Chapter Ten
~ Rooster ~
I sat on the edge of my bed, watching Liam move around my room like he was exploring uncharted territory. Every step was calculated, every glance assessing potential threats or escape routes.
It was strange seeing someone else in this space—my private sanctuary away from the chaos of the clubhouse.
Strange, but not unwelcome.
My bear rumbled contentedly inside me at the sight of my mate exploring our den, even as I forced myself to remain perfectly still. The last thing I wanted was to spook him after he'd finally decided to stay.
His slender fingers trailed along my dresser, hesitating over a framed photograph I kept there. It was the whole club, taken after a successful charity run last year. We were all grinning like idiots, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, our cuts gleaming with patches in the summer sun.
I felt oddly exposed as he studied the image. It was one thing to have my space invaded, but another entirely to have my relationships examined. The photograph revealed something intimate about me—that beneath my gruff exterior, these people were my family.
"That was taken at the children's hospital," I said, breaking the silence. "We raised enough money to buy them new equipment for the cancer ward."
Liam nodded, his golden eyes flicking to me briefly before returning to the photo. He traced the outline of my face in the picture with one finger, then set it down exactly where he'd found it. There was something touching about his careful handling of my possessions.
He moved to my bookshelf next, where my collection of cooking magazines sat in neat stacks. Some were dog-eared, pages marked with recipes I'd wanted to try or techniques I'd been practicing.
His head tilted slightly as he ran his fingers along the spines, pulling one out at random to flip through it.
"Cooking's not just my job," I explained, feeling strangely self-conscious. "It's... how I take care of people. Always has been."
He paused on a page featuring an elaborate knife skill demonstration, studying the photographs with obvious interest before carefully returning the magazine to its exact place in the stack.
A half-eaten breakfast sat abandoned on my nightstand—I'd been too worried about Liam to finish it earlier.
He approached it cautiously, picking up the fork with an expression that made my chest tighten.
It reminded me of that first day teaching him how to use utensils, watching his fierce concentration as he mimicked my grip.
"You're a fast learner," I said softly. "Took to that fork like you'd been using one all along."
His lips quirked in what might have been the ghost of a smile as he set the fork back down.
My bear stirred restlessly beneath my skin, growing impatient with this slow dance.
The animal in me wanted to cross the room in two strides, wrap my arms around his thin frame, bury my nose in the crook of his neck where his scent would be strongest. Wanted to sink teeth into soft flesh and claim what was mine by right of fate and instinct.
I dug my fingers into the bedspread to anchor myself. Fifteen years of solitude had taught Liam to fear touch, to equate it with danger. I wouldn't be the one to reinforce that lesson, no matter how much my bear protested.
Patience, I reminded myself. We have time.
Liam's exploration took him to the far wall where my pride and joy hung on a custom-made rack—my collection of chef's knives, each one selected for a specific purpose, maintained with religious care.
His golden eyes widened, and for the first time since entering my room, his defensive posture relaxed slightly. He leaned in close to examine them, hands clasped behind his back as if to resist the temptation to touch without permission.
"You can look closer," I offered. "They don't bite."
The irony of my word choice hit me a moment too late, but Liam didn't seem to notice. He reached out cautiously, fingers hovering over the largest blade without quite touching it.
I stood slowly, telegraphing my movements as I approached.
"That's my cleaver. For breaking down large cuts of meat, chopping through bone.
" I pointed to each knife in turn. "Santoku—for vegetables, precision cutting.
Bread knife, serrated edge for crusts without crushing the soft inside.
Boning knife, flexible for working around joints. "
He nodded at each description, absorbing the information with that intense focus I was coming to recognize. When I reached the smallest knife in the collection, his head tilted in question.
"Paring knife," I explained. "For detail work. Peeling fruit, deveining shrimp, intricate garnishes."
He pointed to a knife with a distinctive hammered pattern on the blade, his expression clearly asking for more information.
"That one's special," I admitted. "Damascus steel. Hand-forged in Japan. Cost me a month's salary, but it holds an edge like nothing else. Perfect balance, too." I hesitated, then added, "You can hold it, if you want."
His eyes darted to mine, surprise evident in their golden depths. I understood why—these knives were clearly valuable, obviously cherished. And I was offering to let him, a virtual stranger who had been stealing from our dumpster until recently, handle my most prized possession.
With careful movements, he lifted the knife from its magnetic holder, testing its weight with a reverence that told me he understood exactly what I was sharing with him. He held it professionally, I noticed—not by the handle like a weapon, but balanced with respect for the blade.
"You've handled knives before," I observed.
He nodded, making a small gesture with his free hand that I interpreted as having needed them for survival.
"Makes sense," I said. "Hard to prepare food in the wild without decent tools."
He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, not the edge, then made a small, appreciative sound in the back of his throat—the first voluntary vocalization I'd heard from him. The noise sent a warm shiver through me, more affecting than any words could have been.
He was about to return the knife to its place when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
The transformation was immediate and stark. Liam's entire body tensed, the knife instinctively shifting in his grip to a defensive position. In three quick steps, he was behind me, using my larger frame as a shield between himself and the potential threat.
I felt his presence at my back, the heat of him close but not quite touching. The knife was still in his hand, I realized—he hadn't had time to replace it in his rush for safety.
"It's okay," I murmured, not turning around for fear of startling him further. "No one enters without permission. You're safe here."
Another knock, followed by Bug's unmistakable voice. "Mr. Rooster? We bring presents! For kitten!"
I glanced over my shoulder at Liam, whose expression had shifted from fear to wary confusion. "It's Bug," I explained. "And it sounds like he's brought some friends. They want to welcome you."
Liam's golden eyes met mine, searching for reassurance. After a moment's hesitation, he carefully handed me the Damascus knife, his fingers brushing against mine in the process.
The brief contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with my bear's desires and everything to do with the trust implicit in the gesture.
I returned the knife to its place on the rack, then moved toward the door, acutely aware of Liam hovering just behind my right shoulder.
"Ready?" I asked softly.
He drew in a deep breath, then gave a single, decisive nod.
I opened the door to find Bug practically vibrating with excitement, a brightly wrapped package clutched in his thin hands. Behind him stood Treat, Butch's omega mate, holding what looked like folded fabric, and slightly further back was Percy, Gearhead's shy fox shifter.
Each of them carried something—gifts, I realized with a start. They'd brought gifts for Liam. Something warm unfurled in my chest at the gesture. The omegas had taken it upon themselves to welcome my mate, even though he was practically a stranger to them.
"We come in?" Bug asked, bouncing on his toes. "Bear say only few minutes. Not bother. We bring welcome things!"
I glanced back at Liam, who had pressed himself against the wall beside my dresser, his golden eyes wide as he assessed the newcomers. After a moment's hesitation, he gave me a small nod.
"Sure," I said, stepping aside to let them enter. "But maybe one at a time? Might be less overwhelming."
Bug didn't need to be told twice. He darted into the room with that strange, fluid grace he possessed, stopping a respectful distance from Liam. The others followed more cautiously, Treat with his calm, measured steps and Percy with his characteristic hunched posture, eyes downcast.
"For you!" Bug declared, thrusting his package toward Liam. "From Bug and Bear. Well…” He giggled. “Bug pick. Bear pay."
Liam stared at the offered gift like it might explode, making no move to take it.
"It's okay," I said softly. "They just want to welcome you to the club."
With painfully slow movements, Liam reached for the package, his fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the bright paper. He handled it with such reverence that my chest ached watching him. Had no one ever given him a gift before?
Bug bounced impatiently. "Open! Open!"
Liam carefully unwrapped the package, taking care not to tear the paper. Inside was a stuffed lynx toy, amber-colored with tufted ears and a red ribbon around its neck. It was a good likeness of his shifter form, I realized with surprise.
"Is you!" Bug exclaimed proudly. "Soft friend for when scared. Mine help me." He patted his pocket where I knew he kept a small stuffed bear that Bear had given him early in their relationship.
Liam's fingers stroked the plush fur, his expression a mixture of confusion and wonder. He looked up at Bug, then at me, as if seeking explanation for this unexpected kindness.