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My heart is beating so hard it rocks my entire body. I can practically feel the blood, thick and hot, running through my veins.

I’m standing at the top of the stairs, hands shaking, still reeling from what I’ve just heard. I came out here to eavesdrop, to try and figure out how I can get out of this house without him noticing, but now I’m rendered still, unable to move from the shock.

Dorian defended me to the council. He defended me to my father, to my brother—but why? I remember all those years ago, when I’d turned to him, pleading with him as the new alpha after the death of his grandfather.

I’d let slip what I’d known for a long time—that he was my mate.

Once again, his furious face, twisted with rage, appears in my mind’s eye.

“You are not my mate, Kira. And if you ever say something so blatantly false again, I’ll kill you myself.”

It was that night that I left, crying so hard I couldn’t see as I packed my bag and climbed from the room in my window. I missed high school graduation, missed Dorian’s official acceptance as alpha of the pack.

I’m fairly sure my brother and parents heard me leaving that night, and they did nothing to stop me. Emin was more than furious with me, I knew. According to everyone in the pack, it was my actions and mine alone that led to the death of Dorian’s grandfather.

My insistence that my premonition was right, leading all our fighters to the northern borders when the attack occurred on the west.

So why is he defending me now? What’s changed his mind?

My entire body jerks when I hear the front door shut and Dorian sigh, the floorboards creaking as he walks. He’s coming toward me—toward the stairs. Holding my breath, I stand and dance across the floor the same way I came, carefully avoiding the ones I’ve heard creak in the past, and slipping into my room.

As he does, my mind wars with itself, reminding me of every jeering taunt. The bullying from him started when we were still kids, hovering somewhere between middle school and junior high. The time he pushed me off my bike, and claimed he didn’t. The time he and Emin dropped water balloons on my head from the tree house I wasn’t allowed in.

In the hallways at school, finding little notes in my locker, heart fluttering, only to open them and find messages like psych , and are you really that dumb?, and nobody wants to talk to you, bitch.

A moment later, I hear him pass by my door, his footsteps soft against the ground. My heart hammers uncontrollably as I wonder if he’s going to stop, to knock, to say something to me about this whole thing.

Dorian defended me. I’m still trying to process.

But he doesn’t come to my room. He continues down the hallway, to what I assume must be his room, because a moment later, I hear it shut behind him, the distinct sound of a heavy body lowering into a bed.

And then, five minutes later, as though I’m in the room with him, I can hear his heavy, steady breathing.

Dorian is asleep. Dorian defended me to the council, then climbed the steps and went to sleep. Mind whirring, heart pounding, I glance to the left, to the tray with the beef jerky and nuts, where I’d only picked off some of the dried fruit before giving up.

I don’t want dried fruit. I want a meal, something wholesome and good.

And, deep down, I know that this urge is coming from my impending heat. Before it comes, I always want to cook, to clean and prepare my house.

Back in my old pack, I’d lock the doors and windows, line the windowsills with essential oils to try and disguise my scent, and spend the week with my toys, good food, and a mountain of pillows.

It’s inconvenient, but at least it only happens every three months. I’d heard of some omegas going through it monthly, and I can’t even imagine how they get anything done. Especially those who are mated to alphas.

My body starts to move, carrying me down the stairs and to the kitchen, heart racing. Will he hear me? Will he come down? But no—somehow, I can still hear the even, steady pace of his breaths. How his heart has slowed in his sleep.

When I open the fridge, he doesn’t stir, but my mouth drops open.

Inside the fridge, there is a half gallon of skim milk, a half-finished container of plain yogurt, a carton of eggs, and a few condiments—ketchup, sriracha, brown mustard—and that’s it . He has no vegetables or fruits, no ingredients .

“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, surprised when a little laugh bubbles out of me. I should have known—Dorian Fields, practically raised by his grandfather, probably thinks cooking a meal is a waste of time. It’s far more practical for him to fuel his body using plain, boring foods.

When I move into the dining room, I notice a small silver laptop sitting on the kitchen counter. My mind starts to work—is there any way…?

A moment later, I’m sitting down, opening it up. There’s a plain background, no files, nothing to indicate this even belongs to someone. It looks exactly the way it would if you tried it out in the store.

Tapping around on it, I manage to log into a grocery delivery service, and plug in the numbers for my credit card—the one lost in my wallet somewhere, back home. Time passes quickly as I load up the cart, no longer worried about paying my own expenses.

I’ve been saving up for a long time, keeping my expenses down, taking the meager pay from Jarred, and squirreling most of it away. Now, I decide that I’ll dip into it, for the sake of making a delicious, intentional meal.

After placing the order, I move into the kitchen, taking stock of what he has. Not much—a few pans, a single spatula. But I can make do with this. It will be like one of those cooking challenge shows, where a chef has to make the entire meal with a whisk.

While I’m waiting on the order, I sneak upstairs and slip on the dress Ash gave me, feeling more comfortable when I do. This is how I dress at home when I cook—I only wish I had an apron to wear.

I move into the bathroom, brushing through my hair carefully, then tying it back so it won’t be in the way. For the first time since being taken from my home, I stop, looking at myself in the mirror.

My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright. I am excited to make something again.

And, I have to admit, excited to see what Dorian thinks of it.

I intercept the grocery delivery person before they can even pull into the drive. It’s just a beta, but I don’t want the scent waking Dorian and ruining the surprise. I take the goods and carry them inside, the hem of my dress swishing against my knees as I go.

Once in the kitchen, I carefully and lovingly wash the herbs and vegetables before storing them in the fridge. I stack the little brown parcels of meat neatly, separating them by type. As a treat, I pop open a bottle of rosé, find a glass, and pour a drink for myself while I cook.

For the past two days, I’ve felt trapped. Alone and frustrated.

But now, picking up my knife and starting to slice through an onion, I feel something else settle over me. Something like contentment, happiness.

Almost, almost something close to the feeling of being at home.