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Dorian shifts in his seat and glances up at me, alternating between wolfing down his food and looking like he’s trying to slow himself down.

“There’s a lot more,” I offer, a blush crawling up my cheeks at the look she gives me. “I just mean, if you want seconds.”

“I will,” he says, reaching for his drink again. After a long sip, he sets his glass down, looks at his food, clears his throat. I realize that, since he lives alone, he’s probably used to eating alone. “So, have you always liked cooking?”

I bite my tongue for a second. There’s no way for us to skate around the reality of what happened, so I just tackle it head-on.

“No,” I say, slowly. “I started cooking when I went to the Grayhide pack. I couldn’t really afford anything—I was working custodial staff at this motel in town—so I started experimenting with what I had. Growing my own vegetables and herbs, trying to make something that tasted good with what little I could afford.”

To my surprise, Dorian is nodding, something almost near regret on his face.

“I checked out cookbooks from the library, learned more about the basics from cooking shows on cable. Then, I was able to get the hotel to move me to the kitchen. That’s when—”

I cut off, thinking about the day Jarred came in for a meal, the moment his eyes landed on me. The door to the kitchen had swung open, revealing me, pan in my hand, and I’d glanced up, locking gazes with him.

Less than ten minutes later, I had the job cooking for him and his family.

You can’t say no to the alpha, and even though it didn’t pay much, it did pay more than the hotel. At that point, I was so used to the process of making a bad situation better that I just took it in stride, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on me, how he’d pop into the kitchen to watch me as I worked.

“That’s when what?” Dorian asks now, he looks in his eye, making me feel like he might know where this is going, just from the tone of my voice.

I force my hand to relax on the fork I’m holding. Nothing actually happened with Jarred—except for the way he hit me on that final day with the Grayhides—but the waiting, the constant dread of when he would come around, that was almost worse.

“That’s when I was invited to come and cook for the alpha leader of the pack,” I say, forcing a laugh to lighten the sound of my voice. Weakly, I gesture around the kitchen. “Looks like it’s what I do best.”

“Kira,” Dorian says, not laughing, his gaze finding my cheek. I realize the bruise is still there and raise my fingertips to it. It takes him a moment, and I realize he’s put his fork down and is gripping the edge of the table tightly. “Did the Grayhide alpha do that to you?”

Silence falls around us. I don’t see how it’s important—it’s not like Dorian can do anything about it. He’s not going to war with another pack because they abused an omega. That would require a lot of manpower and would never be sustainable.

Too much time passes. He’s asked me a question, and I can’t answer it. I don’t even want to talk about it, don’t want to remember that day. I close my eyes, waiting for Dorian to explode, to demand that I tell him.

Instead, he just lets out a weary sigh.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Alright. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

My eyes fly open, meeting his, and I wonder if he can see the surprise on my face. He shifts in his seat again, clears his throat, and speaks.

“Kira, I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you in high school.”

It feels like I float up out of my body. How many times over the years have I dreamed of this moment—Dorian apologizing for the bullying? The tormenting? The eventual phrase that led me to run away from the pack altogether?

Another long silence passes, and he speaks again. This is more than I’ve ever heard him talk at one time.

“I was a stupid kid, under the pressure of being the alpha—and I didn’t really understand what that meant back then. Thought it was all about power. But punching down isn’t a good look. It just means you’re afraid you can’t hold your own if you keep your gaze level.”

That last part sounds like something he might have heard from his grandpa. My chest twists again when I think about the incident, about Dorian’s howl of pain when he realized his grandpa was gone.

“I’m sorry too,” I say, realizing too late that tears are coming to my eyes. “I didn’t know what I was doing back then. And I was so, so convinced that I was right—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Dorian grunts, shaking his head. “We were all just kids. The adults in that situation should have known better than to punish you for that mistake. And what I said…”

He shakes his head, glancing away from me, and I’m surprised when I realize the look on his face is shame. As it always does, that moment comes back to mind, as clear as the day it happened.

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

Dorian pulls me from the memory before it can go further, his voice hard. “It was cruel and pointless. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Kira, and I’m sorry.”

I feel completely paralyzed, stuck in my seat.

For a long time, I oscillated on what I wanted from him. Sometimes, I wanted to hurt him, to push him away and make him feel as tortured as I did. Other times, I just wanted to end the yearning, the endless heat alone and in agony without him. I just wanted to hear him say that he wanted me as his mate, that he’d made a mistake.

That’s not what he’s saying now.

He’s not saying it wasn’t true, or that he wants me as his mate now. He’s just saying it was a cruel way to go about rejecting me, which is true.

Another, slighter rejection pangs in my chest.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to force out, but it’s too much with the way that he’s looking at me. Realizing my plate is empty, I stand, hurriedly taking it to the sink.

Sometimes, cleaning up is the time I enjoy the most after a meal. The chance to sit quietly with my thoughts, wash away messes, and reset the kitchen for the next day. It’s a chance to care for my things—my pans, utensils. Another pang of grief hits me at losing the heavy Dutch oven I thrifted.

I’m thinking about it, nestled in its cabinet at my house, when I feel Dorian approach me.

I turn back against the counter and look at him.

“Kira,” he says, voice cracking. “Are you crying?”

At that moment, I feel the tears running down my cheeks and swipe at them, letting out a quick, embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry,” I say, voice quiet, “my heat is coming, and that always makes me emotional—”

Dorian’s throat bobs, and I find myself staring at the movement, the way I can feel his heat with how close he is to me, his scent, spicy and clean, something between pine and eucalyptus, softened by his animal heat.

I didn’t realize how much I missed it, how odd it was not to smell it on him, until it finally came back. He must have been blocking his scent to get into the Grayhide territory, to go to that market without anyone realizing who he was.

“Kira.”

The sound of my name on his lips is so desperate, so wanting, that it nearly breaks the resolve inside me. Half an inch, and our bodies would be pressed together.

But his words from earlier come rushing back to me—what he said was cruel and pointless, but not a mistake.

Sucking in a breath, I step away from him, leaving the half-washed plate in the sink.

“Wait—” Dorian says, voice hoarse as he reaches for me, but I slide out of the way just in time, feeling the phantom of his touch as his hand nearly grazes my arm.

“Sorry,” I lie, “I’m not feeling well—I’m going to lie down.”

With that, I turn on my heel and race up the stairs, not stopping until the door is behind my back and firmly locked. My core pulses with heat, need licking up the inside of my thighs, everything in my body begging me to open this door and go to him, to put aside my pride and plead with him to satisfy this primal, aching want.

But I won’t. I can’t. Dorian Fields rejected me, and I’m not about to throw myself at him like I don’t understand that fact.

As I flip the light off and head for the bed, I can’t ignore the thought that keeps running through my head—if it was this hard to resist him today, what is going to happen when I go into heat?