The waffle iron hissed like it had a grudge, steam puffing up from the sides like a little dragon exhaling. I stood there like a zombie, staring at it with dead eyes, spatula in one hand, the other braced on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Here I was. Making f*****g waffles.
Because apparently trauma turns me into a homemaker.
The kitchen was too quiet, except for the faint sizzle of batter cooking and the hum of the fridge. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows like it didn’t give a damn about the m******e that happened here just hours ago. The scent of vanilla and butter was weirdly comforting, almost like a trick my brain was pulling to make me forget.
I didn’t forget.
I couldn’t forget.
I mean, it’s kind of hard to forget when your stepbrother-s***h-psychotic-werewolf-mate
