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My glare faltered, confusion slipping into the space where irritation had been. Unless every werewolf romance I'd ever read had lied to me, they could heal. Rapidly. Cellular regeneration was supposed to make scars a non-issue... so why?
My gaze climbed, betraying me, over the sculpted lines of his arm. Even in this light, he seemed forged rather than born, the kind of strength that didn't just fill the room, but bent it subtly to his overwhelming presence. Pale, yes, but not lifeless. If anything, it felt like the world itself had adjusted to match the way he stood.
I tore my eyes from his body, raising my head to gaze up at him. Even with my height that got me bullied in middle and high school, I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes.
His eyes were not just icy blue; they glared down at me like the palest azure jewels, crystals that held your gaze captive and were too cruel to ever let go.
I cleared my throat. "Bet you've never lost a game of arm wrestling."
He didn't answer.
Yet, the corner of his lip flicked up in the ghost of a smile. As though playing along to my jab was so far beneath him that the mere thought amused him.
He looked away from me, casting his cold gaze on his men still waiting. With a barely-there tilt, they quickly left, leaving us alone.
I finally let my shoulders slump, relief erasing the tension.
The kitchen felt bigger now, all that muscle and authority gone with the guards. Without their shadows crowding the corners, it was just him, statuesque under the bright light, bionic fingers flexing once. The faint click was loud enough to make the air feel colder.
My stomach picked that exact moment to growl. Low, vicious, almost canine.
Heat ran up my neck and invaded my cheeks, but Kaia stirred in the back of my mind, her voice like cool water poured over hot stone.
"Breathe," she murmured. "He's not judging you."
"Feels like he is," I muttered back.
I exhaled through my nose, letting her quiet steadiness tether me. When I looked back, Mikhail was already moving, no wasted steps, no unnecessary noise, as if the kitchen were an extension of him.
Without a word, he crossed to the pantry, pulled down a jar of what looked like dried meat strips, and set it on the counter alongside a package wrapped in waxed cloth.
I blinked. "Is that... jerky?"
He didn't glance at me as he reached for a knife. "Cured venison," he said, voice cool and even. "Though I suppose to human palates, everything preserved qualifies as jerky."
I narrowed my eyes. "Hey. Jerky has saved plenty of road trips."
"Which explains the state of human digestion."
I bit back a laugh. "You know, for someone so superior, you're still using it."
He finally looked at me then, just a glance over his shoulder, his voice monotone. "Practicality is not endorsement."
Kaia's chuckle hummed in my head.
He unwrapped the cloth with deliberate precision, revealing what looked like flatbread, pale and flecked with dark seeds. He tore off a piece, laid strips of the venison across it, then reached for a small ceramic jar. When he opened it, the scent hit me immediatelyâsharp, tangy, fermented.
"This is..." I frowned, stepping closer. "...familiar. But not."
"That's because it's what your food would be if it hadn't been stripped of flavor for shelf life." He spread the fermented paste across the bread with practiced efficiency. "Here, we still remember what it's meant to taste like."
I crossed my arms. "You say that like you're about to lecture me on the decline of human agriculture."
"Not worth the breath," he said simply. "You'll taste the difference soon enough."
"He challenges you without disparaging you," Kaia observed.
"Hey, why are you on his side?" I asked her, but I didn't look away from the way his hands moved. Precise, deliberate, and annoyingly far too competent for someone I was supposed to distrust.
I leaned against the counter, letting coolness sink into my skin. I followed his every move, focused, watching to see him slip up, though I doubted he ever did. My eyes trailed his hand as he layered thin slices of something that looked like cheese but shimmered faintly silver under the light.
The sizzling as he warmed it in a pan made my mouth water. The aroma dared me to cross the distance. But I had pride.
"Do you cook for all troublemakers," I leaned in closer, hoping he wouldn't notice, "or do I happen to be special?"
"Neither," he replied without hesitation. "I'm feeding you because listening to your stomach is more irritating than listening to you."
My brows shot up. "Wow. Chivalry is alive and well."
"Who said it died?" he asked dryly, adding a pinch of some pale herb that released a faintly sweet scent.
Kaia hummed approvingly.
"He meets you where you stand," she said.
"He's infuriating," I shot back.
"So are you."
"What happened to women supporting women?"
"Who said I was a woman?" she countered.
I had no comeback to that, so I went back to focusing on the rhythm of his movements, the unhurried certainty of someone who didn't need to prove they were in control because they already were. He folded the flatbread around the filling, pressed it gently in the pan until it crisped, then slid it onto a plate.
When he finally set it in front of me, I hesitated just long enough for him to arch a brow, as if silently daring me to find fault.
I took a bite. The venison was nothing like the tough, over-salted strips I knew. This was tender, smoky, rich with herbs I couldn't name. The cheese melted perfectly, and the fermented spread added a tang that cut through everything with precision. The bread itself had a subtle sweetness that grounded it all.
I chewed slowly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even though I wanted so badly to moan. It wasn't delicious. The word was such an understatement, it would be a crime.
This was orgasmic.
I was so distracted, I didn't notice he had placed a cup of water in front of me.
After watching the only men in my family be nothing but lazy pigs, watching this man, no, this Alpha, cook like a Michelin chef and clean up afterward was like watching a glacier catch fire. Impossible, mesmerizing, and dangerous if you forgot what you were looking at.
He wiped down the counter with the same methodical precision he'd used to prepare the food, each movement efficient, almost meditative. No wasted energy. No unnecessary sound. Even the faint clink of the knife sliding back into its place felt deliberate.
"You're staring," he said without looking up.
I swallowed my mouthful, nearly choking. "I'm... appreciating the craftsmanship."
"That's one word for it." His tone was so dry it could have desiccated the bread.
I narrowed my eyes, taking another bite just to spite him. "You know, you could try saying 'you're welcome.'"
"I could," he agreed, rinsing the knife, "but then you might think this will happen again."
"Shit, and I was about to hire you."
He didn't even blink at my comment, just picked up the now-spotless cloth, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter like I wasn't there.
Kaia stirred again.
"Not even going to dignify my offer with an answer?" I pressed, tilting my head at him.
The silence that followed was not hostile but impenetrable. His presence drew in like a steel wall shutting its gates. The shift was so subtle that if I hadn't seen it before, in the car, when his entire focus turned razor-sharp, I might have missed it.
Gone was the man trading dry jabs over cured venison. In his place stood the cold Alpha whose stillness could suffocate a room.
Kaia hummed thoughtfully.
"You're supposed to be on my side," I scowled at her.
"I am. I just think he's interesting."
He moved at last, stepping toward me, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air felt heavier. "You should get some rest," he said, voice like frost forming over water. No warmth. No room for negotiation.
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already walking toward the stairway, not looking back to see if I'd follow.
He didn't slow, didn't speak, didn't so much as glance at me as we climbed the wide, sweeping spiral staircase. Every step was measured and unhurried.
Somewhere between the first and second landing, my irritation pried the words out of me again. "You're really not going to answer me?"
His jaw ticked, but barely. He kept going, hands loose at his sides, gaze fixed ahead.
"I mean, it's not like I was offering anything illegal," I added, because apparently I enjoyed talking to brick walls.
Nothing.
We reached the top of the stairs, the corridor opening wide with soft rugs underfoot and the faint scent of something floral I couldn't place. He stopped in front of a tall double door, turned the handle, and pushed it open to reveal a room so absurdly elegant I actually forgot to breathe for a moment.
He didn't step inside. Didn't even give me a parting word. Just inclined his head toward the room in a gesture that said "this is where you're staying," then turned and walked away without looking back.
I just stood there, fingers curling into my palm, nails biting into skin. The words tore up my throat like glass shards, shredding my insides. I feared what he would think of me, how he would see me once I laid down all my cards.
But watching him walk away was like witnessing a door close, and if I didn't forcefully wedge myself into the frame now, even if it would crush me and expose a festering wound, I would never get another chance.
After three years, I found the bastard, the smiling rapist. I would not get this opportunity again. I braced myself.
"I am the product of my mother's assault," I blurted, the sentence coating my tongue in acid. "That man is my father. I have to end him." Vitriol seeped into my voice with every single syllable as I forced myself to speak. "I can't spread her ashes until I watch him fucking burn."
He stopped and turned.