Chapter 11 Xaden
XADEN
The kitchen's mine tonight. No staff. No servers. Just me, the silence, and Celine Dion playing on the speaker system in the restaurant, because apparently I'm feeling nostalgic.
I'm at the main prep station, wiping down surfaces that are already clean.
The stainless steel gleams under the overhead lights, reflecting my movements back at me.
My sleeves are rolled up to my elbows, black button-down already untucked from the dinner service hours ago.
The fabric feels soft from too many washes, worn comfortable.
Jeans instead of chef pants because I'm off the clock.
Not that being off the clock stops me from being here.
I inhale the residual garlic and herbs with the faint char of the grill. Lemon from the sanitizer I've been using on surfaces. My own scent threads through it all, dark roast coffee and cedar wood, settling into the space I've claimed as mine.
Three years of running this place solo. Building something from nothing. Keeping my head down, my pack close, my life simple.
"All by myself," I hum along with Celine, my voice low in the empty kitchen. "Don't wanna be... all by myself..."
I move to check the burners even though I already checked them twice. Run my hand over the gleaming surface of the stove. The metal has cooled now, all the heat from dinner service long gone. I adjust a pan on the rack above, straightening it even though it doesn't require straightening.
Pathetic. But accurate.
The door swings open.
Vanilla and honey floods the kitchen so fast and so strong it forces me to grip the edge of the counter. My knuckles go white. My breath catches in my chest.
I turn around slowly, my hand gripping the counter like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
Violet stands in the doorway. The door swings shut behind her with a soft whoosh, and she's backlit by the hallway light for just a moment before she steps fully into the kitchen.
She wears one of Garrick's old Rise & Shine t-shirts.
I recognize it immediately. Navy blue, faded from too many washes, the logo cracked and peeling.
It hangs off one shoulder, the neckline stretched out and loose.
Falls to mid-thigh on her smaller frame.
Black leggings underneath hug curves, clinging to the line of her legs.
Her feet are bare on my kitchen tile, toenails painted a pale pink.
Her dark hair is loose. It falls over her shoulders in waves that catch the overhead lights, turning gold in places. Messy, like she's been running her hands through it. Or maybe like she just rolled out of bed and came straight here.
The thought threatens my control.
"Sorry," she says, and her voice sounds soft in the quiet kitchen. Uncertain. "I heard music and thought... I didn't know you were still here."
Her scent intensifies as she moves closer. Takes a tentative step into the kitchen, then another. Vanilla and honey with something underneath. Something warmer. Richer. Deeper.
My alpha instincts recognize it immediately and roar to life in my chest.
Want.
Pure, undiluted omega want.
"Sorry if the music was loud, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I force the words out, “couldn't sleep.” Turning back to the stove. Moving a pan that doesn't require moving. Adjusting a burner that's already off. My hands require something to do or they'll reach for her. "You?"
"Same."
Her soft footsteps pad across the tile as she moves around the prep station. Coming toward me. Each step brings her scent closer, stronger, until it's all I can smell. Until the garlic and herbs and lemon sanitizer are completely overwhelmed by vanilla and honey and omega.
I focus on the stove. On the gleaming surface. On anything except how my body responds to her proximity. How my scent intensifies, coffee and cedar getting stronger, mixing with hers in the air between us.
"What are you making?"
She's right behind me now. Close enough that I can sense her presence like a physical weight against my back even though she's not touching me.
"Nothing." My voice comes out all gravel and longing. I grip the edge of the stove harder, metal biting into my palms. "Just keeping my hands busy."
The kitchen feels too quiet. Celine continues singing but I can barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears. Over the sound of Violet's breathing behind me, slightly faster than normal.
She craves this too.
"Xaden."
My name sounds different in her mouth. Softer. Like a question and an answer at once. Like an invitation I've been waiting weeks to hear.
I turn around slowly, and give myself time to get control. Time to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
She's right there. Maybe a foot away, close enough that I could reach out and touch her without even extending my arm. Looking up at me with those blue eyes that see too much. That strip away defenses I've carefully built.
Her cheeks are flushed. Pink spreading from her cheekbones down her throat, disappearing under the collar of Garrick's shirt. Her breathing comes faster than normal, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that draws my gaze before I force it back to her face.
And her scent. God, her scent does things to me that should be illegal. Igniting my alpha instincts with demands to claim, to take, to mark. Erasing logical thought under the weight of pure desire.
I can see everything she's not saying. The loneliness written in the set of her shoulders. The wanting in how her hands fidget with the hem of Garrick's shirt, fingers twisting in the soft fabric. The same thing I've been fighting for weeks reflected back at me in her dilated pupils.
"This is a terrible idea," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I'm taking a step closer. My body moving before my brain catches up.
She doesn't back away. Doesn't move at all except to tilt her head back slightly to keep eye contact. Her throat exposes now, pale and soft, and her pulse jumps.
"Probably." Her voice stays quiet but steady. Sure. "But I'm tired of good ideas."
Something in me snaps.
Not breaking. Surrendering.
I reach for her slowly. Give her time to change her mind. Time to step back. Time to remember all the reasons we shouldn't do this.
She doesn't move.
My hands settle on her waist. Find the soft fabric of the stolen t-shirt. The cotton feels thin, worn soft from too many washes. I can feel the warmth of her skin through it, feel how her breathing hitches at the contact. Feel the slight tremor that runs through her body.
I pull her against me. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her chances to stop this.
Her body fits perfectly. All soft curves pressing against hard muscle. Warmth and softness and everything my alpha has been craving. Her hands come up to my chest, palms flat against my shirt, and the touch sends electricity racing through nerves.
She tilts her head back further to look at me. Her lips are slightly parted, her scent, god, her scent is everywhere now. Wrapping around me. Sinking into my skin. Marking me in ways that should scare me but don't.
"Tell me to stop," I growl. The words scrape out of my throat, rough and desperate. Even though stopping is the last thing I want to do. Even though instinct screams at me to close the distance between us.
"No." Her hands fist in my shirt, gripping tight. "Don't stop."
I lean down. My hand slides from her waist up to cup the side of her neck. My palm settles against warm skin, thumb brushing along the line of her jaw. I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers. Fast. Unsteady. Matching the rhythm of my own heartbeat.
My other hand tightens on her hip. Fingers pressing into soft flesh, feeling the give of her body under my touch.
I can feel her trembling, small shivers that run through her whole body.
Feel how she leans into me, rising up slightly on her toes, seeking more contact even as she waits for me to close the distance.
Her hands slide up my chest. Palms flat against my shirt, feeling the rapid beat of my heart underneath. The touch burns through the fabric, sending heat racing through nerves. Her fingers curl slightly, nails dragging just enough to steal my breath. Just enough to threaten my control.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
That's all the permission I require.
I close the distance and kiss her.
Not gentle. Not testing. Hungry and desperate and everything I've been holding back for weeks. Everything I've been denying myself since the moment she walked into my restaurant with her laptop and her shy smile and her incredible way with words.
She kisses me back just as fiercely. Her mouth opens under mine immediately, inviting me in. Her hands slide up from my chest to my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle like she's afraid I'll pull away.
Not a chance.
I deepen the kiss. My tongue slides against hers, tasting, exploring, claiming. She tastes like the wine she had with dinner and something uniquely her. Something sweet and ideal that ignites hunger. Ignites craving for everything.
My hand on her neck slides into her hair.
Soft strands tangle around my fingers as I grip gently, tilting her head back further to give me better access.
She produces a small sound against my mouth, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and the noise goes straight through me. Straight to alpha instinct.
Mine. She's mine.
Her scent blooms stronger. Mixing with my own until the kitchen carries us. Coffee and cedar and vanilla and honey all twisted together into something entirely new. Something that smells like pack. Like belonging.
Like mine.
My hand on her hip slides lower, gripping tighter. Pulling her even closer until there's no space left between us. Until I can feel her breathing. Feel tremors that run through her body. Feel spikes in her scent when I kiss her deeper.