Page 100 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
I pull on my clothes again and follow her downstairs, finding her already bustling around the kitchen with nervous energy.
“Fiona, we need to discuss what happened between us.”
“Nothing happened,” she says without turning around, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with determination. “We were both shaken up from the attack. People do crazy things when their adrenaline is running high.”
I lean against the doorframe, watching her avoid my gaze. “Is that what you think it was? Adrenaline?”
Her hands pause in their movement, but only briefly. “What else would it be?”
“The mate bond. What we’ve been fighting since the moment I found you again.”
She cracks eggs into a bowl with perhaps more force than necessary. “The mate bond is just biology. A chemical reaction designed to ensure reproduction and pack stability. It doesn’t mean anything real.”
Her clinical tone grates against my nerves. “You’re reducing what we shared to a biological function?”
She turns to the stove and begins heating up a pan. I watch her work, noting the precise movements, the way she seasons the eggs without tasting, the complex dish taking shape under her skilled hands.
I sigh internally. She’s clearly shutting me out.
“Where did you learn to cook like that?” I ask, refusing to give up. She’s creating what looks like a gourmet omelet with herbs and cheese, far beyond basic survival cooking.
“The internet,” she says matter-of-factly. “I would watch cooking videos for hours, memorizing every step, every technique. Then I’d come down here and practice until I got it right.”
I’m fascinated despite the tension between us. “Your perfect recall. You can watch something once and replicate it exactly?”
She nods, flipping the omelet with practiced ease. “It’s how I learned most things after I left the palace. Languages, business management, accounting, even basic car repair. I’d find instructional videos and absorb everything.”
“That’s incredible, Fiona. Do you realize how remarkable that ability is?”
Her cheeks flush pink, and she focuses intently on plating the food. “It’s just how my brain works. Nothing special.”
“Everything about you is special,” I say, meaning every word.
She sets a plate in front of me, her movements clumsier now. The omelet is perfect: fluffy, golden, and filled with fresh herbs and cheese that must have cost a fortune in this small town. But it’s not just the technical skill that impresses me. It’s the care evident in every detail, the way she has created something beautiful from simple ingredients.
“This is restaurant quality,” I tell her after taking a bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—complex, balanced, incredible.
“It’s just eggs,” she mutters, sitting across from me with her own plate.
“It’s art,” I gush. “You could run a five-star restaurant with skills like this.”
Her embarrassment is endearing, the way she ducks her head when I compliment her. After years of being told she was broken, damaged, and worthless, she still struggles to accept praise.
“I tried to learn as much as I could,” she admits quietly. “I wanted to prove I could do more than just survive. That I could create something wonderful, something that brought people joy.”
“And you have. This café, the way you care for your employees, the community you’ve built—it’s extraordinary.”
She takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s not enough.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes meet mine briefly before looking away. “When those people come for me—and they will come—none of this will matter. Everything I’ve built will be gone.”
“Because you have the pill,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
She nods. “I won’t let them take me alive. I won’t go back to being someone’s experiment.”
“There is another way, Fiona. The mating mark would make you indistinguishable from a natural-born shifter. They’d lose interest because there’d be nothing unique about you to study anymore.”
