I have to stifle a chuckle as I reply.
BRYLEE
Or the best.
I dart my gaze around the halls, checking for armed men as we make our way down several stairwells and over to the castle kitchens. My chest unwinds when we reach the swinging doors and I've only counted two sets of guards on patrol within the castle.
That's good.
It means the queen is keeping an eye on me, but the entire place isn't on high alert. I send a warning text so he knows.
BRYLEE
Heads-up, I've got a shadow. Are you ready?
I glance back down at my phone to text Teddie again but see he's already texting me. I pause in the hall, waiting to see what he says.
It's just a row of middle fingers.
Snorting, I put a heart on his message and glance at Harper. "He's ready."
Her eyebrows dance as I text him one last time.
BRYLEE
Thirty.
When I push the door to the kitchen open, Harper swings inside with all the omega grace and poise that I don't possess.
"Oh my goodness! It's beautiful, Brylee. You're right. Best kitchen ever. All the girls at Darling would be so jealous."
The cooks and their assistants, who were turning toward us in irritation, soften their postures at the compliments. The guard who's been following me glances around the kitchen and then sits himself down in a folding chair close to a fresh batch of lemon cookies. Hopefully he'll stay distracted by those.
Meanwhile, Harper strides over to the nearest chef, who's working on decorating a four-tier cake with frosting flowers. "That looks amazing! Is that buttercream?"
While she engages in small talk, I look around for our head chef and smile when I see him—a nerdy-looking man with glasses, a side part, and a meticulously clean apron.
Shuffling forward meekly, I clasp my hands and cast my eyes down as I say, "Harper and I need to test out a recipe for our Culinary Arts class. Would you mind if we do it here? There's a small kitchen in my wing, but they don't have all the ingredients or tools there."
"Of course, of course, Princess!" The chef is so full of bubbly excitement that guilt punches my gut. His hands clap together, and then he rubs them in anticipation. "What are we making?"
"We need to try to make this soup." I pull the recipe book from where I had it tucked against my side and open it to a page that Harper tape-flagged.
It's a slow-cooking beef stew we selected because we need to be in here long enough that the sheen of our presence fades and workers start buzzing around us without paying attention.
The head chef clicks his tongue as he scans down the list.
"Yes, yes, we have all this." His arm rises to snap for an assistant. "Larry, come get?—"
"Actually, sir, do you think we could do it ourselves?" I interrupt in a soft tone. "Mrs. Lotty says that cooking is an act of service and that alphas love when you make things specially for them. We could use the practice before the stakes are too high."
His hand traces down the page, and he nods firmly as he hands it back to me. "She is very wise. You and your friend can take over table four at the end."
I glance over to the table that he indicates with a sweeping gesture and am relieved to find it's close to an exterior door that leads out to a massive patio where my parents host parties.
Perfect.
Harper trots over a second later, and we slowly collect our bowls while keeping our conversation utterly mundane. Painfully mundane even, because Harper starts talking about the bunion relief creams her father has tried that haven't worked.
