Page 62 of Marked By Alphas 2: Claimed

I choked on my lemonade. “Don’t let Caleb hear you say that.”

“The challenge today,” the announcer continued, “is to create a signature dish that captures the essence of autumn using at least three local ingredients from our harvest bounty!”

What followed was ninety minutes of culinary warfare. Jorge moved, his knife work so fast it blurred. Maria approached her station like a general planning battle strategy. But it was Imo who stole the show, the sleeves of her hanbok secured with silk ribbons as she ground spices in a mortar that looked older than the town itself.

“What exactly is Imo making?” I asked Luke, watching as she added something that made her mortar glow. Actually glow. Because apparently that was a thing now.

“Traditional Korean temple food with modern fusion elements,” Luke said, like that explained the small light show happening at her station. “The mushrooms are supposed to promote spiritual clarity.”

“Of course they are. Because regular mushrooms would be too boring for Cedar Grove.”

Caleb leaned forward, his eyes tracking the movements of each competitor with unusual interest. “Jorge’s making his signature paella with a harvest twist. Maria’s doing something with venison. Your Imo is…” He frowned. “I’m not actually sure what that is, but it smells like power.”

“Yeah, that’s not ominous at all,” I muttered.

The air filled with competing aromas—Jorge’s Spanish spices, Maria’s rich sauce, Imo’s suspiciously fragrant herbs, and a dozen other creations. My enhanced senses picked up each scent individually, which was both fascinating and slightly overwhelming. Who knew competitive cooking could be an assault on supernatural senses?

The judging was intense. Elizabeth Grey approached each dish like she was evaluating a peace treaty, taking delicate bites and making notes in an elegant leather-bound pad. Martin Rivers was more expressive, his face lighting up with each taste like a food critic who’d found religion. Thomas Redwood asked detailed questions about techniques and ingredients, his deep voice carrying throughout the tent.

After what felt like hours of deliberation—during which Luke and I placed bets on whether Imo’s dish would enlighten or possess the judges—Elizabeth Grey rose to announce the winners.

“In fourth place, with her exquisite venison medallions in blackberry reduction, Maria Stone!”

Maria accepted her ribbon with the grace of someone plotting revenge in next year’s competition.

“In third place, with her harmonious Korean temple cuisine with cedar honey infusion, Min-seo Kim!”

“Yes! Go Eomma!” Luke whooped, while Imo accepted her prize with a graceful bow that somehow made everyone else’s posture look sloppy.

“In second place, Chef Antoine Dubois with his pumpkin soufflé and sage cream!”

A tall man with a perfectly waxed mustache stepped forward, looking like someone had just told him his French accent wasn’t authentic.

“And our grand champion, with his harvest paella featuring local mushrooms, game, and autumn vegetables… Jorge Stone!”

The tent erupted in cheers as Jorge raised his golden trophy, his face split in a grin. Maria clapped loudest of all, her earlier competitive spirit replaced by genuine pride—though I caught her muttering something in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like plans for next year’s revenge.

“He’s going to be impossible to live with now,” Caleb groaned, but he was smiling. “Last time he won a cooking competition, he made us address him as ‘Chef Supreme’ for a week.”

We joined the crowd sampling the winning dishes. Jorge’s paella was a revelation—each grain of rice perfectly cooked, the flavors balanced in a way that had to be supernatural. I mean, food this good had to break some laws of nature, right? But it was Imo’s temple cuisine that really got my attention. One bite, and it felt like someone had spring-cleaned my brain, every thought suddenly arranged in perfect order. Or maybe this was what azen garden felt like—all neat lines and perfect organization.

“Your mom’s food is doing things to my head,” I told Luke between bites. “Things that probably violate several laws of physics.”

“It’s the mushrooms.” He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Eomma says they open the third eye. I just think they taste good with her sauce.”

“Only you would be this casual about psychedelic fungi.”

The festival was in full swing by early afternoon. Derek made an appearance during our tour of the artisanal cheese tent—because apparently, regular cheese wasn’t fancy enough for Cedar Grove. His massive presence cleared a path through the crowd effortlessly. People took one look at his tactical gear and intimidating size and practically dove out of the way.

Marcus materialized during the woodcarving demonstration, and my body reacted before I even saw him. My skin prickled with awareness, that damned mate bond humming to life like a live wire. His hand found the small of my back, and the casual touch sent electricity racing up my spine.

“Enjoying the show?” His voice was low, meant just for me, and I had to suppress a shiver at how close he stood. His thumb traced small circles against my back, each movement deliberately possessive.

I tried to focus on the craftsman’s detailed explanation of wood grain, but Marcus’ presence was overwhelming. He radiated heat and power, his scent wrapping around me like an invisible claim. When he leaned down to murmur something about the artisan’s technique, his breath ghosted across my neck, and my knees actually wobbled.

Traitor body.

Luke’s knowing smirk told me I wasn’t hiding my reaction well. The fact that Marcus’ satisfied rumble suggested he could probably smell exactly what he was doing to me didn’t help.

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