Page 22 of Wedding for My Werewolf

“I’ll help.”

She pulled ingredients from his well-stocked cabinets, planning a simple pasta dish. He stood behind her, radiating heat. When she turned, her shoulder brushed his chest, and her breath caught.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, stepping sideways.

“Here, let me?—”

He reached for the flour at the same moment she did. Their hands collided, sending the bag tipping. White powder exploded across his black t-shirt.

He blinked down at himself, looking so bewildered that a laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. His answering chuckle, deep and rich, wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

“Maybe I should stick to grilling,” he said, brushing at the flour unsuccessfully.

“Stop. You’re just making it worse.”

She bit her lip, fighting another smile as she watched him create floury handprints all over his shirt. His golden eyes glittered with amusement, a hint of the boy he’d been hiding behind his stern exterior.

“It’s everywhere,” he complained, and before she could think, she reached for him.

“Flour is very persistent.”

She brushed his shirt gently, trying to ignore the warmth of his chest beneath her hand, and grazed his nipple, hard beneath the thin cotton. His breath hitched, and she snatched her hand back.

“Sorry.”

“I’ll just change.” His voice came out a growl, his eyes glowing.

“Y-yes. Good idea.”

He disappeared down the hallway and returned a minute later wearing a clean t-shirt. They maneuvered around each other in the small space, their bodies performing an awkward dance. Her hip bumped the counter, his arm grazed her back, each touch sending little sparks across her skin. But the earlier tension had eased, and the familiar routine of cooking soothed her.

A little while later, they settled down at the table. She tried not to watch as he devoured the food.

“That was amazing. You’re an incredible cook.”

“My grandmother taught me,” she said, surprised by how much his praise mattered to her. “We spent a lot of time in the kitchen.”

“My mother cooked when we were kids, but when my father became Alpha, she insisted on hiring a chef.” He made a face, then sighed. “Her family had a low rank and she grew up very poor. I think that’s why those things matter to her—the appearance of wealth, status. That’s why she’s so anxious for me to become the next?—”

“The next Alpha?” she asked softly when he came to an abrupt halt.

“Yes, but it’s not something I ever wanted.”

He quickly changed the subject, then insisted on washing the dishes. She wandered out onto the porch, enjoying the silence of the forest despite the cold. She sat on the front step, wrapping her arms around herself, and watched the shadows flicker between the trees. Everything felt different here—the air sharper, the darkness deeper, the silence more alive.

He came to join her, moving with surprising silence for a man of his size. Without a word, he draped a thick blanket across her shoulders and she snuggled into it.

He lowered himself onto the step beside her, not touching her but close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his big body. Minutes ticked by, filled only by the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant cry of a night bird, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

“Thank you. For all this,” she said finally, her words barely audible.

His gaze remained fixed on the tree line. “Everyone deserves a chance to feel safe.”

Something in his tone made her chest tighten. Not pity—she’d heard enough of that to recognize it. This was different. Understanding, maybe.

She studied him in the moonlight—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the way the muscles in his shoulders moved as he shifted his weight. His size should have frightened her—instead she felt safer than she had in a long time. She leaned back against the step, letting the warmth from the blanket and his closeness chase away the last of her lingering chill.

Eventually she rose, her muscles stiff from the long day.

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