Chapter 3

Isolde’s POV

Caden mutters a low, vicious “Fuck” under his breath.

Even with his temper, he knows the real authority in this house is the oldest son. Eric.

He lets go of me like it physically hurts him. In one smooth, pissed-off motion he slides off the seat and folds his big body down onto the floor between my legs, cramped and angry.

“Keep your legs open. Cover me,” he hisses through his teeth. “You make a single sound and I swear to God I’ll make you regret it later.”

My hands are shaking so hard I can barely move. I yank the thick cashmere car blanket from the side compartment and throw it over my lap, completely hiding him underneath.

The door opens. Eric steps in.

He’s wearing a perfect charcoal suit that somehow still can’t hide how solid he is. Six-foot-three of quiet, controlled power. The kind that makes the whole car feel smaller the second he sits down.

I’ve always been more terrified of him than of our stepfather. Eric is the alpha heir. The one who actually runs things.

He shuts the door, smooths the crease in his trousers, and crosses one leg over the other like he’s settling into a board meeting instead of a limo that reeks of sex and heat. He looks clean. Expensive. Completely opposite of the sweaty, ruined mess I am right now.

The air is thick with Caden’s scent and the sweet, sticky smell pouring off me. There’s no way he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just sits beside me and lets his eyes travel over my body—slow, thorough, clinical.

I want to clamp my thighs shut so badly my muscles burn. But Caden’s broad shoulders are wedged right between my calves. I’m stuck in this half-open, humiliating position and it feels filthy as hell.

Under the blanket, Caden gets impatient with how rigid I’ve gone. His hand shoots up and pinches the soft skin on the inside of my thigh—hard.

I suck in a sharp breath and nearly scream. My teeth dig into my lower lip until I taste copper. Tears flood my eyes. I dig my nails into the leather seat so hard I can hear them scrape.

I cannot let Eric find out what’s under this blanket.

“Looks like you’re having a little trouble,” Eric finally says. His voice is perfectly even.

“I—I’m fine,” I manage, staring at my knees. “It was just… too hot in the ballroom. I needed air.”

He adjusts his glasses. The lenses catch the light for a second. “You turned eighteen today,” he says, looking straight at my shaking shoulders. “This is your first heat.”

My whole body locks up.

Hearing him say it out loud is somehow worse than anything Caden did. Pure, burning shame.

“Your temperature is too high. Your scent is completely out of control.” Eric keeps talking like he’s reading a report. “If this isn’t taken care of soon, the fever will cook your brain. Fresh air isn’t going to fix it.”

He’s right.

The fire under my skin is getting worse by the second. My body feels hollow and aching and desperate for something—anything—to make it stop.

Under the blanket Caden’s rough fingers keep stroking the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate, like he’s reminding me he’s still there. Eric sits beside me, calm and relentless, closing every escape route with that quiet voice.

I hate how badly I want to be touched right now.

I hate that the only two people who could actually help are the stepbrothers I’ve spent years trying to avoid.

Why the fuck is this happening to me?

“What… what am I supposed to do?” I ask, voice small and broken. Tears slide down my cheeks. “Who am I supposed to go to?”

I already know the answer is going to destroy me. I ask anyway.

Eric watches my face for a long moment. Then he sighs—soft, almost tired.

He lifts one hand, undoes the top button of his crisp white shirt, and slowly pulls his tie free. He drops it onto the seat between us like it means nothing.

“You don’t need to go to anyone else,” he says, voice low and certain. “I’ll take care of it.”