Page 79 of Alpha Daddy

It doesn’t move him. In fact, he doesn’t react at all. He just continues to stare at me until his fingers come up to lift my chin even higher, twisting my head to the left and then to the right.

“Beautiful as always,” he admires, tsking his tongue. “I can’t wait to watch you break.”

I wake up with a gasp, tucked in under Alessandro’s strong arm. He’s behind me, snoring softly into my hair, and his presence is a comforting reminder that my dream was just that. My old pack isn’t here.

I’m with Alessandro.I’m safe.

I have no idea what time it is–the thickly-curtained windows give no indication of morning light–but my heart is thundering in my chest from the haunting dream. There’s no way in hell I’m going back to sleep, not when there’s a chance the nightmare will return. No fucking thank you.

Sliding out from beneath Alessandro’s arm as gently as possible, I slip off the bed and sneak to his closet to steal a T-shirt. He didn't mind when I took one last time, and I can only imagine he’ll enjoy seeing me in nothing but his shirt making breakfast for him when he wakes up.

He’s beat me to the kitchen the last two times I’ve stayed over, but I won’t let it happen again.

Hopefully, it’s a reasonable hour for breakfast. Otherwise, I’m going to have to find something to do until it’s time to cook.

Once I’m out of his room, I’m less quiet as I hurry down the hall and down the stairs, my eyes landing nervously on the kitchen. Despite the few times I’ve stayed over, I haven’t rummaged through the cabinets yet. I don’t even know where the silverware is, but I’m determined to figure it out.

The clock on the wall says it’s just after five, which doesn’t seem too early to start cooking. That’s plenty of time to throw something together.

I search through the cabinets, pulling out drawers and opening every door in the kitchen to familiarize myself with the layout. Then, I set to work on breakfast, something I can make reasonably fast that I’ve made a million times at least: blueberry pancakes with cream cheese icing.

Of course, Alessandro has everything I need, which makes me smile as I drag out a skillet.

Once I’ve assembled all my tools and ingredients, muscle memory takes over, and I’m whisking and mixing before I know it. It feels good to be in a kitchen when it’s not a chore.

When it’s something I want to do.

And what I want to do is something nice for Alessandro.

I just hope he likes pancakes. They're close enough to crepes that I think he will–hopefully. Otherwise, I’m going to have a huge breakfast alone.

I pour the batter into the sizzling skillet, flipping each pancake carefully and making it as perfect as possible. I’m no chef, and not nearly as skilled in the kitchen as Alessandro, but I don’t want him thinking my food is garbage either.

How embarrassing would that be?

I can already imagine him giggling over fucked-up pancakes, and the thought warms my cheeks.

What will he think when he stumbles downstairs to find me cooking for him? I know I’m supposed to be a beta, but will he think I’m a good beta? Will he be pleased?

Gods, I hope so.

No sooner do I finish mixing the cream cheese icing, an alarm sounds upstairs, making my heart stop and nearly making me drop my fork.

He’ll be noticing I’m gone right now.

I hurry to plate the food.

Straining to hear despite the house being silent, I make out the faint sound of footsteps shuffling upstairs, and I’m giddy with nerves. I slide the plates across the bar to our normal breakfast spot, and I’m drizzling the last bit of icing when Alessandro bounds down the stairs and steps into the kitchen.

He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, looking like he belongs in a blue jean commercial. I meet his gaze across the bar, a smile teasing the corners of my lips, and the surprise in his eyes is apparent.

“I thought you left until I saw your clothes on the floor,” he says, sounding relieved. “I doubted you’d be running through the streets naked.”

I chuckle. “Nope. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“I see you finally beat me to the kitchen.”

I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Sure did. I’m no chef by any means, but these are probably edible. You can be the judge, though.”

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