Lorali

The sunset shimmers through the tall glass windows of the kitchen, painting the room in hues of gold and crimson. I catch my reflection in the dishwater and I almost don’t recognize myself.

My eyes are swollen and brimming red from all the crying I’ve done today. My face is drained of expression and hollowed out by exhaustion.

I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry until sleep takes me, but I don’t have that luxury. The dishes need to be cleaned, the food needs to be cooked. The precious little pack cannot go hungry, not even for a single day.

Speaking of the pack, where are they? I know Oril is still locked away in his room. I haven’t seen Walter or the other two either. Torin has been absent since the moment I arrived, and the man who drove me here has vanished as well. Odd. What kind of pack doesn’t stay together?

The oven hums softly, announcing that the baked salmon is nearly ready. Its aroma fills the air, rich and savory, a small comfort at the end of this miserable day.

Soon I’ll be finished, and I can retreat back to my shed, shut the door, and not emerge until tomorrow when duty drags me out again.

I finish washing the dishes by hand, though a dishwasher sits right beside me that’s off-limits only me.

I dry my hands with a cloth, slip on the oversized mitts, and carefully lift the salmon from the oven. It sizzles as I set it down on the island, golden and crisp, exactly the way the omega likes it.

"What is that?"

I look up, startled. Walter stands opposite the island, his hands buried in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Yurena lingers behind him, her face twisted into a look of satisfaction that sends shivers crawling down my spine. I look at the Salmon then at Walter wondering if he can’t see it.

"It’s salmon," I answer, my voice quiet while avoiding Yurena’s piercing gaze. The atmosphere feels wrong, the kindness I glimpsed in Walter’s eyes yesterday and even this morning is gone. In its place is something colder, he feels like a stranger like Yurena’s puppet.

"Sorry," Walter says, his tone cocky, his words laced with ice. "I asked the wrong question. What I meant was, why are you cooking salmon?"

"Because... it’s on the roster." I gesture toward the meticulously planned dinner schedule pinned to the fridge, the calendar mapped out the dishes for an entire year. It’s below his damn heat cycle calendar too, it’s something no one can miss.

"Well, that’s unfortunate," Walter replies, his voice dripping with disdain. "We won’t be having that tonight."

"Oh... are you going out or something?" My stomach twists. If they’re going out, I wish they had told me six hours ago. This meal took forever to prepare.

"No, we’re not going anywhere," Walter says flatly. "But that salmon definitely is. We aren’t eating it. I don’t want salmon tonight. I want French cassoulet."

My eyes widen at his audacity. French cassoulet? That dish is complicated it’s a whole day’s event, not something you demand at the last minute.

"I mean... I can cook that tomorrow," I say carefully, forcing calm into my voice. "Since I’ve already finished today’s meal of salmon and black rice."

Walter leans forward, his tone cutting. "What part of what I said don’t you understand? I’m not eating that. Neither is the pack. What we will be waiting for, and what you will be cooking, is French cassoulet. Done right."

My lips press together, my chest tightening. "Then don’t eat," I whisper under my breath, though the words taste bitter.

"Walter... did I do something to offend you?" I ask finally, my smile tight, brittle. "Because you’re being a bit unreasonable."

I know this is Yurena’s doing. A switch this sudden, this complete, can only be her handiwork. What did she tell him to make him turn so sharply against me? Was it because of the bond Oril placed on me? No, it can’t be. Walter didn’t see that, and my dress collar is buttoned to the top, hiding the mark. Even now, I’m not concealing it out of shame, I’m just trying to process it myself before telling anyone.

But the way Walter looks at me now, the way Yurena stands behind him like a shadow pulling his strings, makes me realize something chilling: whatever kindness I thought I saw in him is gone.

"Offend? How can a lowly omega like you offend me? Quite frankly, I don’t look down hard enough to even notice you," Walter scoffs. Behind him, Yurena’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, her expression glowing with pride as if she’s admiring her little disciple.

"Cook what I want or you can leave. No one is forcing you to stay here."

My throat tightens, but I force the words out. "No... it’s fine. I’ll cook it."

"Good. Be done in the next hour. I’m famished." He turns on his heel and walks away with Yurena trailing behind him with her satisfaction radiating in every step.

I sigh, the sound heavy and bitter. Screw him. If he wants to be her dog so badly, let him. He can wear her leash for all I care.

My eyes drift down to the salmon I spent so long preparing, its golden crust glistening under the kitchen lights. My chest aches at the thought of wasting it. Alma taught us never to waste food.

I grab an old, battered container from the cupboard, one so worn and stained that no one would notice it missing. The edges are frayed, and when I open it, a pungent smell wafts out, sharp and unpleasant. It would have been better to use one of the newer containers, but I know they’d notice if I did. They’d accuse me of stealing.

"If they don’t want to eat you, it’s fine. I will," I whisper to the salmon as if it’s my baby. "This is enough food to last me a month. At least I won’t go hungry again."

I carefully place the black rice into the container, then slide the salmon on top before sealing it tight.

I push it into the fridge, hiding it at the very back, far from view, tucked away like a secret treasure.

Suddenly, pain surges through my right shoulder. I gasp, clutching the spot where my mate’s teeth once sank into my flesh, marking me. The bond burns, a reminder of something I can’t escape. I shake it off, forcing myself to ignore it. It must be some bond thing. I can’t concern myself with that now.

I have a French cassoulet to cook or at least something that looks like it. It’s impossible to make that dish in an hour. Cassoulet is a day’s work, a slow labour of beans, meats, and patience. And I doubt they even have the right ingredients stocked in this kitchen.

So I’ll improvise. I’ll cook something adjacent, something close enough in flavour and appearance to pass. It will look like cassoulet, taste almost the same. They won’t know the difference. None of them have cooked a day in their lives.

I roll up my sleeves, my heart heavy, my body aching, and begin again.