Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse-Chapter 99: Bloody Strudel

To cut, her shoulders began to shake before the knife even moved.

When it did, it was precise.

The sound came first. Not a scream. Not yet. A wet, strangled noise that caught in the back of her throat as the steel dragged forward. Her body convulsed against the grip holding her. Her hands clawed uselessly at Victor’s wrist, nails scraping skin that did not loosen. Blood filled her mouth faster than she could swallow.

Across the space, Robert moved.

He was already halfway up before anyone reacted, his face twisted with something reckless and doomed. He did not shout. He did not think, he lunged.

Pope met him before he took a second step.

The punch was clean. Brutal. Direct.

Robert’s head snapped back with a crack that echoed off the walls. His body dropped immediately, folding as though something essential had been removed from inside him. He hit the ground hard and did not move again. The silence that followed lasted only as long as Emma’s choking sobs continued to spill around the blood in her mouth.

Victor did not look at the body.

He finished.

Victor wiped the knife once against her shoulder.

Then he stepped back.

"Kai. Sam."

They both froze before moving. Slow. Reluctant. But they moved.

Victor’s gaze shifted to Emma’s trembling form.

"Her back," he said. "List it."

Emma tried to crawl.

Her hands slipped in her own blood as she attempted to drag herself forward, a broken sound tearing from her throat with every breath. Kai’s hand closed around her arm first. Sam took the other.

They turned her pressed her down.

Her cheek hit the floor as she struggled weakly, her body jerking with every breath that scraped through her ruined mouth.

Victor watched.

"Every crime," he said.

And that mattered more.

Ivan hauled Emma to her feet once the ink was set.

She sagged between them, blood drying, tongue gone, back marked.

Victor’s command was clear: deliver her to the trading post. Though females were rare treasures in beast world and apocalypse, but keeping one who spread such toxicity among them was more dangerous than the loss. Better to exchange her for supplies than risk further discord.

Kai held one side and Sarge walked at her other side.

They did not look back.

Inside the space, Felicity slid from Damien and Voss’s arms the moment they were fully through the seam.

She stood still for one long breath.

Then she clapped her hands together softly.

"We are cooking," she said.

Damien blinked.

Voss’s ears tilted.

Victor stepped in behind them a second later, wings folding as the seam sealed once more.

The tension in him did not fade, but it quieted.

Felicity tied her braid up and moved toward the small kitchen area she had shaped from memory and longing.

"Times like this need something warm," she said softly. "Something that reminds you of home."

The men did not question her, they never did when she chose comfort.

Ivan fetched flour without being asked.

Voss carried apples from the storage crate she had stocked inside her space.

Damien leaned against the counter for half a second before silently rolling up his sleeves and taking over the slicing when she reached for the knife.

Victor stood beside her, steady and watchful, but when she handed him lemons he began zesting without complaint.

She worked with quiet determination.

Apples were peeled and sliced thin. Cinnamon dusted over them. Sugar folded through with careful fingers. Butter melted down until the scent filled the air with something that felt like memory.

She rolled the dough thin and careful, spreading the apple filling evenly before folding it in delicate layers.

Cinnamon apple strudel.

Warm.

Golden.

She shaped each one by hand.

For Snow Team she braided the dough into soft curves that formed an S on top before baking.

She made one for each of them.

Individually.

On purpose.

For Sarge and Legend, who would pretend not to care, she prepared pepper beef meat pies instead. Thick gravy. Heavy seasoning. Crimped edges perfect and neat.

For her husbands she did not rush.

Victor’s lemon pie came first. Smooth custard, bright and sharp, the crust perfectly golden. She knew it was her favorite. He knew she knew. She did not say it aloud.

For Voss she made chocolate cake rich and dark, layered and thick with ganache. He had mentioned once, quietly, that he missed chocolate. She remembered.

For Ivan she prepared a beef and mash pie. Heavy. Simple. Solid. The kind of meal that grounded a man and reminded him of a table somewhere that no longer existed.

For Damien she made strawberry and cream shortcake. Light sponge. Fresh berries folded through. Whipped cream layered thick. He had admitted once, during imprisonment, that he loved it.

She had not forgotten.

The scent of baking filled the space slowly, pushing back the iron tang that had clung to her skin from outside.

The men moved around her without speaking much.

Voss washed dishes.

Ivan kneaded dough.

Damien taste-tested with shameless precision.

Victor adjusted oven heat with careful focus.

No one asked about Emma.

No one asked about what had been done.

They knew she knew they would handle it.

When the strudel came out of the oven, golden and bubbling, she plated each one carefully. She brushed the tops with butter and dusted them lightly with sugar.

She set Snow Team’s portions aside first.

Then Sarge and Legend’s.

Then her husbands’.

She carried Victor’s lemon pie over to him personally and set it down with a soft smile.

"For you," she said.

His red eyes softened in a way they did not outside.

Voss took his chocolate cake with quiet gratitude.

Ivan’s hand lingered briefly over her wrist when she passed him the beef pie.

Damien stared at the strawberry shortcake like it was a private confession made edible.

Felicity stood back from the counter and looked at the spread she had created as if it were a small battlefield of its own, one fought with butter and flour instead of blood.

Then she turned to her husbands.

"I am going to take this out to Snow Team," she said quickly, already reaching for the trays. "I will be right back. You need to stay here."

Damien raised a brow.

Ivan crossed his arms.

Voss’s ears tilted slightly.

Victor did not argue.

"Obviously one of you has to come with me," she added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Damien smirked faintly.

Ivan’s gaze flicked to Victor.

Voss’s tail swayed once.

Victor stepped forward without being asked.

"I am coming," he said simply.

The others did not object.

They all knew.

She gathered the trays carefully, balancing them in practiced hands, and marched toward the seam with determined energy.

She was covered in flour.

Sugar dusted her braid and clung to the curve of her cheek. There was a streak of dough across her sleeve and a smudge of cinnamon near her collarbone. She looked like happiness had physically exploded on her and she had not bothered to brush it off.

Victor followed half a step behind her.

The seam opened.

Golden light spilled outward into the cold orchard air.

They stepped through.

The seam sealed behind them.

The world outside was quiet.

Snow Team had cleaned.

There was no blood visible. No bodies. No sticks scattered across the ground. The dirt had been disturbed and packed back down. The shrine stood intact. The air still carried faint traces of iron, but visually there was nothing left that would wound her.

Sarge stood where he always stood, marx leaned against a truck.

Kai and Ash were near the perimeter.

Pope stood beside the shrine.

Shadow and Draco remained close, silent and observant.

Sam stood slightly forward.

They all looked at her.

And then they all froze.

She emerged from golden light like a domestic miracle dropped into an apocalypse.

Flour on her cheek, sugar in her hair, apron askew.

Arms full of pastries.

She beamed.

Victor’s wings remained folded but present, his posture tall and controlled beside her.

Felicity stepped fully onto the cracked asphalt.

"I brought something," she said brightly.

There was a long pause.

Marx blinked.

Kai stared.

Ash looked down at the trays and then back up at her like he had forgotten how to process joy.

Sarge’s expression did not change, but something shifted behind his eyes.

Felicity walked toward them carefully.

"I made these for you," she said, setting the tray down on the hood of a rusted truck. "I made each one by hand."

She picked up one of the cinnamon apple strudels shaped into an S, "For Snow Team," she said softly. "Specifically."

Marx stared at the shape.

"That is... an S," he said slowly.

"Yes," she replied with a small, shy smile.

She began handing them out.

"One for you," she said to Marx.

He took it carefully like it might disappear if he moved too fast.

"One for you," she told Kai.

Kai accepted it with both hands.

"One for you," she said to Ash.

Ash looked at it like he had not seen something freshly baked in years.

She moved down the line.

Pope received his with something almost reverent in his expression.

Shadow hesitated only a fraction before accepting his portion.

Draco took his carefully, massive hands dwarfing the pastry.

Then she picked up the heavier, darker meat pies.

"Sarge," she said softly. "Pepper beef."