Chapter Eighteen #5
“I can speak several languages, what’s one more?” I asserted, uncertain of his confusion. “Especially if it’ll someday teach Minseo of her heritage.”
An expression dawned on his face. I had no time to decipher it as he rested his chin on his knee and looked away. “You don’t have to do that.” He paused, turning back. “What languages can you speak?”
“French, Italian, Dutch, and Russian,” I said, and his eyes widened a fraction. “Not all fluently, but enough to understand the pack leaders when they revert to their native tongues. It has proved useful in unveiling several plots.”
“Wow.”
“English is my first language,” I carried on. “Though my family has French roots, and it was another tradition to learn the language.”
“Devereux,” he recognised with an acknowledging nod. “Say something in French?”
“Quelque chose.”
“What did you say?”
“Something.”
He glared. Flatly. “You’re a pedantic arsehole in every language, good to know.”
I snorted faintly, glancing down at the table, my finger tracing the engraved diamonds on my glass.
I assumed he’d looked away again, sulking, but the weight of his gaze pierced into the side of my head.
I faced him. His expression had eased, and for the second time that day he appeared locked in time as he stared at me.
I was drawn to the darkness of his eyes, how the light reflected off them, a mirror.
They gave nothing away.
“Je me demande ce que tu vois quand tu me regardes au travers de tes yeux,” I rasped, almost subconsciously, and he blinked back to attention.
“What’s that mean?” His voice was barely a breath, sensing the shift in intent.
I wonder what you see when you look at me through your eyes.
I took another sip of whisky, smirking over the rim of the glass. “You’ll have to learn French to find out.”
He rolled his eyes, returning to his adamant survey of the view. “Such a dick.”
There was no force behind his insult. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was fond.
“Have you no relatives at all?” I bridged the gap, though I knew the answer.
The majority of Dylan’s background was common knowledge to me, but since he was in a divulging mood, I preferred to hear it from him.
“My dad’s parents were never in my life,” he said, his fingers flexing on his leg. “They never reached out, never spoke to my dad after he turned eighteen because they hated having an omega kid. I never bothered tracking them down to share the news they had a great-grandchild. They can suck it.”
Agreed. Though they were both dead, so it wouldn’t have mattered regardless.
There was no benefit in telling him that. Not at present.
Dylan slanted his face toward me, cheek flat against his knee instead.
“My mum’s dad—my grandpa—passed when she was a teenager.
” Park Se-han, if I remembered correctly.
“That’s why Grandma lived with us. She moved with my parents because there was nothing left for her in Korea.
She talked about him a lot, told stories about when they were younger.
My middle name even came from him. He knew his illness was terminal, so he picked it out and gave it to Grandma before he died—to hold onto until Mum had a kid of her own. ”
Tae-sung.
“Middle names aren’t a thing in Korea, so I would’ve been Park Tae-sung if they’d stayed.
” His explanation proved the topic was a diversion for him, as I’d suspected.
“Mum preferred the idea of giving me a Western first name since I was born here, but wanted me to have a little piece of both—and honour her dad. They called me Sung-ah when I was a kid.”
“Dylan suits you,” I remarked, hoping it was taken as the praise I intended.
“My grandma said the same. Though I suspect it had less to do with her liking it, and was more a case of it being the best choice my parents considered.” He laughed again. It was affectionate. “She used to call me gangaji. It means puppy.”
Kitten would have suited him more. “You took my surname. Is that—does it bother you?”
“Why would it?” he quizzed, but then his lips formed an “O” in realisation. “You mean because my dad and grandma kept theirs?”
I nodded.
From a glimpse at an article or two on the internet, omegas in Korea didn’t take their Alpha’s surnames after mating. From my observations, Dylan didn’t act particularly invested in embracing the culture, though I still hadn’t asked if he wished to follow his father’s and grandmother’s path.
I was never interested.
“Oh! No,” he answered quickly. “My dad didn’t take my mum’s and Grandma didn’t take her mate’s, but that’s because they were in Korea at the time and it just worked out that way for them.” He hefted his shoulders. “I’m not bothered.”
“Very well.” I dipped my head, content he wouldn’t be shy in voicing his desires if he ever changed his mind.
A lull spanned the conversation, though it wasn’t strained or tense. He was relaxed, and after a while, he absently picked up his fork again, scooping the last bite of cheesecake into his mouth.
His moan bordered on public indecency.
“Weren’t you full?”
He chewed and swallowed. I noted his throat bobbing. “It was too good to waste. I’m going to have to make some for Minnie.”
“I’ll have Raegan ask the chef for the recipe.”
“It’s okay.” He shook his head, wiping the crumbs off the corners of his mouth. “I have one. My grandma used to make it sometimes. It’s dairy-free, and you wouldn’t notice the difference. It’s a little more rustic than this, but it’s delicious.”
“She baked?”
He nodded. “She only started learning when she came over here—something to pass the time, she’d said.
As soon as I was old enough, she taught me what she knew and it became our shared hobby.
It’s a great stress reliever, and a lot can be done cheaply with few ingredients, so we could afford it most of the time. ”
“You never monetised it?” I asked.
A complicated expression rippled over his face.
“We could have. Since I hadn’t presented and we suspected I’d be a beta, the working restrictions didn’t apply to me—except in terms of my age—but even so, the start-up costs were too damn high.
” My fingers tightened against my glass.
“Grandma had a dream of opening the first omega-owned coffee shop in our district someday. I’d work in the back, making the cakes and pastries, while she was at front of house, doing all the socialising.
Or so she said. There was this small, family-run café on Cycero Street—it was her favourite place.
It wasn’t too expensive, so she’d go there as a treat every second Friday for lunch. It was her inspiration.”
He would be referring to the café I’d clocked him lingering outside of occasionally on the surveillance. The one with the worn yellow sign above the door.
His eyes grew distant, fixed on an unspecific spot on the table. “When she died, I’d walk past it just to take in the coffee smell. It reminded me of her, but I never went in.”
I tilted my head, curious. “Is it your dream too?”
He refocused. “My dream is to see Minnie grow old and be happy,” he affirmed. “To want for nothing, and I guess part of that is already true, thanks to you.”
“Be selfish for one moment, Dylan,” I bid. “What do you want?”
He swallowed and pondered it. “I can’t see myself owning a café, that was Grandma’s thing, but .
. . maybe making cakes from home? A little business I could pick up and drop whenever I wanted?
I mean, baking brings me joy, it’s great for stress, and it’s a skill I’d like to pass on to Minnie one day, so I might as well profit from it. ”
A fair deduction.
He sighed. “I don’t know. I’d like to work, to have a purpose other than just fatherhood.
I hate being a freeloader, but I’ve also gotten used to spending all this time with Minnie, watching her grow, and I don’t want to lose it.
” He scoffed bitterly. “Not that it matters. I’m mated now, so it’s frowned upon for me to work. ”
“An extension could be built onto the house,” I mused aloud.
It wouldn’t be a hardship to add another room near the walled-off garden he was fond of.
A door leading directly into the space. “You don’t have to work, it’s not a necessity, but I understand the compulsion for not being idle.
If you were content working from the house, I could make it happen. ”
“Won’t that cause problems?” he countered. “If people found out omega Devereux was working? It’d reflect badly on you, no?”
“Let it.” I flicked a dismissive hand. “They’ll soon buck up their ideas once they realise Minseo is next in line, whether they like it or not.”
Dylan was quiet for a beat. I glanced over at him, noticing his eyes were glistening. It may be the lights. “You’d really do that?”
I hummed an assent. “I have the means to give you anything your heart desires, and I’ll do it. No hesitation. Tell me what you want, and it’s yours.”
“Why?”
It was simple. His entire life had been a series of denials and restrictions due to income or designation.
That was unnecessary now. For two years, he had toiled, raising our daughter independently without my awareness—or support.
I could offer reparations. It wouldn’t erase past transgressions, but if an assurance of never being in those circumstances again healed even a fragment of the damage, it would be done.
With my resources at his disposal, he should know only contentment.
I want him to be content.
“We can’t have an omega of mine lacking for anything,” I said, and he ducked his head, a gentle curve upturning the corners of his lips. Another unidentifiable quirk.
“Ah, of course.” He chuffed. “The people would be in uproar.”
“Precisely.”
Every minute I spent in Dylan’s presence, he would captivate another facet of my attention.
I’d resolve to brush it aside, lay blame at the feet of my instincts for reacting to his, but then he’d present another piece of himself.
He’d seduce my intrigue, and I was powerless against the temptation.
I gravitated toward him. His smile, his laugh.
They were infectious. And with every taste he offered, the greedier I became.
I wanted more. I wanted all of it, to devour until there was nothing left.
What is this little creature doing to me?
“The look you’re giving me now . . .” he murmured, his eyes roving across my face. Uncertain. Inquisitive. Earnest. “It’s not one I’ve figured out yet.”
I hadn’t either. “Tell me when you do.”
That smile appeared again. Soft. He nodded once, and faced the scenery.
My gaze was fixed on him. My vision clearer.
Gradually, a mist had lifted, revealing crucial details I’d overlooked—I’d refused to see.
He was cautious, guarded, but he was honest. He knew exactly what he wanted, and what he didn’t.
He refused to conform. He only devoted his obedience once it was earned, not because it was demanded of him.
He was authentic. I was aware of that. He’d shown it, shouted it, but I’d never truly heeded it. Until now.
He wasn’t traditional.
He wasn’t an opportunist.
He was unlike anyone I’d ever known.