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“Pasta or rice?” He shifts the topic effortlessly, his voice lighter, as if to lift the somber mood.
“Pasta,” I respond instantly, savoring another sip of wine. “Always pasta.”
“Noted,” he replies with a playful smirk, pushing off from the counter and moving around the room. His movements are a dance of strength and grace, captivating in their effortless elegance.
Outside, the snow whirls in a frenzied dance, contrasting with the warmth and tranquility inside this kitchen haven.
“Have the guys left yet?” I inquire, watching him pull various ingredients from the pantry and a well-stocked fridge. He pauses, retrieves his phone, and slides it across the island to me. “Check the group chat.”
“Dive into your phone?” I ask, surprised, setting my glass aside. Curiosity bubbles within me, eager for a glimpse into his private world.
“Twenty-two, forty-eight,” he says, implicit trust in his tone.
With a mix of excitement and a hint of mischief, I enter the code, gaining a rare window into Devlin’s personal space. He throws me a knowing smirk, as if he’s fully aware of the thrill this small act gives me.
That’s when a sharp cramp ambushes me, a sudden, unwelcome intruder. I grit my teeth, cursing the timing. It’s as if a sharp, icy blade has chosen this moment to twist within me.
I try to focus, unlocking his phone, my fingers quivering slightly. Each time Devlin glances back, concern flickering in his eyes, I steady my hands, determined not to show my discomfort.
The group chat is unexpectedly tame, slightly deflating my excitement.
Avery: Heading back.
Ashton: Max is driving, the snow’s thick. Should be home in about twenty.
Ashton sent that message only five minutes ago. I watch as new bubbles pop up, signaling more messages.
Avery: Max drives like a snail. We’ll be lucky to get home before dawn.
“It’s mostly lighthearted banter,” I remark.
“The twins are quite the conversationalists,” Devlin comments with a chuckle, igniting the gas stove, the flame coming to life with a soft whoosh.
Another cramp clenches through me, and beads of sweat form on my forehead, which I hastily wipe away. My clothes suddenly feel constrictive, suffocatingly tight. Desperate for a distraction, I take a sip of my wine and casually flip open to his photo gallery app.
There aren’t many photos—mostly screenshots of books and pictures of the guys. Then, I spot it. “Oh,” I murmur, a hint of mischief in my voice, “a secret folder.”
A pan clatters to the ground, and I look up just in time to see Devlin recover it. “How did you...”
“Find it?” I chuckle. “After Dean Finch caught an omega with a smuggled phone, we all got pretty savvy with hidden folders.”
“Seraphina,” he says, a noticeable gulp in his throat. “Don’t.”
“What’s in there, Devlin?” My finger hovers over the folder, my curiosity piqued.
Devlin’s actions are precise as he sets the pan down and quickly turns off the stove.
“You really don’t want me looking in there, huh?” I quip, sliding off the stool while watching his reaction closely.
His response is a deep, warning growl. “I’m warning you.”
With a playful grin, I retort, “I’m hoping for some revealing shots,” as I step back and daringly press to open the hidden folder.
All the dick pics.Some girls like them, and some girls don’t. I personally love to know what I’m getting out of a relationship. In my very uneducated opinion, starting off a conversation with a dick pic is like an erotic resume.
To my surprise, Devlin vaults over the island with feline agility, landing softly in front of me. He snatches the phone, and in one fluid motion, lifts me onto the island, the stool I was sitting on clattering to the floor. I realize then how controlled and precise Devlin always is, his calm exterior masking his swift decisiveness.
“You know,” I say, “that private folder is waving some serious red flags.”
