Page 123 of Storm
"Got you," he says, his voice slightly breathless from the impact.
I look up to find his face inches from mine, his brown eyes widen with concern that quickly shifts to something warmer as our gazes lock. For a moment, we just stay like that, frozen, his arms around me, my hands gripping his shoulders.
"My hero," I say finally, my voice coming out husky.
Frankie blushes, but doesn't let go. "I'll always catch you, Storm."
The simple sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion. That's Frankie. He’s straightforward, honest, genuine. No alpha posturing, no mind games, just pure Frankie. The few kisses we've shared in recent days have only confirmed what I've long known. There's something special between us, something different from what I have with the others.
I press a quick kiss to his lips before wiggling free of his arms.
"Come on, let's get these apples inside. You promised me pie, beta boy."
His smile returns, bright as the autumn sun above us. "That I did."
We gather our apples and head back toward the house, walking with my hand in his. It’s warm and sends little sparks through my fingers. The house is quiet when we enter through the back door, the others seemingly occupied elsewhere.
"Perfect," Frankie says, setting the basket on the kitchen counter. "We'll have the kitchen to ourselves."
I raise an eyebrow. "Planning something nefarious with me and these apples, Frankie?"
His blush deepens, but he laughs. "Only the most wicked of pies," he promises, already moving to gather ingredients from the pantry. "My mom's recipe. It'll change your life."
I hop up onto a barstool at the island, content to watch him work for a moment. He moves with surprising grace in the kitchen, gathering flour, sugar, butter, cinnamon, and other essentials with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
"My mom taught me to bake when I was little," he explains. "She said it was important to know how to create something that makes people happy."
I think of all the times Frankie smuggled me gum in the Omega House, how he played cards with me when no one else would, how he found ways to make that sterile, oppressive place a little more bearable.
"She taught you how to play cards and bake. She was wonderful," I say softly.
A shadow crosses his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "She was. She would have loved you."
"Well, I'm definitely lovable," I laugh, sliding off the stool to join him at the counter. "Now, put me to work, chef. What do I do?"
Frankie hands me a large bowl. "You can start peeling and slicing the apples. I'll make the crust."
We work side by side, falling into an easy rhythm. I peel and slice, occasionally popping a piece of apple into my mouth when I think he's not looking. He mixes the dough with expert hands, explaining each step as he goes.
"Now for the secret ingredient," he declares once the dough is resting and my apple slices are ready for seasoning.
"Let me guess—love?" I tease.
He shakes his head, reaching into a cabinet to pull out a small bottle. "Cardamom," he says, holding it up triumphantly. "Everyone uses cinnamon and nutmeg, but cardamom is what makes it special."
I watch as he sprinkles the spice over the apples. The scent that rises is heavenly, sweet, and complex.
"Like you," I say without thinking.
Frankie looks up, surprised. "What?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Cardamom—unexpected, but special. Like you." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, that was cheesy."
His expression softens, a smile spreading across his face. "I like cheesy. At least when it comes from you."
Something warm and tender expands in my chest. This is what Frankie does to me. He makes me softer, kinder, and more open to the sweet parts of myself I’ve tried to hide for years under all my walls and attitude.
He returns to the dough, starting to roll it out for the crust. I watch, entranced by the play of muscles in his forearms as he works, the careful precision of his movements.
