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“Breakfast,” he says in a super-satisfying choked robot voice.
With the box towers that were giving me hives arranged in neat soldierly lines, pushed back and stacked high, I have an easy path to the kitchen. I creep over to check the food.
“Shoes!” Atlas barks, freezing me short of the kitchen. Then he clears his throat, and I can walk again. “I mean, careful. Your toes.” While he goes to find a broom, Orion lifts me onto the kitchen barstool.
I tense when he drops to the floor, gently putting my feet into socks and sneakers. The view of his golden head between my thighs is so unfair.
So is the way he keeps treating me like a doll and the way I keep wanting to return the favor.
“How long are you going to keep doing that?” I ask shakily.
“As long as you want me to.”
I’ll never admit how good it feels to be pampered. Orion even ties my shoelaces. By the time he joins me at the counter, Atlas has swept up his mess.
“Ordered bagels. French toast. Onion.” Atlas pushes us plates, looking red-eyed and raggedy.
“Good sleep?” I ask sweetly. Atlas definitely heard us doing more than snuggling. Small payback for the times I had to listen to their sex moans.
Atlas grunts. He wears a dark T-shirt tucked into his belt with its stupid huge buckle and those deadly mercenary pants they all use as a form of torture. They hug his rugby thighs.
Atlas also cut up fruit salad, and he offers Orion a coffee that must be made exactly how he likes it because Orion bites his plush lip, hiding a smug omega smile.
I don’t bother hiding my smile when I push the mug away from his outstretched fingers. “No coffee.”
“I’ll make you your own—”
“No. You haven’t started nutrition yet. But omegas and caffeine? You think that’s a good idea?”
“What?” Orion pales.
I pat his shoulder. “Cocoa?”
“I’ll make it.” Atlas dumps the coffee with a low growl and zero mercy. “I didn’t realize.”
“Shit. My energy drinks?”
“Toxic.” I tsk, having way too much fun.
Groaning, Orion mashes his head on the counter.
I laugh into a fucking fantastically crunchy French toast bagel while Atlas mixes hot cocoa with the intensity of general at war. He reads the cocoa package like he’s going to be tested, measuring milk, powder, and temperature to exact fractions of a unit.
He looks like he could solo overthrow a government, and between his size and his dominance, he takes up my whole kitchen.
It’s honestly…cute the way he’s so focused. Atlas sloshes and mutters, but eventually presents us with two steaming mugs of cocoa.
“Thanks.” I sip and it’s decent, if missing whipped cream. Guess the packet didn’t say to add it.
But I bet he’d follow the instructions if I gave my own recipe…
Atlas watches me drink with primal satisfaction.
The way he watches me is the same way Orion stares at Atlas’s coffee. “Fuck my omega life.”
“Wait until you hear the other news. Pork rinds? Still not a food group. You’re going to have to eat a vegetable.”
“You are killing me,” Orion moans.
