Chapter 7
ELI
Rowan’s scent of sandalwood and rain still clings to my skin when I pad down the hall.
At the kitchen threshold, I make myself breathe, pocket the afterglow, and put on my hands-are-steady face. Jess doesn’t need to read sex off me like a neon sign, and Cassian doesn’t need the reminder that I can be irresponsible in the twenty minutes he’s not watching.
The Instant Pot ticks on the counter. Early evening sun filters through the back windows, turns the dust into glitter; a maple outside is already throwing amber like confetti.
Cassian stands at the island, sleeves shoved to his elbows, knife flashing as he cubes carrots. He’s leather, amber, and black pepper—a warning and a welcome braided together.
He’s all muscle and chaos, a wide grin bisecting his unshaven face, eyes doing a lazy perusal of Jess, who’s perched on a stool across the granite counter from him.
She’s got long, dark hair and olive skin that hints of her mixed heritage of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.
Her white robe is wrapped around her, and I make a mental note to check the dryer for her clothes I threw in before Rowan and I started kissing, and one thing led to another, like it always does with us.
And she’s sharp: every word, every look, calculated and fast, like she’s daring you to keep up.
Plus, she’s kind underneath that gruff exterior. Proved this when she shared her food, which made me check her file that Nexus pulled from the Omega Institute.
The real test is whether she’ll call me out on it.
Her scent threads through the room: vanilla and jasmine with a tart citrus snap underneath, like a blade tucked in a cupcake. And my Beta instincts stand at attention: pay attention, don’t crowd, earn your place.
“Hey,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears.
With a nod, I move to the fridge. “I’ll make dessert so Cassian doesn’t have an aneurysm with making you the first dinner here.”
“I’m fine,” Cassian says, not fine, the vein in his temple doing a tap dance.
“The roast will be amazing, I’m sure.” She gives him a beam that lights up her eyes.
Cold air kisses my face when I open the bottom drawer. Yesterday’s pie dough waits in a beeswax wrap. I pull it, plus butter, cinnamon, a lemon, and the hoarded bag of apples reserved for morale emergencies.
“Pie?” Jess asks, voice caught between cautious and hopeful.
“Apple.” I set the haul on the counter. “Roast is our dinner win. Pie can be our dessert win. Two wins make a pattern.”
She huffs a laugh, quiet but genuine. It lands somewhere under my sternum and decides to stay.
Cassian eyes the stash, then flicks a glance at Jess, then at me. Calculating. He doesn’t say what we’re both thinking—soften her edges, show her the map, don’t spook the deer.
“We have enough?” he asks instead.
“Always. I keep backup bags of flour in the freezer for the backups. Apocalypse hits, I’ll trade baked goods for batteries.”
His grunt is Cassian for approved. He goes back to his carrots while I wash apples under cold water. My palms remember Rowan’s ribcage, the notch of his collarbone, the way his breath stuttered when he let himself be held. I fold that memory away like I fold knives: sharp and tucked safe.
The peeler goes shhhk, shhhk, ribbons piling into a bowl as I work.
“Not the discount bakery kind?” Jess asks, watching my hands like I might pull a dove out of the peel.
“Crust so buttery you’ll see fingerprints in the layers,” I say. “Filling thick with tart Granny Smiths, brown sugar honest enough to sting.”
She grins. “You talk like a Food Network contestant.”
“Worked pastry through college.” I dice apples into even cubes, toss them with sugar and cinnamon, lemon, and a pinch of salt. “Boss rotated stations so nobody got cocky. Cruel; effective. Brooklyn.”
“Explains the hips,” Cassian says, deadpan, popping an apple peel into his mouth.
I flick a dish towel at his head. He snags it without looking. Show-off.
Jess points her knife at him. “So who actually cooks around here? Because I think a microwave is a food group.”
Cassian grins, all teeth. “Betas make the best cooks. They’ve got the hands for it.”
“Hands, huh?” Her gaze flicks over his forearms, then mine. Measuring.
“He’s not wrong,” I admit. “Rowan can burn water. Cassian can grill things until they’re structurally unsound and make the occasional meal thrown into the Insta Pot, but I’m the only one with a food-handler’s license.”
“Show-off,” Cassian repeats, but there’s no sting in it. He likes being bested in narrow lanes, the ones that don’t threaten his ego.
I slide the bowl of spiced apples toward Jess. “Your turn. Big circles. Gentle. Don’t mush.”
She tests the spoon like it’s an exam she didn’t study for, then finds a rhythm.
Apples thud against ceramic; cinnamon climbs the air and shoves every other scent against the wall.
Cassian systematically picks through the bowl of peels I’ve discarded, tossing them into his mouth.
He’s watching Jess with lazy interest—not threatening, just cataloging.
“You ever actually lattice a pie,” she asks, side-eye sharp, “or is this some Next Top Model flex?”
“Come learn,” I say, dusting the counter with flour. “Warning: I’m bossy in the kitchen.”
“Only in the kitchen?” Too light to be nothing.
“Mostly,” I say, and even I hear the catch. Fantastic.
Cassian saves me. “Don’t let him lie. He reorganizes the spice rack every Sunday. Alphabetical. Peak neurotic Beta behavior.”
“That’s organized,” I correct, rolling out the first disk. “Heavy on results, light on arguing about them.”
I cut even strips and show her the first weave: over, under, over, turn the pan. She copies with quick hands and steady pressure. When her finger brushes mine, there’s a zap that’s not static. She pretends not to notice; my pulse pretends it’s not doing a drumline solo.
“You’re a fast learner,” I say, meaning it.
“Survival skill.” She wipes flour on her jeans. “Had to feed myself cause the maid only cleaned. She even told me, ‘Why cook for one person?’ Watched cooking shows to keep busy.”
The weight in those last two words tells a story she’s not ready to share. I don’t push.
“Boston?” slips out before I can catch it. I already know she’s Antonio Mancini’s daughter, top five percentile in verbal acuity, zero percentile in giving a shit about social niceties. I’m not supposed to know. People hate when you know things about them you shouldn’t.
Her eyes flicker. “Yeah. You?”
“Queens. Flatbush later. Bus to Boston for tournaments when we were kids.” I scoop the apples into the pie crust, then crimp the edge with my thumbs, creating a rope pattern. “We’ll punch vent holes shaped like maple leaves. Cinnamon likes a dramatic exit.”
“Punch me,” she says, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t say that around Alphas,” Cassian says dryly, not looking up from his carrots.
She pinks, then leans into it instead of shrinking. Good. “I meant the spice.”
“Noted,” I say, brushing egg wash over the lattice. “Do you want tea?”
A footstep in the hall answers for us. Rowan appears in my gray t-shirt and borrowed sweats, hair damp from the shower, curls behaving for once. He stops just shy of Cassian’s orbit—he’s mapped our kitchen politics like he’s lived here his whole life. Which he has.
“Hi,” he says to Jess first, like he does with skittish things: voice soft, hands visible, body language open. “Did someone say tea?”
“Tea would be nice,” she says. She doesn’t shrink. She watches how he moves—permission asked twice, once with words, with distance.
Rowan fills the kettle, and his scent rises through the kitchen: sandalwood and rain, and my cock twitches.
The quiet part of me that’s still humming sits up and pays attention.
He sets mugs down, fingers brushing mine as he reaches for the honey.
It’s brief: I’m here. I tap back against his wrist: saw you.
Cassian sets the Instant Pot, wipes his hands on a towel. “You flinch when people move too fast,” he says, tone gentler than it should be for a man his size.
Jess’s grip tightens on the counter. “Only when I don’t see it coming.”
He nods once. “Good to know.”
“Copy,” I say, sliding the pie onto the middle rack. Sugar crackles when heat kisses egg wash. I set the timer and step back. Soon, the kitchen smell will upgrade from good to you live here now.
The tea kettle whistles, and Rowan makes us each a cup with a dab of honey.
He slides Jess a mug of chamomile. I lean against the counter and decide to try something.
“Tell us something true,” I say. “Doesn’t have to be big. Just real.”
She thinks. It’s visible: the scan of exits, the weight of silence, the small decision to let us hold something. “Storms,” she finally says. “I like thunder. Was never scared of it as a kid, like most are. To me, it means life, like all the animals and plants are happy for the rain.”
Cassian goes still, then nods like she just solved his favorite equation. “Yeah, I could see that.”
“My turn,” I offer. “I hoard recipes like a dragon hoards gold. Open that drawer by the stove and die in an avalanche of magazine clippings.”
Rowan’s mouth crooks. “Embarrassing way to go.”
“Death by casserole cards,” I agree. “At my funeral, please note I died how I lived: covered in flour and making it everyone else’s problem.”
A soft chime pings from the tablet mounted by the fridge—three notes I know too well from all the times I’ve been on the other side of the camera.
NEXUS REMOTE CHECK-IN – 19:00 flashes on the screen.
My stomach tightens. “That’s us,” I say, pushing off the counter. “Five-minute compliance call. Low drama, hopefully.”
Jess goes still, mug halfway to her mouth. “They’re… watching already?”
“They call it ‘ongoing support,’” I say, because that’s the script. “Just answer what they ask. I’ll handle the rest.”