Page 85 of Alpha Mates

“You’re the one who likes that brand, not me,” he says while he showcases his beloved box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. “And if you eat it all, that’s a full meal in my book.”

I glower as he retrieves the milk, pinches the fresh bag open, and jostles the sugary pieces into his bowl.

“Why did you ask what I wanted if I don’t have a choice?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid to give you options sometimes,” he says with a shrug. “It’s like giving a newborn the remote. I should know better, so really, that one’s on me.”

Aiden peeks up to wink at me, and my finger twitches under the table. He doesn’t see it, but he knows me and can sense my mounting irritation.

His smirk widens, and well, that’s just a little too much.

I wait until he sets his cereal box down before I grab his stacked bowl and throw every crumb of cinnamon in his face. Eyes snapping shut, Aiden jerks as the cereal smacks into his face, sugar raining down in a glittering drift. Some lands on his shoulders, but most scatters across the counter. His fists ball at his sides and his clenched jaw ticks.

I bite my lip to keep quiet, but when he blinks his eyes open, causing sugar to fall from his dusted eyelashes, a slight wheeze slips free.

A familiar thrill rushes through me when his eyes snap to mine, flaring with the anger I was so familiar with before everything changed between us. That look had always coaxed me to push him further, because when Aiden was upset, I was happy—it was the general rule of thumb.

Now, strangely, I’m still happy, but for different reasons. Because while Aiden glares at me like he wants to tear me apart … I almost wish he would.

“And I’m supposed to be the immature one?” he says through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” I reply, resting my face in my hands as I watch him dust cinnamon from his sparkling cheeks. “I’m just meeting you halfway.”

A flash of red flicks through Aiden’s eyes, and I perk up.

He pushes off the counter, rolling his shoulders before pointing a finger at his face. “I’m going to wash my face,” he says with deceptive calm. “Why don’t you try not to waste any more food?”

“I will try my best,” I vow with a smile that grows as I watch him circlethe counter.

Humming, I reach for the milk carton, but it turns into a blur as a hand snatches it up before I can. The world slows as I turn. Aiden’s wired black eyes lock on mine before the cold milk gushes over my head.

“Shit!” I yelp, scrambling back, almost tumbling from the stool as I try to escape.

I hiss as I clutch at my shirt, pulling it away from my skin as if that’ll stop the milk from rushing down my back and chest. It doesn’t. The milk soaks through my clothes in seconds.

With my arms raised at my sides, I lift my head slowly and look at Aiden. He’s smiling from ear to ear, dangling the now-empty carton of milk from his fingers while its contents drip off of me.

My jaw clenches, and his canines flash behind his smirk.

We stare at each other, hearts pounding.

“Are we really going to do this?” I ask, pushing the wet hair from my face.

His grin turns wicked. “I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

We lunge at the same time, but I’m faster. I shove him with enough force to send him sliding across the spilt milk, then dart for the cupboards. Behind me, I hear him scramble towards the fridge—an arsenal, yes, but it doesn’t have what will undoubtedly be the deadliest weapon in this war.

Flour.

I yank the cupboards open and grab the brand-new bag, along with the bottle of oil sitting beside it. I hoist myself onto the counter for an aerial advantage before I tear the bag open. When my eyes settle on the target, I uncap the bottle and throw as much of it as I can at Aiden. He doesn’t even flinch, too busy digging through the fridge, so he has no warning when I turn the bag of flour over and let it all rain down.

The kitchen vanishes in a cloud of white powder.

“What the fuck?” Aiden wheezes from inside the haze. “Julian, what is wrong with you?!”

Laughing, I try to climb down off the counter, only to slip straight onto my ass. Aiden cackles from inside the flour bomb, but it devolves into sneezing and coughing. I spot dark eyes a moment before I ram into him, shoving him away from the fridge in a desperate plight for more ammunition.

“You psychopath!” he shouts, disappearing into the flour.