27. Ten
Ten
Taryn
Brooks was engaging in some hardcore omega distraction by way of cinnamon roll baking.
Well, attempted cinnamon roll baking.
Caine would lose his shit when he walked into the kitchen.
A swirl of white flour and brown cinnamon dusted the countertops.
Dirty utensils sat in and around the sink, unrinsed.
And a tall, clear water glass served as makeshift rolling pin for the even-cheerier-than-normal beta to roll out the dough.
Pieces of the dough stuck to the side of the glass, though, apparently still not the right consistency.
Even with everything else going on, I smiled as I watched him dust just a little more flour onto the dough (and the surrounding countertop).
I’d read his first messages with Brea. I knew there had to be a real rolling pin somewhere in this kitchen. The extra buffoonery was for my benefit, I was sure.
“Good thing you didn’t become a surgeon,” I said, still slowly stirring the large bowl of cinnamon filling I’d been working on across the island. I glanced pointedly at the disaster zone of a kitchen. “Your OR would look like a horror movie.”
He chuckled as he tried rolling out the dough again. “ORs by definition tend to look like horror scenes,” he answered. Followed by a whispered, “ Score! ” as he finally managed to roll the dough without it sticking to the glass and tearing apart.
Setting the bowl and, thereby, the pretense I was still working on it aside, I leaned my elbows on the countertop. “Oh I didn’t mean horror for me, ” I said. “A horror for the cleanup squad.”
“I think it’s probably equally horrible for them regardless of how messy I am.”
“I’d bet money you’d end up with blood splatter on the ceiling like you left the blender on,” I replied, grinning despite myself.
“Aw, come on, that’s not fair!” He raised his floury hands in rebuttal. “Arteries spray! That’s nature’s fault, not mine!”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “...you’ve gotten blood on the ceiling before, haven’t you?”
Fake-scowling, Brooks returned to flattening the dough. “I’m just lucky you didn’t set a price.”
Two hours later, and with the destruction largely rectified, Brooks and I both had cinnamon filling and icing all over our lips and cheeks from speed-eating a huge roll each.
"That," I said slowly, swiping my tongue along my lips to salvage every little drop, "was worth the carnage."
"And you doubted me," Brooks replied. He swiped a thumb over my cheek with firm pressure before bringing it to my lips, holding out the bit of frosting for me to take.
My stomach fluttered as I met his gaze and took his entire thumb into my mouth.
My tongue scraped the sweet, sticky sugar from his skin, my teeth nipping on his finger as I pulled back off of it.
His eyes darkened, blood rushing to his cheeks as he looked down at me with heat.
"Careful, omega," he breathed, stepping closer.
He grabbed my chin and turned my head to the side before drawing his tongue over my jaw, just below the corner of my mouth where, no doubt, another smear lay.
"I'm attempting to be a gentleman here."
Fire pooled in my belly. I hadn't felt desire like this in the weeks since the attack.
Hadn't felt much of anything, actually. I'd encased myself in.
..I didn't even know. Denial? Indifference?
Bitterness? Whatever it was, I didn't care because it shielded me from the cutting devastation that that day had left in me.
It had taken more than a day to fully emerge from the omega catatonia, that amorphous place where my omega dragged me after the attack.
Where I couldn't speak, or see, or stand.
All I could do there was hold on to any piece of solid ground I could find—Brea, which wasn't surprising. And Caine, which was.
When I'd read about OC before, whenever I tried to really, academically think about what the experience of a catatonic episode was, I'd always thought it was a retreat.
The omega diving so deep into her own soul so as to escape whatever was outside it.
Self-preservation. Defense mechanism. And maybe, on some level or for some omegas, that was the case.
Not mine, though.
I didn't want to go back there. Couldn't go back.
So after I'd emerged, after I'd spoken with police, I shut down the part of myself that felt.
The fear was less then, but so was everything else.
Even my mate and this new pack that had done so much for me—for us—I barely felt any comfort laying in their arms. I'd numbed myself to the bad and lost the good with it.
As excitement and arousal bloomed in my chest, so did hope. "Haven't you been listening?" I asked, stepping closer. "I'm looking for a maniac."
He groaned deep in his chest, very nearly a growl for a beta.
His curls fell over his forehead as he dipped his head and, so gently, so gentlemanly, brushed his lips over mine.
"There's my girl,” he said through a sigh as his kiss became harder, like he'd finally been let off the leash that had been keeping him back for the last several weeks.
I pulled him closer to me, letting the want and need now burning through my skin take over.
Engulf me. Incinerate me. Eviscerate me.
A long buzzing sound broke the moment, and we both snapped apart. "Fuck," he whispered before walking to the phone still silently-not-so-silently ringing on the coffee table.
"Ignore it." I very nearly whined.
He bent to grab it. "Could be the hospital."
He picked it up and looked at the screen. His brows drew together.
"Brooks?"
He swallowed. "It's your phone." It buzzed again in his hand as he held it out to me. "It's FPD."
Ice replaced fire in my veins as I stared at his outstretched hand. It buzzed again.
"Taryn?"
In the space of five steps, I rebuilt my numbing cocoon. I took my phone from Brooks's hand. I hit the green button. "Hello."
"This is Detective Vikki Banerjee calling for Taryn Maddox."
Hearing my correct name was a small relief as I silenced a sigh. "Speaking."
"Ms. Maddox," Vikki continued, "I have some information for you."