Page 40 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

Liam frowned. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah. Just getting her meds adjusted.”

I smirked to myself, slicing through a zucchini with a little more bite than necessary.

No doubt.

Stronger suppressants, probably.

Can’t have your omega instincts getting the better of you when your new hire’s the reason you’re taking extra pills in the first place.

I didn’t say it out loud.

The scent of her still lingered in my memory—wild, buried beneath all that control, but unmistakablyhers.

And it wasn’t something any pill could ever fully suppress.

Yet, the kitchen that morning waschaos incarnate.

Heat poured from the ovens, steam rose in thick clouds from the stove tops, and the sound—gods, the sound—was a symphony of clanging pots, shouting voices, and the hiss of something dangerously close to burning. It was like stepping into a warzone made of stainless steel and sharp knives.

Chefs barked instructions across the room, some barely looking up from their prep stations. Helpers darted between fridges and dry storage like prey trying to avoid being eaten. Cutting boards slammed. Timers beeped. Someone shouted “Where thefuckis the saffron?!”

Someone else shouted back, “In yourmother’s spice rack!”

Mia stood dead center, her sleek ponytail as sharp as her voice, clipboard in hand like a damn general. “We arenotrunning behind, people! If you can’t find something, ask. If you’re about to cry, go to the walk-in and scream, thenget back to work!”

I was elbow-deep in herb prep when the scent hit me—burnt cream and way too much pepper.

I turned just in time to see the kid—maybe nineteen,probably a culinary school intern—standing pale and frozen in front of a pan of what had once been a delicate wine reduction.

Now it looked—and smelled—like regret.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled, stirring in desperation.

The head chef was already storming toward him, and I could see the kid start to panic, wide-eyed and red-faced, looking seconds away from bursting into tears. He fumbled the ladle, splashed more sauce onto the stovetop.

I moved before I could think, crossing the kitchen in three quick strides. “I got it,” I said, stepping in front of him.

The kid blinked. “I—uh—”

“Out of the way. You’re about to ruin the sautéed lamb.”

He scrambled back. I grabbed a clean pan, rescued what little was left of the reduction, tossed in a fresh knob of butter, a splash of stock, some cracked pepper—not that pre-ground crap—and coaxed the flavors back from the dead like I was summoning a miracle.

It wasn’t perfect. But it would pass.

Mia appeared beside me as I plated the sauce, her expression tight with focus, but her voice low enough not to draw attention. “Nice save,Frenchie.”

“Didn’t do it for him,” I muttered. “Just couldn’t stand the smell.”

She snorted.

I tossed the pan into the sink and wiped my hands. The kid mouthed a silent thank you across the kitchen, still visibly shaken.

I gave him a nod. “Don’t fuck it up next time.”

Because this place?

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