The clock down the corridor had already struck three in the afternoon, its echoes marking the passage of half a day.
Hours prior, the agonizing culinary war in the ruined kitchen had finally ground to an unceremonious halt. Thoroughly exhausted, irritable, and profoundly uncomfortable from the expanding metrics of his two-week-old pregnancy, Malcolm had thrown his hands up in defiance. He had looked at Dahmer and declared that he was tired of waiting, he no longer wanted the ridiculous French meal, and the infant was entirely over it.
Without giving the Enigma a second to reply, the Alpha had stormed back upstairs, collapsed onto the bed, and fallen into a deep, uninterrupted slumber. After all those chaotic hours of disturbing Dahmer's peace, and forcing him into culinary servitude, Malcolm had slept like the dead well into the late afternoon.
The bedroom door slid open with a soft, cautious click.
