slightly. Not fear. Assessment.

“Mr. Hale,” Elliot said, voice even. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”

“Your assistant said discretion was a priority,” Ronan replied. “I’m assuming that wasn’t a euphemism.”

“No,” Elliot said. “It was literal.”

They sat.

The table between them was polished glass. Ronan disliked that too.

“I’ll be direct,” Elliot continued. “There have been credible threats against my person and my company. I don’t believe my internal security team is compromised, but I do believe they’re visible. I need someone external.”

Ronan listened. Watched. Catalogued.

“And you found me because,” Ronan said carefully, “I’m known for staying invisible.”

“And because,” Elliot added, “you’ve never bonded on assignment.”

There it was.

Ronan leaned back slightly. “You did your homework.”

“I always do.”

Silence stretched.

Ronan broke it. “You’re an omega.”

The temperature in the room shifted.

Elliot did not deny it. Did not bristle. Did not react at all except for the fractional tightening of his jaw.

“Yes.”

“You understand,” Ronan said, tone flat, “that this complicates things.”

“I understand,” Elliot replied, “that your reputation for control is precisely why you’re here.”

Ronan studied him more closely now. The way Elliot held himself erect, contained. The way his scent barely bled through the suppressants, like a secret pressed between pages.

“How long?” Ronan asked.

“How long have I been suppressing?” Elliot said. “Since I was nineteen.”

“And your heats?”

“Managed.”

Ronan exhaled slowly through his nose. Managed was not the same as stable.

“I don’t take omega clients,” Ronan said. “Not for close protection.”

“Yet you’re still sitting here.”

Ronan didn’t answer that.

Elliot folded his hands on the table. “This is not a typical omega situation. I do not require comfort. I do not require claiming. I require competence.”

“And when your biology disagrees?”

“Then,” Elliot said coolly, “we rely on the contract.”

Ronan’s lips twitched despite himself. “You really think paper beats pheromones.”

“I think discipline does,” Elliot replied. “And I think you have it.”

The confidence wasn’t arrogance. It was calculation.

Ronan felt the edge of interest bite deeper than he liked.

“What are the terms?” he asked.

Elliot slid a tablet across the table.

Ronan skimmed.

No scenting.

No physical contact unless there is an immediate threat to life.

No assistance during heat beyond medical protocol.

Immediate termination if bonding indicators appear.

Strict. Clinical. Almost naive.

“You’re betting a lot on restraint,” Ronan said quietly.

“I’ve built an empire on it.”

Ronan met his gaze. For a moment, the world narrowed to that space between them—glass table, controlled breathing, the faint pulse of something dangerous beneath the surface.

“Someone is already testing you,” Ronan said. “That message you didn’t mention. The one subtle enough to scare you.”

Elliot’s eyes flickered. Once.

“You assume a great deal.”

“I read people for a living,” Ronan replied. “And you don’t hire someone like me unless you’re already bleeding.”

Silence again. Thicker this time.

Finally, Elliot said, “If I accept the risk—”

“You already have,” Ronan interrupted. “You just haven’t named it.”

Elliot stood. Ronan followed suit.

“Twenty-four-hour protection,” Elliot said. “Temporary. Discreet. Renewable after thirty days.”

“And if I walk away?”

“Then I find someone else less qualified,” Elliot said evenly. “And hope they don’t get me killed.”

Ronan held his gaze.

This was a bad idea.

This was a very bad idea.

“I’ll take the contract,” Ronan said.

Elliot’s shoulders loosened by a millimeter.

“But,” Ronan continued, “if your suppressants fail, if your heat destabilizes, or if you lose control”

“I won’t,” Elliot said.

Ronan stepped closer, voice dropping. “Iwalk. No heroics. No exceptions.”

Elliot nodded. “Agreed.”

They shook hands.

The contact was brief.

It was also a mistake.

Heat flared low, sharp, unmistakable. Ronan’s alpha instincts surged before he could cage them, his senses lighting up like exposed wire. Elliot stiffened, breath catching for half a second before he masked it.

They broke contact immediately.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Elliot said, very quietly, “We start tonight. My residence.”

Ronan nodded once. “Then we’d better make sure no one’s watching.”

Because if they were

This contract wouldn’t be the most dangerous thing Elliot Voss had signed.