Chapter 39
Cole
A fter Xavier storms off. I take a seat, looking out over the city view. I don’t know what we’re going to do with Xavier. The rest of the pack is on board to court our Omegas. I mean come on. How many packs have two Omegas? And not just any Omegas. Our scent matches.
The quiet before the pack wakes up is my favorite part of the day. Just me, the sunrise bleeding through glass walls, and the steady rhythm of a chef’s knife against the cutting board.
I’ve got apple wood smoked, thick-cut bacon in the oven. Eggs waiting in a bowl beside fresh chives and cream. Sourdough on standby, because Laurent swears toast doesn’t count unless it’s “crispy enough to hurt someone.”
I shake my head at that and reach for the butter, tossing a generous pat into the pan just as it starts to sizzle.
If you’d told me five years ago, I’d be in a penthouse kitchen preparing breakfast for a pack, two Omegas included, I would’ve laughed in your face. Maybe thrown a punch.
But now? Now it feels like home. I glance toward the hallway, half expecting to hear Sébastien’s soft steps or Rowan’s sleepy shuffle.
Nothing yet. They’re still crashed out in the Nest Suite, where they belong. Last night wore them out, and not just physically. Emotional stress takes its toll too, especially on new matches still trying to find their footing.
Mass is probably dead to the world, buried under a weighted blanket with his phone silent. tangled up together after that ridiculously photogenic date.
The smell of bacon fills the kitchen, and I open the oven door to flip the strips, reaching for the French press with my other hand. The sun’s barely cleared the skyline, casting golden light across the marble counters. I work in silence, content in the rhythm of making pancakes. Pour, fry, flip, repeat.
Footsteps pad softly down the hall. I glance up just as Rowan rounds the corner, rubbing one eye and yawning like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Her hair’s a tousled mess, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. She’s wearing Laurent’s shirt from last night, the fabric loose and a little too big on her, hanging off one shoulder and brushing the tops of her thighs.
Mine.
The thought hits before I can stop it.
“Morning,” she mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say, softer than usual.
She eyes the coffee like a woman on a mission. “Tell me that’s fresh.”
I grab a mug and fill it for her without question, setting it beside the fruit bowl. She takes it with both hands like it’s sacred. A beat of silence passes as she sips, then sighs.
“You’re dangerous,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. “Feeding me. Spoiling me. It’s a trap.”
I smirk, sliding a plate onto the counter beside her. “Trap’s already sprung, sweetheart. Might as well enjoy the perks.”
Rowan's soft sigh breaks my focus as I pour the coffee, her presence a gentle pull on my attention. I turn, meeting her half-lidded gaze, and something unspoken passes between us a shared understanding, a quiet invitation.
Setting the coffee pot down, I approach her slowly, giving her space to retreat if she chooses. She doesn't.
Stopping just a breath away, I lift a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her skin is warm under my touch, her pulse a steady rhythm beneath my fingertips.
"Morning," I murmur, my voice low, more intimate than casual.
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leans subtly into my hand. The simple intimacy of the gesture stirs something deep within me.
"Rowan," I murmur, my voice low and rough with emotion.
She opens her eyes, meeting mine with a gaze that’s both vulnerable and inviting. The space between us seems to shrink, the air thickening with unspoken words and shared longing.
Unable to resist any longer, I close the distance, capturing her lips with mine. The kiss begins tender, a gentle exploration, but quickly deepens as the hunger we've both been suppressing surfaces. My hands slide to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against mine.
She responds eagerly, her fingers threading through my hair, holding me to her as if afraid I might pull away. The taste of her, the feel of her pressed against me, ignites a fire that threatens to consume us both.
When we finally break apart, breathless and flushed, I rest my forehead against hers, a satisfied smile playing on my lips.
"God, Rowan," I whisper, "you have no idea what you do to me."
She chuckles softly; her breath is warm against my skin. "I might have an inkling. The pancakes are burning.”