56. Clara
Clara
The date with Jack is still fresh in my mind when I come downstairs in the morning. I’d left him, Bram, and Dagan in the pack bed. Bram and Dagan had stayed up late working, and Jack always woke up early to make me breakfast. I figured a day to sleep in was due.
I didn’t account for the other alpha I might find first thing in the morning.
I squeak when I round the corner to see Victor at the stove. He flinches, but doesn’t bolt like he used to before the asthma attack.
Instead, he holds out a plate. “I was about to bring this up. Jack usually takes it, but I guess he’s taking a break for once.”
I eye the plate warily, but my rolling morning hunger wins. I take it, careful not to let our fingers brush.
He hands me a fork, and I sit at the island. One bite, and bliss explodes in my mouth. The first bite is molten comfort—fluffy egg, warm spice, and the faint tang of cheese. It blooms through me, knocking the morning edges off my mood. I moan before I can stop myself.
Victor’s expression stutters. “Glad you like it,” he rasps, voice gravel rough.
“Yeah, you did an okay job,” I reply. It’s petty and unkind, but I’m not built for kindness at five o’clock in the morning.
“I better have, or my bibi will rise from the grave to slap me upside the head.”
My fork pauses mid-air. “Your bibi?”
“ Yeah, my grandmother on my mom's side. It’s her recipe.” He turns back to the stove, rinsing a pan.
I glance from him to my plate. Jack’s been bringing me this dish every morning since my hospital visit, but he never said he’d made it.
“You’ve been making breakfast for me every morning?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.
His shoulders slump. He pauses at the sink. “It’s the least I can do,” he admits. He says it like the words taste wrong in his mouth, like they’ve been dragged out past a place he’s used to keeping locked. He glances at me over his shoulder. “Clara, I—”
Before he can finish, I push back my stool. “I have to get to work.”
He nods. His scent hits me before I can look away, bitter and burnt, like rotten pumpkin and cinnamon left too long on the stove. No cigarette smoke.
When I mention it, he turns, tugging up his sleeve. A nicotine patch clings to his skin.
“Gave them up,” he says. At my look, he says , softer, “It was the very least I could do.
I move toward the door, then stop. “We’re all going on a pack date this weekend. A haunted asylum. If you’d like to join.”
It’s an olive branch he doesn’t deserve, but one I can’t seem to stop offering.
“I actually don’t really like scary type—” He stops himself when I level him with a flat stare. That’s part of why I picked it. My omega wants to mend the rift, but I want him to squirm first.
“You know what? I’d love to,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
I leave him with the sink running, the smell of warm spice chasing me out the door. It clings to me like something I shouldn’t miss.