Chapter 7 #2
I'm in the kitchen rolling out dough for another batch of cookies when the front door opens again.
"Sorry I'm late," a bright, unfamiliar voice calls. Feminine, brisk, annoyed at traffic.
Marie's scent spikes with something like relief.
I glance toward the archway in time to see Marie hurry into the foyer and embrace a woman about our age, maybe a bit older. She's tall and slim, dressed in sleek black, with her dark hair twisted into a neat bun. She smells like expensive perfume and olive oil.
"Mel," Marie says, clinging. "You made it."
"Of course I did. You said your diet here was a nightmare."
My brows knit. Excuse me?
Drake appears at Marie's elbow, grinning. "You must be Mel. The famous cousin-chef."
I stiffen. Chef?
Mel arranges her features into a pleasant expression for him. "You must be Drake. Marie's told me a lot."
He preens.
Ragon appears, offering a handshake. "You're welcome here as long as you treat my omegas well."
A warning. An invitation.
Mel glances at me standing in the kitchen doorway, flour on my hands, apron on, hair frizzed with heat.
Her eyes skim me from head to toe. The corner of her mouth twitches.
"And this is...?"
"The other omega," Marie says quickly. "She—"
"I know who she is. You mentioned her. The one who stress-bakes."
The words make my spine straighten, shoulders rising like a cat's hackles. Heat flushes up my neck as my fingers curl tighter around the wooden spoon.
"Nice to meet you too."
She steps past me into the kitchen without waiting to be invited, looking around at the counters, the open bags, the trays cooling on racks.
"Oh my. This is a lot of sugar."
"Card night. People like treats."
"People like living. And not having their arteries clog before forty."
My jaw clenches. "They're adults. They know what they're eating."
She waves a dismissive hand. "Marie asked me to help get some proper nutrition in here. She said your meals are charmingly chaotic."
Marie's cheeks flush. "I didn't mean— I just said we eat a lot of takeout."
"And sugar," Mel adds, picking up one of my cookies and examining it like it's a specimen. "This is cute. For a hobby."
My stomach drops.
"It is my hobby. It's not a business."
"Exactly. It's fine. Sweet. A little unbalanced. Too much vanilla, not enough salt. But your alphas will need more than 'fine' if they're going to keep you omegas and this circus of a household functioning."
I stare at her. "My alphas have been eating my 'fine' baking for four years. They seem pretty alive."
Drake starts to say something, but Mel steamrolls over him.
"I'm sure it's been adorable. But now Marie has real responsibilities. She can't spend all day playing with flour when she needs to be taking care of herself and her alphas properly. That means meals planned, macros balanced, everything intentional."
The words hit harder than any correction Ragon has ever given me.
"What do you think I've been doing here?"
Her brows arch. "Stress relief. Baking is very common with anxious omegas. My last clients had one who made cupcakes whenever she was overstimulated. It was quaint. But not actually useful."
I feel like she slapped me.
Eli's scent spikes with alarm behind me. I hadn't realized he'd followed us in.
"Her baking is useful. It feeds people. It makes them feel welcome. It's how half my hospital ended up trusting this house."
Mel glances at him, recalibrating. "I don't mean to offend. I'm just saying, Marie bringing me in is a step up. She wants what's best for her alphas. Doesn't she, sweetheart?"
She turns to Marie with a smile.
Marie looks wrecked.
Her scent is all over the place, embarrassment and guilt and distress tangling together. She glances at me, at my flour-dusted hands, my mixing bowl, the cookies cooling that I'd made with her earlier.
"I didn't mean—" Marie starts, turning to Mel. "I just... you said you could help, and I thought—"
"That I'm not good enough? That I don't take proper care of the alphas?"
Silence.
The noise from the living room continues—laughter, cards shuffling, glasses clinking—but in the kitchen, the air goes razor-thin.
"That's not what I said," Mel says. "Don't be dramatic."
"You called what I do unimportant. And a waste of time.
And not good enough for 'her alphas.'" I put air quotes around the last part because I want to hurt someone.
"I don't know what your definition of important is, but in this house, feeding several exhausted nurses after a twelve-hour shift counts. "
Drake moves closer to me, his scent rising in protective anger.
"No," Mel says crisply. "You hired me—"
"No one hired you. You were invited as a guest. You're in my kitchen, insulting my work in front of my pack."
"It's not work. It's a coping mechanism. And not a healthy one if it keeps you tied to the oven instead of integrating as a proper omega."
Something in me snaps.
"This 'coping mechanism' got me through being dumped back at the registry like a defective item.
It got them through more double shifts than I can count.
It built half the trust we have with the people out there.
" I jab a floury finger toward the living room.
"You don't get to walk in here and declare it worthless because it doesn't fit your meal plan. "
Her posture stiffens. "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Marie about what's good for her alphas."
"And those alphas are also mine. This is their house, but it's my home. You're a tourist. Act like one."
"Verena," Ragon says from the doorway.
Of course he picks now to appear.
He takes in the scene in a quick sweep: my flushed face, flour on my hands; Mel's tight mouth; Marie's wide eyes; Eli's clenched jaw.
"What's happening?"
"Just a difference of opinion," Mel says smoothly. "I'm trying to help optimize your diet. She seems resistant to change."
"She called my baking a waste of time. And not good enough for your highnesses."
Ragon's gaze flicks to Mel. "Did you say that?"
She lifts her chin. "I said that emotional baking can be an unimportant way to cope when there are healthier options. If Marie is to be the omega you need her to be—"
"She is not our only omega," Eli cuts in sharply. "And we did not ask you to evaluate her like she's a line item on a report."
Mel's eyes flash. "I didn't realize this house was so fragile. I assumed you'd want what's best for your pack."
"And you assume that means erasing what came before Marie?"
Ragon's attention is on me now. "Breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm breathing in the scent of my kitchen getting taken over by a stranger who thinks she knows what my pack wants better than I do."
My chest is tight. Tears burn, but I refuse to let them fall here, in front of this outsider.
Marie whispers, "I'm so sorry. I thought— I didn't mean—"
"You brought her. You brought someone in to fix what wasn't broken."
"I just wanted to—"
"To make things better. Right. I get it."
"Verena." Ragon's tone sharpens. "We're not doing this like this."
I laugh, the sound brittle. "Like what? Honest? Messy? Unoptimized?"
His jaw works. He steps closer, but he doesn't touch me this time. Maybe he knows if he does, I'll either crumble or bite.
"Your baking is not unimportant. It matters. You matter. In this kitchen and everywhere else."
The words help and hurt all at once.
"Then why are we letting her talk like this? Why does she get to decide it's a waste of time? Why does Marie get to fix us?"
"I didn't want to fix you," Marie says, voice breaking. "I just wanted to help. You've been so tired. And the schedule, and work, and I thought—if Mel could make meals, you could rest. I thought I was taking a burden off you, not—"
"Not telling me I'm replaceable."
Her eyes fill with tears. "You're not."
I look at her, at the genuine panic in her scent. And I believe that she doesn't mean it that way.
But I also see the way she hovers whenever the alphas like something she does. The way she lights up when she feels useful. The way she flinched when she saw me in Ragon's lap. The way her cousin looks at my cookies like I'm a child playing house.
"This is my space. It's the one place in this house that's mine. You have your new nest, your new routines. You get at least one alpha every night when they used to stay with me. This is what I have. It’s mine."
My voice cracks on the last word.
Mel folds her arms. "You're being territorial over an appliance. This is exactly what I meant by unhealthy coping."
Something inside me goes very still.
"Get out."
Her brows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
Ragon straightens.
"Get out of my kitchen. You don't respect it. You don't respect me. You don't get to be in here."
Drake appears behind Ragon, face tense. "Okay. Let's all take a breath."
"No. I'm done breathing. I'm done pretending it doesn't hurt every time someone new walks in and acts like my life is a rough draft for them to edit."
The tears are coming now. I blink fast, but they spill over anyway.
"I'm not your client. I'm not your omega. I don't need to be optimized. I need to be allowed to make fucking cookies for my pack without being told I'm wasting their time."
Silence.
Mel looks to Ragon like she expects him to intervene. Like she expects him to say I'm overreacting, that she's right, that it's just sugar.
He doesn't.
He looks at me.
"If you ask her to leave, I will back you. But that's not a decision you make in the middle of a fight."
"I'm not asking. I'm telling. She can stay in the house. She can sit in the living room, eat my ‘fine’ unbalanced cookies, and judge me silently if she wants. But she doesn't get to run my kitchen. Not tonight."
Mel's mouth flattens. "I don't need this. Marie, call me when you're ready to take this seriously."
She spins on her heel and stalks out.
Marie's face crumples. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"I know. I know you thought you were helping."
"But I wasn't."
"No. You weren't."
She winces like I slapped her.
Eli's hand lands on my shoulder. "Maybe—"
"I know. I know I'm a lot right now. I know I'm snarling at everything that moves. I know. But can I please have this?"
I look at Ragon. At Drake. At Eli.
"Can I have this one thing that's mine? Or do I have to share this too until there's nothing left that feels like me in this house?"
The three of them exchange glances. Their scents are a whirl of guilt and protectiveness and helplessness.
Finally, Ragon nods once. "The kitchen is yours. Always has been. Always will be."
His voice is steady. Certain. It steadies something in me by force.
"We will talk to Marie's cousin. And we will make it clear that if she can't respect that, she doesn't come back."
Some of the pressure in my chest eases.
Marie wipes at her cheeks, looking between us. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I didn't think through what it would feel like. For you."
"No. You didn't."
It's not forgiveness. It's not not-forgiveness.
She nods, accepting the faint rebuke like a deserved bruise, and slips out of the kitchen, shoulders small.
I stand there with flour on my hands and sugar under my nails and feel hollow.
Drake moves closer, reaching like he wants to pull me in. I flinch back a step without meaning to.
"Don't. If you hug me now, I'll fall apart."
Eli's hand squeezes my shoulder again. "Maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing."
"I have to frost the brownies. Card night. People are expecting sugar, remember?"
It's easier to cling to motion than emotion.
Ragon watches me for a long moment, then nods. "We'll run interference out there. You take your time."
They leave me to it.
Alone in the kitchen, with the oven humming and the scent of chocolate thick in the air, I press my palms to the counter and bow my head.
Baking used to be the thing that made me feel anchored.
Now even that feels like contested territory.
I pick up the spatula. The frosting is smooth and glossy, ready to spread.
My hands shake as I move it back and forth over the brownies. The pattern I make is neat, even.
It's the only thing in my life right now that is.