Skyla
I sitat the little kitchen table, my fingers brushing over the clean bandage taped against my neck. It tugs when I swallow, but it’s nothing compared to before. I also have a tiny square Band-Aid on my upper arm—two shots. One for tetanus and one for some super-strong antibiotic the doctor insisted on. My body feels kind of heavy, but my chest feels lighter somehow.
Can I really make this work with this pack?
Would they really love me even if I couldn't bond with them?
I decide not to think about it for now. After all, they won’t become restless to mark me for another month or two. Maybe I’ll get lucky and my heat will start before then. Maybe a mental bond will form this time.
Maybe.
Across the kitchen, Tadeo and Dakota are a sight. Tadeo’s trying to cook some fancy Spanish dish, but his knife work is all over the place. Onions are in lopsidedchunks, the peppers are sliced too thick, and the tomatoes are smashed instead of chopped.
The pan hisses and spits like it’s offended by Tadeo’s choices, flames licking high because he’s cranked the burner way too hot. Every few seconds he mutters something sharp in Spanish, jabbing at the knobs like he can argue the stove into behaving.
He looks almost too good for this messy chaos—tight black slacks fitted perfectly over his sculpted legs, a crisp white shirt rolled up his forearms, and his blue tie tugged loose around his throat. My eyes catch on the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he works. The faint cords of veins along his forearms have me all kinds of frustrated, and I have to look away before I get caught staring.
I had no idea watching a man cook could get me so hot and bothered.
Dakota, meanwhile, isn’t helping in the slightest. He leans against the counter in nothing but a pair of black gym shorts. The beta isn’t as cut as an alpha, but he’s still strong and trim with broad shoulders, and faint lines of abs are like shadows across his stomach. For a beta, he’s ridiculously fit.
“That looks really good,” Dakota says as he glances over Tadeo’s shoulder.
The beta is acting like he’s supervising, but really he’s just popping ingredients into his mouth whenever Tadeo’s back is turned. A piece of cheese disappears between his teeth. Then half a tomato slice. Then a strip of bell pepper.
It’s kinda sweet.
And I can’t stop smiling at them—the mess, the bickering, the way Dakota’s eyes gleam when Tadeo finally notices he’s stolen something. My chest goes warm and soft as I watch.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I relax.
The sizzle from the pan and Dakota’s laugh fill the air, but the sound of boots on tile cuts straight through it. I look up right as Alex steps into the kitchen. His gaze flickers over Tadeo and Dakota—barely sparing them a second glance—before locking onto me.
Then he smiles and his eyes narrow. He looks like a man on a mission.
He strolls across the kitchen, easy and unhurried, the kind of walk that makes the air bend around him. He brushes past his packmates without a single glance and drops into the chair beside me. The metal groans under his weight, and suddenly he’s leaning close, citrus scent and spice and shameless flirty energy radiating off him.
“So,” he says, resting one elbow on the table as he leans in toward me. “Come here often?”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s sharp and loud, echoing in the little kitchen. It shocks me almost as much as it shocks everyone else. But I can’t help it. There’s something about Alex that makes me feel lighter.
I press my lips together, still grinning, but he doesn’t let me off the hook. His dark blue eyes are bright and filled with mischief.
“Well.” I tilt my head, pretending to think about it. “I live here.”
Alex’s smile deepens, turning wicked, and then his fingertips brush the outside of my arm. Just the barest touch, tracing the edge of the tiny Band-Aid like it’s lace or silk instead of drugstore plastic. For some silly reason, it makes the air catch in my lungs.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, voice gone low and smooth. “Can I buy you a drink, then?”
His little game is so ridiculous it almost knocks another laugh right out of me. But I nod, my chest fluttering. “I’d love a drink.”
Alex leans back, smug as sin, and snaps his fingers without even looking away from me. “Barkeep!” His voice booms like he’s ordering from the stage of some ancient theater. “A glass of your most expensive whiskey, if you please.”
Dakota jumps like he’s been waiting his whole life for this cue. He yanks a hand towel off the counter, a spoon clattering to the floor in the process, and flips the towel over his shoulder with all the gravitas of a trained bartender.
“Yes, sir!” he says, deep and formal, bowing at Alex.
My eyes widen. “Wait—” Panic flares in my chest. I pray they aren’t actually getting me whiskey. I tried it once, and it felt like swallowing fire straight from hell.
