Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Malik
The kitchen smells like garlic and herbs, and I’m in my element.
There’s something meditative about cooking. Measuring ingredients, the rhythm of chopping vegetables, the way flavors build and layer into something good. It’s problem-solving and creativity combined.
Plus, I’m making food for Sierra, which adds an entirely different dimension to the experience.
She’s curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a throw blanket and looking thoroughly sun-tired in the best possible way.
Her hair is still damp from the shower we all took after the beach, separately, much to my alpha’s disappointment, and she’s wearing soft clothes that make her look impossibly cozy.
The beach day was perfect. Better than perfect. Watching Sierra laugh and play? That was a gift I didn’t know I needed.
But now the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold through the windows, and reality is creeping back in. Tomorrow the roads will be fully clear. Tomorrow we can leave.
Tomorrow this ends.
The thought makes my chest constrict, so I focus on the pasta instead. Sautéing garlic in olive oil, adding sun-dried tomatoes and fresh basil, the simple comfort food that feels right for tonight.
“Something smells amazing,” Sierra calls from the living room.
“Patience,” I call back. “Good things take time.”
“I’m not known for my patience.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I hear her laugh, and the sound settles something in me. She’s happy. Relaxed. After everything she’s been through this week, she deserves both of those things.
Dax appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair still wet from his own shower. “Need help?”
“You can set the table,” I say, gesturing toward the cabinet that has the plates.
He moves past me, and our shoulders brush, casual contact that sends a little spark through my system anyway. Rut might be fading, but my awareness of pack is more heightened than ever.
Especially Sierra.
I can smell her from here, that honeycomb and cherry syrup scent that’s become as familiar as my own.
“What are you making?” Dax asks, pulling down plates.
“Pasta. Nothing fancy, just something warm and filling.”
“Looks fancy to me.”
“That’s because your idea of cooking is grilling meat over an open flame.”
“Hey, that’s a valid cooking method.”
“It’s the only cooking method you know.”
He doesn’t argue, which means I’m right. Instead, he starts setting plates around the table. Four place settings, then pausing before adding a fifth.
We both stare at that fifth plate.
“She’ll want to eat with us,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” Dax agrees, his voice rough. “She will.”
Cole and Jalen wander in as I’m plating the pasta, both of them drawn by the smell. Or maybe by Sierra’s presence in the next room. Hard to say at this point. Our pack instincts have become thoroughly entangled with our feelings for her.
“That looks incredible,” Cole says, peering over my shoulder.
“It’s just pasta.”
“You say ‘just pasta’ like it’s not a work of art.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. Cole’s enthusiasm is infectious.
We carry everything to the table. The pasta, salad, the bread I managed to salvage from our supplies. It’s a proper meal, the kind we haven’t really had time for during the storm and heat.
“Sierra,” Jalen calls. “Dinner’s ready.”
She appears in the doorway, and something about the domestic simplicity of the moment makes the rest of the world just fade away for a second. This could be any evening. Any normal pack dinner where we gather around the table and share food and conversation.
Except it’s not normal. Not yet. Maybe never, depending on what happens tomorrow.
“This looks amazing,” Sierra says, sliding into the seat Dax pulls out for her. Her cheeks flush slightly at the gesture, but she doesn’t protest. “I can’t believe you actually packed pasta and vegetables.”
“Someone had to consider nutritional needs beyond frozen pizza,” I say, my lips twitching with a suppressed smile. We settle around the table, passing plates and bowls, falling into an easy rhythm. For a few minutes, there’s just the sound of eating and the occasional contented sigh.
“This is so good,” Sierra says after her first bite. “Malik, where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My grandmother,” I say. “She insisted all her grandchildren learn their way around a kitchen. Said it was a life skill everyone needed, regardless of designation.”
“Smart woman.”
“She was.” I smile at the memory. “She’d make these huge family dinners every Sunday. Everyone had to contribute something, even if it was just setting the table or washing dishes.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Sierra says softly. “My mom used to cook like this. Before she died, I mean. Sunday dinners were our thing, too.”
There’s something fragile in her voice, and I see the others react to it. Dax’s hand moves closer to hers on the table. Cole leans in slightly. Jalen’s expression softens.
“She’d make this congee,” Sierra continues, her eyes distant with memory. “With ginger and scallions and whatever protein we had on hand. I thought it was just rice porridge for the longest time; didn’t realize it was comfort food until I was older.”
“Do you still make it?” I ask gently.
“Sometimes. When I’m sad or sick or just need to feel close to her.” She takes another bite of pasta, then looks up at me with a small smile. “This reminds me of those dinners. The feeling. That sense of being taken care of.”
The words hit me square in the chest. Being taken care of. That’s what we’ve been doing all week, isn’t it? Taking care of her. Taking care of each other.
Being pack.
“Well,” Cole says, breaking the weighted moment with his usual timing, “if we’re sharing family food traditions, one of my dads makes the world’s worst meatloaf.”
Sierra blinks, then laughs. “Worst?”
“Aggressively terrible. Like, I’m pretty sure it’s classified as inedible in at least three states.”
“Then why does he keep making it?” Jalen asks.
“Because he loves it. Everyone else suffers through it once a month because it makes him happy.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet,” Sierra says.
“It’s horrifying. The man puts raisins in it.”
“No,” Dax says flatly.
“Yes. Raisins. In meatloaf.”
The conversation dissolves into a debate about the worst foods our families have inflicted on us, and I watch Sierra light up as she listens to us.
By the time we finish eating, the sun has fully set outside, and the house has taken on that cozy evening feeling. Warm lights, full bellies, the kind of contentment that makes you want to settle in and stay.
“I don’t want to move,” Sierra announces, slumping back in her chair. “Ever. I’m living here now.”
“You’re living at the table?” Cole asks.
“Yes. Bring me snacks periodically and I’ll be fine.”
“What about sleeping?”
“I’ll sleep at the table.”
“Sierra.”
“What? It’s a good table. Very sturdy.”
I’m smiling despite myself. “How about a compromise? We clean up the kitchen, and then we make the living room extremely comfortable for the evening.”
“Define ‘extremely comfortable,’” Sierra says, perking up.
“Blankets. Pillows. A nest situation on the floor.”
Her eyes widen slightly at the word ‘nest,’ but I can see interest spark. “Keep talking.”
“We haven’t built a proper pillow fort yet,” Jalen says, catching on to where I’m going. “That feels like an oversight.”
“A pillow fort,” Sierra repeats slowly.
“Unless you’d rather spend the evening at the table,” I say.
She’s already standing up. “Absolutely not. Pillow fort immediately.”
The speed at which she abandons her earlier commitment to table-living makes everyone laugh, but we’re all moving too. Clearing plates, loading the dishwasher.
“Living room,” I direct once the kitchen is clean. “Bring every pillow and blanket you can find.”
Dax disappears down the hall and returns with an armful of pillows from the bedroom. Cole raids the linen closet, emerging with blankets in every size and color. Jalen grabs the cushions from the couch. And Sierra pulls pillows from her nest, contributing the softest ones.
“Okay,” I say, surveying the pile of supplies.
I start arranging pillows as a base, creating a foundation that will support the blankets.
Dax helps me drape blankets over the couch and chairs, creating a canopy.
Jalen secures the corners with the heaviest pillow.
Cole adds fairy lights he found somewhere, stringing them through the blanket ceiling.
Sierra watches this process with growing delight, and when we finally step back to admire our work, her expression is worth every minute of effort.
We’ve created a proper nest. Large enough for all of us to fit comfortably, with pillows piled high on every side and blankets layered for maximum softness.
I tilt my chin at Cole, and he waggles his eyebrows. The fairy lights are a nice touch.
“This is amazing,” Sierra breathes. “This is the best pillow fort I’ve ever seen.”
“You can test it out,” I suggest.
She doesn’t need to be told twice. She crawls into the fort and immediately burrows into the pillows with a contented sigh. “Oh my god. This is perfect. I’m never leaving.”
“What happened to living at the table?” Cole asks, crawling in after her.
“That was before I knew pillow forts were an option.”
We all pile in, arranging ourselves around Sierra with that same unconscious protectiveness from the nest in the bedroom. She ends up in the middle, surrounded by alphas, looking perfectly content with this arrangement.
“Movie?” Jalen suggests, holding up the remote.
“What are our options?” Sierra asks.
“Well, if I could choose—”
“No,” everyone says in unison.
Jalen looks wounded, but he’s fighting a smile. “Fine. Sierra picks.”
She scrolls through options for a minute before landing on something. “This one. It’s about a heist, but it’s actually about found family, and it has good characters.”