Page 39 of Pack Owned
“Are you kidding?” I shake my head. “You don’t waste food. There are people out there who...” My words trail off, the reality of my past—a past filled with scavenging and scraping by—choking me. “And besides, some food tastes better the next day.”
“Suit yourself,” Ryker murmurs and watches me, hawk-like, as though I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Or maybe dismantle.
Liam and Ryker disappear from the kitchen while Dane stays with me.
“Here, let me help you.” His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the room as he reaches for the sponge in my hand.
Our fingers brush, a shock of warmth at the contact, and I let go.
“Didn’t take you for the domestic type,” I quip, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but my attempt falls flat, swallowed by the intensity of his stare. “Especially with you being a medic in the army.”
“Got a lot of surprises.” He chuckles, a dark sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Trust me, sweetheart, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
His words hang between us. I watch him move, the way his muscles shift under the fabric of his shirt, efficient and strong. Something low in my belly ignites, a yearning or something. It’s unsettling how my body reacts to him… to all of them.
The last of the Chinese takeout boxes thunk into the fridge, a cold draft brushing my face as I push the door closed. I’m still feeling the edges of that familiar tightness in my chest when he leans against the counter, a little too close, and I side-step out of the way, brushing my hair out of my face.
“Hey, Kayla,” Dane’s voice cuts through, and I blink up at him. “You like chocolate?”
“Love it,” I admit, forcing casualness. There’s something about the way he asks, as if he’s probing for more than just my taste buds’ preferences. “But chocolate chip cookies?” A half-smile tugs at my lips despite the nerves. “They’re my jam.”
“Is that so?” He grins, and my stomach does this weird flip thing because it’s been like never since a guy’s cared about what I like.
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, trying to anchor myself to something solid. Caught between wanting to run and wanting to see what he’ll do next, I watch as he rummages through kitchen drawers. He emerges with a container of flour, sugar, and brown sugar.
“Roll up your sleeves, Omega. We’re making them from scratch.” Dane’s tone says he won’t take no for an answer, but hell, why would I argue with cookies?
I push my sleeves up past my elbows, then wash my hands. For a second, just a split second, I forget about the urge to bolt for the door.
He directs me to measure out the sugar—white and brown—and my fingers shake just a little bit as I pour. But he’s got this focus when he moves, every action deliberate and precise.
I scrape the last of the dough from the bowl, dropping blobs onto the baking sheet. Dane stands next to me, showing me how to space the cookies just right. The heat radiating off him has me hyperaware of how close we are.
“Perfect,” he says, his voice low and approving.
It sends a ripple through me, a feeling I want to shake off but can’t.
“Thanks. Your recipe?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light, still trying to work out these guys.
“Sort of. Picked up different bits from places I’ve been.” He shrugs, a shadow crossing his face for a moment before he shakes it off. “Enough about me. Tell me something about you. Something real.”
My mouth dries. Real is dangerous. Real means vulnerability. But the way he looks at me, steady and patient, chips away at my walls.
“Okay... I used to climb trees back home. Higher and higher, just to feel... free, you know?”
“Not afraid of heights. Good to know. Here, add this to this last batch, I like to change it up,” he says, shredding a bar of dark chocolate directly into the bowl. It’s not part of the standard recipe, but who am I to argue with extra chocolate?
“Where’d you learn to bake?” I ask, keeping my tone light, trying to ignore the heat that seeps into my cheeks from being so close to him.
“My mom. She was the best cook and taught me everything she knew. Said I needed to be able to feed myself. She always thought there’d be an apocalypse, and I’d die of starvation if I couldn’t cook. Then I joined the army to learn how to do splints and stitches.”
“Cookie-making. One of the essential survival skills in my book.”
“Exactly,” he nods solemnly, but his eyes are laughing. “Never underestimate the power of a good chocolate chip cookie, Kayla.”
Side by side, we place the cookie dough on a tray.
Then Dane slides the tray into the oven with practiced ease and says, “When everything else falls apart, being able to create something as normal as a cookie... it can keep you sane.”
