Lisa's POV
The clang of pots and the low hum of chatter filled the kitchen when I stepped inside. The smell of herbs and broth clung thick in the air, heavy enough to make my stomach twist with both hunger and curiosity. Calla stood by the counter, her sleeves rolled high, her hair tied back in that effortless knot she always seemed to manage, while two of the younger maids argued over what to cook.
“I’m telling you,” one of them said, arms crossed, chin tilted stubbornly. “Alpha Enzo prefers venison. He always clears his plate when it’s roasted right.”
The other scoffed, tossing her rag onto the counter. “That’s because you drown it in gravy. I say lamb stew. It’s easier, and he eats it without a word. Men like him—strong, busy—they don’t care about delicate flavors. They just want to
