Chapter 2: The Empty Kitchen
793 Words
Rowan led her through the front door and into a world of cold marble. The floors gleamed under dim light. The ceilings soared high above her head. Art hung on the walls that cost more than she would earn in a lifetime. Her footsteps echoed in the vast and empty silence. Nothing here felt like home. It felt like a mausoleum with better lighting.
He stopped before a door at the end of a long hallway. "Your room. Breakfast is at eight. The Alpha prefers to eat alone, but he will expect you to be present."
He turned to go. Ella stopped him. "Rowan. What is he?"
Rowan's gray-green eyes met hers. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he spoke, very quietly. "He is a wolf. An Alpha. The leader of the Shadowfang Pack. Eighteen months ago, someone he trusted cursed him under a full moon. He has been dying ever since. Until tonight. Until your soup."
He walked away. Ella stood alone in the hallway of a stranger's house, holding a pot of basil and the weight of a dying man's hope.
She did not sleep that night.
In the morning she found the kitchen. It was enormous. A cathedral of stainless steel and white marble. A six-burner range. Copper pots hanging in perfect rows. A knife block filled with Japanese steel is still wrapped in plastic. It was the most beautiful kitchen she had ever seen. And it was completely dead.
She opened the refrigerator. Vacuum-sealed meals. Protein shakes lined up like soldiers. Vegetables sweating in plastic bags. Nothing fresh. Nothing alive. The spice rack was full but every jar was sealed. This kitchen had never been cooked in. Not really.
A voice came from behind her. "You must be the new one."
She turned. A man stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Forties, slight paunch, a meticulously trimmed mustache. His chef's coat read Victor. He looked her up and down like she was something he had scraped off his shoe.
"I am Victor Draven. Head chef. I have run this kitchen for fifteen years. You will assist me. The onions need dicing."
"I do not work for you. I work for the Alpha."
Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance. Insecurity. He covered it with a thin smile. "The garden corner is overgrown and useless. Take it. And take the back burner. The one that does not heat evenly."
"Fine."
Victor left. Ella found the garden corner. It was exactly as he had said. Overgrown. Neglected. A tangle of weeds and a rusted trellis. But the soil, when she crouched and dug her fingers in, was dark and rich. Someone had loved this garden once. She could feel it.
She pulled weeds until her hands ached. She turned the soil. She found the dried stems of old herbs. Rosemary. Thyme. Sage. Someone had grown cooking herbs here, years ago. She wondered who. She wondered why they had stopped.
She carried her basil plant from the windowsill and set it in the center of the cleared earth. It looked small and brave against the dark soil.
When she stood, she felt it. A prickling at the back of her neck. She turned. In a third-floor window, a figure stood watching. Tall. Dark. Still.
Dorian Vex.
She did not wave. She did not look away. After a long moment, he disappeared.
At six, Rowan appeared in the doorway. "The Alpha will expect dinner at eight."
Ella roasted a chicken. Simple. Honest. She tucked rosemary and thyme under the skin, herbs from the garden she had cleared. She scattered vegetables around the bird. Carrots and parsnips and small yellow potatoes. They would cook in the drippings. She made a pan sauce with white wine and butter.
At eight she carried the plate to the dining room. Dorian sat alone at a long table. He looked up when she entered. His blue eyes went to her face.
"You have dirt on your cheek," he said.
She reached up. A smudge of soil near her jaw. "I was working in the garden."
"Rowan told me. The corner by the trees." He paused. "My mother planted that garden. A long time ago. No one has touched it since she died."
Ella did not know what to say. She set the plate before him.
He picked up his fork and took a bite. His eyes closed. When they opened, something had shifted behind them.
"It tastes like rosemary," he said. His voice was rough. "From the garden."
"Yes."
He ate everything. Every bite. When he finished, he set down his fork.
"Tomorrow. Breakfast. Eight o'clock."
It was not a command. It was a beginning.
Ella picked up the empty plate and walked back to the kitchen.
- Writer
