Chapter 3: Threshold

Chapter Three: Threshold

Ronan did not move closer.

That was the first thing Elliot noticed—the discipline of it. The alpha stood rigid across the room, hands loose at his sides, posture locked like he was holding a line only he could see. Not advancing. Not retreating. Containing something large and dangerous inside his own body.

Elliot’s suppressor pulsed again.

Orange.

He swallowed and forced his voice steady. “You’re staring.”

Ronan exhaled slowly. “Your pupils are dilating. Your temperature’s up. Breathing’s shallow.”

Elliot bristled. “I don’t need a field report.”

“I’m not giving you one,” Ronan said. “I’m telling you what your body is already saying.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Elliot stood, ignoring the faint dizziness that followed. Heat coiled tighter, spreading warmth through his limbs, loosening control in small, traitorous ways. The room felt smaller. Ronan’s presence felt… closer, even across the distance.

“I won’t lose control,” Elliot said.

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”

“I’ve been deciding it alone for years.”

“And it’s catching up to you.”

The words were quiet. Not accusatory. Observational. Worse for it.

Ronan turned away and crossed to the console near the windows, pulling up the building’s internal security feed. His movements were precise, familiar—the same economy Elliot had seen in men who’d learned early that hesitation cost lives.

“How many people know your schedule tonight?” Ronan asked.

“My assistant. My head of security. The driver I dismissed.”

Ronan’s fingers paused over the screen. “Anyone else?”

“No.”

“That’s not an answer,” Ronan said again.

Elliot closed his eyes briefly. “The board knows I canceled a dinner.”

Ronan nodded once, as if that confirmed something unpleasant. He zoomed in on a camera feed—street level, the front entrance. Two figures lingered too long near a black sedan. One checked his phone. The other looked up.

Ronan recognized the posture immediately.

“Eyes up,” Ronan muttered. “They’re waiting.”

“For what?” Elliot asked.

“For you to make a mistake.”

Elliot laughed softly, then stopped when the sound came out wrong—too warm, too loose. His scent shifted again, richer now, the suppressants fighting a losing battle.

Ronan turned sharply. “Sit down.”

Elliot hesitated. Pride flared. Then heat surged, sharp enough to blur the edges of the room.

He sat.

Ronan didn’t approach. Instead, he knelt by the console across the room, putting furniture and deliberate distance between them. It was an odd choice—lowering himself, making it clear this wasn’t dominance. It was control.

“You’re crossing into the early phase,” Ronan said. “Not full heat yet. But close enough that stress could push you over.”

Elliot’s hands curled against the armrests. “How do you know that?”

Ronan’s mouth thinned. “Because I’ve seen it.”

“With omegas,” Elliot pressed.

“With teams,” Ronan corrected. “Bodies under pressure fail predictably. People pretend they won’t.”

That silence again—the kind full of things Ronan wasn’t saying.

Elliot studied him. “You talk like someone who’s watched things go wrong.”

Ronan didn’t look at him. “I talk like someone who learned not to be surprised.”

A beat.

Then, quietly, “I was the one who stayed calm when someone else froze. I don’t repeat that mistake.”

Elliot absorbed that. Filed it away.

Another pulse from the suppressor. Orange, edging toward red.

Ronan stood abruptly. “We’re changing the plan.”

“You don’t get to—”

“I do,” Ronan said, voice firm but not raised. “This isn’t about authority. It’s about containment.”

He crossed to the far end of the room and activated the internal privacy protocol. The glass darkened. External feeds cut. The penthouse sealed into a quiet, insulated bubble.

Elliot’s breath hitched despite himself. “You’re locking us in.”

“I’m locking you out,” Ronan replied. “No visual access. No scent bleed to the outside.”

“And you?”

Ronan met his gaze. “I’m the risk factor.”

That honesty landed like a blow.

Elliot’s scent spiked—heat answering heat, treacherous and undeniable.

Ronan’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Don’t move,” Ronan said.

“I’m not—”

“I know,” Ronan cut in, then forced himself to soften his tone. “This is where it gets dangerous. Not because of what you’ll do. Because of what your body will ask for.”

Elliot swallowed. His voice dropped despite himself. “And if it does?”

Ronan held his gaze, alpha restraint drawn so tight it was almost visible.

“Then I make sure you survive it,” he said. “Without taking something you can’t get back.”

Another vibration—Ronan’s phone this time.

He checked it and went very still.

Elliot didn’t need to ask.

“They’re inside,” Ronan said. “Not the penthouse. The building.”

Elliot’s suppressor blinked red.

Full warning.

Heat surged hard enough to steal his breath.

Ronan took one step forward.

Then another.

He stopped an arm’s length away, every muscle locked, scent roaring under iron control.

“This is the line,” Ronan said quietly. “I don’t cross it unless there’s no other option.”

Elliot looked up at him, heat bright in his eyes, control fraying at the edges.

“And if they force it?” Elliot asked.

Ronan’s voice dropped, rough with something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

“Then,” he said, “I choose you over the rules.”

The building lights flickered.

Somewhere below them, a door alarm sounded.