Page 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE KITCHEN SMELLED of sizzling meat and warm butter, thick in the air, clinging to my nose. The steady clatter of pots and pans mixed with the murmur of conversation drifting from the common room.

The scent, the noise, it was different from what I had known before. Louder. Heavier.

American.

Josie stood at the stove, stirring a pan of something rich and heavy, his sleeves rolled up, tattooed forearms flexing with every easy movement. He didn’t look like he had any business in a kitchen—too handsome, too rugged—but he moved like someone who belonged there. Confident. Comfortable in the heat, in the bustle, in the noise.

I sat at the counter, curling my fingers around the rim of a warm mug of tea.

"You use too much oil," I said, my voice soft but teasing.

He snorted without looking up. "Trust me, I know. But my brothers keep remindin’ me this is a biker clubhouse, not some fancy café." He tilted the bottle again, letting another heavy stream of oil hiss into the pan.

I wrinkled my nose. "In Turkey, we cook with olive oil. Not... whatever that is."

Josie gave me a sideways glance, smirking. "Vegetable oil."

I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the warmth slide down into my chest. "It drowns the flavor," I murmured.

He chuckled, flipping the meat with a flick of his wrist. "For this it works. But I know what you’re sayin’." He threw me a curious look over his shoulder. "What’s your favorite meal? One you miss the most?"

I hesitated, the question snagging something deep inside me.

For a long time, I had not let myself think about home. It was easier that way. Easier to keep the memories locked away, where they couldn’t hurt me.

But now... sitting in the kitchen, the air filled with rich scents and warmth... something inside me stirred. I closed my eyes for a breath, letting the memories rise.

The rich aroma of roasted eggplant drifting through the open windows. The crackle of flatbread baking against the hot walls of the stone oven. The sharp, fresh scent of parsley crushed between my fingers. My mother’s voice, humming low under her breath as she stirred the stew, the worn bangles on her wrists clinking together.

I opened my eyes before the ache could settle too deep.

"Lahmacun," I said finally, the word tasting strange on my tongue after so long. "It is like your pizza, but thinner. Crispy. Topped with minced meat, onions, tomatoes, and spices. We roll it up with fresh parsley and lemon."

Josie’s brows lifted, genuine interest lighting his face. "Damn. Sounds good."

"It is," I said, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "My mother made it every Sunday. The whole street smelled like bread and meat and spices. Neighbors would come by for tea and talk... sometimes they stayed for hours."

I laughed quietly, surprising myself. "It took me long time to understand that not everywhere was like that."

Josie leaned his hip against the counter, stirring absently. "Sounds like it was a real community. Big families?"

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Very big. Everyone knew everyone. We were always... together. Always sharing food, stories, laughter." My throat tightened slightly. "It is... different here."

He didn’t say anything right away, just stirred the food and let the silence stretch. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.

Finally, he said, "You miss it."

I tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach.

"Sometimes. But what I miss doesn’t exist anymore." I looked away. "It’s easier not to think too hard about it."

He smiled, gentle and unassuming. "I get what you mean."

I sipped my tea again, grateful for the heat, the way it masked the sudden dampness in my eyes. "But you cook good food too," I said, motioning to the pan, forcing the smile back to my lips.

Josie grinned. "You know what? I could make that lahmacun for you one day. Bet I can find a recipe."

I exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "Only if you use olive oil."

He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended. "I promise to only use olive oil. Scout’s honor."

I rolled my eyes, feeling the warmth in my chest spread. The warmth wasn’t just from the tea or the heat of the kitchen.

It was from being seen —from talking about a piece of myself I had almost forgotten I still carried.

Maybe...

Maybe it was okay to remember.

Maybe it was okay to let myself belong here, even if just a little.

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Fiona slipped inside, her long hair was twisted up in a messy bun. "These should be done," she said, grinning as she went to the oven and pulled a tray out, sitting it down with a soft thud. The scent of warm cinnamon and sugar curled into the air, making my stomach tighten in the best way.

Josie leaned over dramatically, inhaling. "Woman, you are a damn magician ."

Fiona laughed, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist. "Cinnamon rolls. Fresh out of the oven.”

Fiona's eyes slid to me then, softer. She caught the half empty tea cup in my hand, the lingering smile on my lips, and something shifted in her expression—like she saw more than I meant to show.

"You’re doing so much better," she said quietly. Not loud enough for Josie to hear. Just for me.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. But somehow, it didn’t feel like I had to. I just nodded, the smallest movement, but it was enough.

Fiona smiled, scooping up a cinnamon roll and putting it in front of me. “Eat up and tell me what you think,” she said with a wink. “If you don’t like it feel free to lie to me.”

The kitchen filled with low laughter, the smell of sweet bread and sizzling meat, the warm, chaotic hum of life. Not perfect. Not what I had known.

But maybe, just maybe, exactly what I needed.

This, Mystic and Lucy. I prayed Lucy would be found safe.