The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 102: Same Taste

Aurora’s POV

​Oliver didn’t pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip on my waist, pulling me so close that I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart against my own. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a fresh wave of electricity through my skin.

​"Who else would it be, Aurora?" he murmured, his voice thick with possession. "I don’t say ’I love you’ to just anyone. If there are going to be five little troublemakers making my life difficult, I want them to have your eyes. I want them to have your stubborn pride."

​I looked up at him, my eyes searching his. The teasing glint was still there, but beneath it was a deep, unwavering seriousness. He was giving me an out, a way to keep things light, but he was also laying his soul bare.

​I swallowed hard, the last of my doubts about the "Raymond" similarities trying to claw their way back up. But looking at Oliver now, seeing the way he looked at me with such raw hope, I pushed the ghosts back into the dark.

​"Fifty might be a bit much," I managed to tease back, though my voice was still shaking. "I think we should stick to the five. I don’t think the packhouse can handle any more than that."

​Oliver laughed, the sound warm and low against my neck. He pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse point there, making my knees buckle.

​"We have plenty of time to negotiate the numbers," he rasped, his hands sliding down to lift me onto the marble counter as he slammed his lips against mine.

​The kiss was deep and all-consuming, a heavy, rhythmic pull that made me forget we were even in a kitchen. Oliver’s tongue swept against mine with a possessive heat, and I arched my back, my fingers tangling in his thick hair to pull him even closer. I could feel the hard planes of his chest pressing against my breasts through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the friction was driving me toward a breaking point.

​His hands slid up my thighs, his palms burning against my skin, but just as he reached the hem of the shirt, a sharp, pungent scent hit the air.

​Oliver groaned against my lips, a sound of pure, raw frustration. He stiffened, then forced himself to pull away, his forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat while we both gasped for air.

​I bit my lip, my breath coming in short, shallow hitches. My body felt heavy and sensitized, and I could feel my own heat making the silk of my underwear damp against the counter.

​Oliver looked back at me, his eyes dark with a raw, predatory hunger that made my pulse jump. He looked like he was fighting himself, his knuckles tightening.

​"The food," he rasped, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

​He stepped back, his eyes raking over me. I knew I must have looked a mess—my hair tangled from his fingers, my lips swollen from his kisses. I could see his own body straining against his trousers, his wolf clearly pacing inside him, but he was holding back with a terrifying amount of discipline.

​"You have to eat something, darling," he said, his voice thick and rough. "I am not having you faint on me later."

​He turned back to the stove, his broad shoulders tensing as he tossed the pasta into the sizzling garlic and oil. I stayed exactly where I was, my hands gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself. I couldn’t look away. There was something so intense about watching the Alpha King—the man who ruled the entire kingdom—carefully tossing parsley into a pan just for me.

​The light from the kitchen windows caught the deep, fiery red of his hair. I felt a tug in my chest that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how much I was falling for him. I watched the way his muscles rippled under the skin of his back as he moved. He worked with a quiet, lethal grace even while cooking.

​I realized then that I didn’t just want the King. I wanted this man. I wanted the quiet moments where the world couldn’t reach us.

​He plated the pasta with efficient, steady movements and turned around, catching me staring at him with wide, dazed eyes. A slow, teasing smirk spread across his lips, though the heat in his gaze hadn’t cooled an inch.

​"Is the view that good?" he teased, his voice a low vibration.

​He placed the steaming plate of spaghetti before me on the marble counter. It looked mouthwatering, the oil glistening over the pasta and the fresh parsley adding a vibrant green to the dish. The scent was rich and savory, making my stomach rumble despite the nervous energy thrumming through my veins.

​"Thank you," I said softly, my voice still a little breathy from our kiss.

​He didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his own plate and sat on a stool directly across from me. We started to eat in a comfortable silence, the only sound being the clink of forks against the ceramic.

​As I took the first bite into my mouth, I froze. The flavor hit my tongue, and for a second, my heart stopped beating. The garlic was toasted to a specific nuttiness, and there was a subtle hint of spice that felt hauntingly familiar. It tasted exactly like the spaghetti Raymond had made for me in my apartment.

​I frowned and took another bite, chewing slowly as I tried to convince myself I was being paranoid. But I wasn’t mistaken. Most people make aglio e olio the same way, but Raymond had a distinct way of seasoning it. It had a sharp, earthy undertone that I had never tasted anywhere else until this very moment.

​I felt a chill wash over me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. My mind began to spiral.

It wasn’t just similar.

It was the same.

​Oliver noticed the change in my expression immediately. He stopped eating and tilted his head, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he watched me.

​"What is it?" he asked, his voice low. "You don’t like it?"

​I looked down at the plate and then back up at him.

I furrowed my brow and slowly lifted my gaze to meet his. "May I ask you something?"

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