THE OMEGA'S SECRET HEIR

THE HEAT OF THE KITCHEN

Steam rose from the massive pot in slow, rolling waves, fogging the air. It dampened the fine hairs along my neck, slid down my spine, and made my apron stick uncomfortably to my stomach.

My hands were submerged in a sink of lukewarm water, surrounded by a mountain of greasy potato peels that floated like pale skins of something long dead.

It wasn’t even seven in the morning.

The Silver Ridge kitchen was already alive, no, not alive. At war.

Metal clanged against stone. Pans scraped. Orders were barked and repeated, voices overlapping in sharp, irritated bursts. Bacon sizzled in wide iron skillets, the smell thick and heavy, curling into my nose no matter how much I tried to breathe through my mouth.

My stomach rolled.

I swallowed hard and tightened my grip on the peeling knife, ignoring the dull ache in my knuckles and the faint tremor in my fingers. I couldn’t be sick. Not here. Not today. I’d been in this kitchen for three days, and I already felt like prey under too many watchful eyes, especially the other Omegas.

Every mistake I made was noted. Every pause was judged.

“You’re missing the eyes on that one, Vexa.”

The voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“We don’t serve dirt to the warriors.”

I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to.

Maren stood to my left, as she always did, tall, broad-shouldered, with arms corded from years of hauling sacks of grain and stirring cauldrons meant to feed hundreds. She ruled this kitchen the way a wolf ruled a den, and she’d decided early on that I didn’t belong.

“I’m getting to them,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the potato in my hand. My voice stayed even, careful. “I’ll clean it.”

“You’re slow.” She snorted. “And you look like you’re about to faint.”

A sack of carrots hit the table beside me with a heavy thud. I flinched before I could stop myself.

“If you’re too weak for real work,” Maren continued, her tone sharp with satisfaction, “you can crawl back to the infirmary and let Sarah cuddle you.”

Heat flared behind my eyes. My fingers tightened around the knife, the blade biting into the pale flesh of the potato.

I wanted to throw it at her. I wanted to tell her that I had survived nights soaked in blood and fear, that weakness had never been what almost killed me. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“I’m doing my job,” I murmured.

Maren stepped closer. Her scent, stale flour and harsh lemon, crowded my space, pressing in on my lungs.

“Are you?” she said softly, dangerously. “Or are you just waiting for the Alpha to pass through so you can bat those silver eyes of yours?”

My chest tightened.

“We all saw the way he carried you,” she went on, voice lowering. “Saw him visiting you in the infirmary. Don’t think you can use your little trauma story to climb ranks here.”

The chopping around us slowed. Stopped. I felt the weight of attention settle over my shoulders, felt eyes burn into my back.

“He saved my life,” I said, finally lifting my gaze.

My silver eyes met her dark ones.

“That’s all it was. I don’t want anything from him.”

Maren laughed, harsh and humorless. “Of course you don’t. You’re an Omega from nowhere. No pack. No family.” Her gaze flicked to the faint scars visible above my collar. “Chewed up and tossed aside like a stray dog.”

Her words struck deeper than I wanted to admit.

“You really think an Alpha like Draven would look at you as anything more than a charity project?” she continued. “He’s kind, Vexa. Not blind.”

Pain bloomed hot and sharp in my chest. Because she wasn’t wrong. I was broken. Carrying a child that didn’t belong here. Dragging secrets behind me like chains.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the heavy kitchen door creaked open.

And the air changed.

The grease and steam were cut clean through by the scent of cedarwood and rain. A presence settled over the room, calm and unmistakable.

Draven stepped inside.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket today, just a fitted black shirt that stretched over broad shoulders and a chest shaped by work, not indulgence. The kitchen seemed to quiet without him saying a word, like animals sensing a shift in the wind.

His gaze didn’t linger on the cooks.

Didn’t touch the head chef.

It went straight to me.

“Alpha,” Maren said instantly, her voice turning sweet, obedient. She dipped her head. “Breakfast prep is nearly finished. Is there something you need?”

Draven didn’t answer her.

He crossed the kitchen instead, boots muted against stone, and stopped in front of my station. Close enough that the heat of him brushed against my skin.

His eyes flicked to the potatoes. Then to my face. They paused on the fading bruise along my cheek.

“How is your arm, Vexa?”

His voice was low, steady. It settled into me in a way I didn’t understand.

“Better,” I said softly. “Sarah changed the bandage this morning.”

My heart fluttered, warm, not frantic. Nothing like the violent pull I’d once felt with Kryden. This was different. Safer. Like standing near a fire after too much cold.

“You’re working a double shift,” he said, not a question.

“I wanted to help,” I replied. “I want to do my part.”

He picked up a peeled potato, turning it slowly in his hand.

“You’ve been on your feet for four hours.”

His gaze lifted, sharpening as it landed on Maren.

“Take her off prep.”

Maren stiffened. “Alpha…”

“Pantry inventory,” Draven continued calmly. “The rest of the morning.”

“But the stew…”

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” he said quietly.

The authority in his tone snapped the air tight.

“Vexa needs to be out of this heat.”

Maren’s face flushed, anger barely contained as she bowed. “Yes, Alpha.”

Draven turned back to me, something softer in his eyes.

“The pantry is cooler,” he said. “Go.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

As I passed him, my arm brushed his side.

The spark was instant, sharp and electric. My breath caught. His eyes darkened for half a heartbeat.

I fled to the pantry with my heart pounding.

It was narrow and dim, lined with shelves of grain and herbs. Cool stone pressed against my back as I leaned there, hand over my chest.

He noticed me.

Ten minutes later, the door opened.

I jumped, dropping a jar that rolled to Draven’s boots.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, handing it back.

Our fingers touched. Lingered.

“You don’t have to be jumpy here,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

“I’m not used to being safe,” I admitted. “Not when noticed.”

“I’m not like that,” he said. “And you’re not invisible.”

“Why are you kind to me?” I asked. “I’m… complicated.”

He studied me. “I see a woman who survived.”

Respect softened his voice.

“You shouldn’t,” I whispered.

“Then tell me what you like,” he said gently. “Something simple.”

“The forest after rain,” I said. “The wind in the pines.”

His smile was real. Warm.

The crash from the kitchen shattered the moment.

Later, pain doubled me over.

Fear iced my blood.

And as Sarah led me away, Draven watched; powerless, clenched, concerned.

In the infirmary, Sarah warned me.

“He likes you,” she said. “And that makes you dangerous.”

She was right.

Because even as sleep took me, his touch still burned against my skin.

And the spark refused to die.