Page 109 of Claiming the Pack's Omega

It takes me a second for his compliment to register, given how distracted I am by how differently we live.

I raise an eyebrow, and the corner of my lips tug up in a ghost of a smile.

“Really? Throwing out cheap compliments already?”

He stops in front of me, his expression instantly sobering.

“They’re true. You’re stunning.” He reaches up slowly, giving me enough time to push his hand away or take a step back, before he brushes some of my hair away from my face. “I like this new look.”

It’s all he says about my makeup—or lack thereof—before he starts fluttering around the kitchen.

“You ready to rumble, my little sous chef?” He asks me before tossing his suit jacket over the back of one of the barstools and rolling up the sleeves to his white dress shirt.

My eyes immediately gravitate to the sight and the flexing muscles of his forearms.

Fuck, he’s hot.

He knows it, too, if the self-satisfied expression I see on his face when I finally jerk my gaze away from his arms is any indication.

“My eyes are up here, Spitfire,” he chuckles. “I said, are you ready?” He pumps his arm in the air like some sort of sports coach.

I roll my eyes, fighting the grin that’ll only pump up his ego. “Yeah, yeah, I’m ready.”

“Great, I’ll have you prep the roasted asparagus while I get started on the pasta, sound good?”

“Sure,” I nod, moving over to where the asparagus is set out. After a quick tour in the kitchen, the two of us settle into a bit of a rhythm.

Cooking has always been a thing I’ve had to get done because my siblings needed to be fed, but I can tell by the way Theo moves around the kitchen and the ease and familiarity he does his thing, that it’s more than that to him.

“How’d you get into cooking? Doesn’t seem like the most dominant thing an alpha like you would be into,” I say, sprinkling some olive oil over the baking sheet of asparagus I’m prepping.

“I mean, it started ‘cause I wanted to make sure my mom would actually eat something, since she had a bad habit of not taking care of herself," he says, his back to me.

There’s a sadness that’s obvious in the set of his shoulders as he tosses up the contents of the pan with a practiced motion.

“Then I realized I liked it, the control aspect of it, you know?”

“So you’re saying you’re a control freak,” I say, popping the baking tray into the oven.

I feel his presence at my back freakishly fast.

I whirl around and look up at him, my pulse pounding at the base of my neck. For a couple of reasons. One? Because he scared the shit out of me, he was seriously halfway across the room and this kitchen isn’t small. Two? Because the look he’s giving me has my petrichor scent thickening.

God, there’s no hiding anything from him either. He knowsexactlywhat I’m thinking.

I hate my omega scent sometimes. I’d much rather be a beta. Betas’ emotions are far harder to read.

Though, based on his scent matching my intensity, maybe we’re on the same page.

“Oh, I’m a big fan of control," he murmurs, his hands coming to rest at my hips.

His eyes dart between my eyes and down to my lips slowly, almost lazily, as if he has all the time in the world to take me in.

“Maybe that’s something I’ll get to show you," he whispers, leaning down and brushing his lips against the shell of my ear.

A shiver runs down my spine.

I swallow hard and clear my throat in an attempt to clear my head.