The Alpha‘s Personal Chef

Chapter 5: The Taste of Wolfsbane

Ella did not sleep. The wolfsbane leaf lay on her windowsill, gray-green and brittle, a dead thing among her living herbs. She watched it until gray dawn bled through the glass. Outside, the garden corner was barely visible, her basil a small dark shape against the soil. She wondered if her grandmother had stood at this same window, years ago, watching the same earth. Then she dressed and went to the kitchen.

Victor was already there. His back was to her, shoulders hunched. When he turned, she saw his eyes. Red-rimmed. Swollen. Not from anger. From grief. He looked away quickly, his hands fumbling with a towel.

She said nothing. She walked to her corner and reached into the flour canister. Her fingers stopped. The smell was faint but wrong. Bitter. Metallic. Like rust and rot. She touched a pinch to her tongue. Numbness spread within seconds. Wolfsbane. Ground fine and mixed into her flour. Not a warning. An attempt.

She dumped the flour and walked to the garden. Cold air stung her cheeks. She picked rosemary, thyme, and wild chives from the stone wall. The herbs were wet with dew. She held them to her nose and breathed deeply. Safe. Clean. She made breakfast with what the earth gave her. Eggs scrambled soft with fresh herbs. No flour. No poison.

Dorian ate everything. He looked at her longer than usual but said nothing. When she reached for his empty plate, his fingers brushed hers. Warm. Brief. The first time he had touched her since Hal's Diner. She felt the warmth linger on her skin as she walked back to the kitchen.

After breakfast, Victor disappeared. Ella followed. She kept to the shadows as he crossed the wet grass toward the treeline. Her shoes sank slightly into the damp earth. A hooded figure waited among the pines. They spoke briefly, heads bent together. Victor took a small glass bottle. The figure vanished into the trees without looking back.

When Victor returned, Ella was waiting. The wolfsbane leaf lay on the counter between them.

"What did Kael give you this time," she said. "More poison?"

Victor's face collapsed. His arrogance crumbled. What remained was a man hollowed by fear. His knees buckled and he gripped the counter edge.

"My son," he said. His voice cracked. "Kael has my son. Emil. He is fifteen. They took him from school three weeks ago. A photo of him holding today's newspaper. Then Kael's voice. He said if I helped, Emil would live. If I refused, he would send me pieces of my son until nothing remained."

Ella estuvo. She had prepared for denial. Lies. Not this. She saw her father's face in her mind. His hands, taught her to knead dough.

"The poison in the flour," she said. "That was you."

Victor nodded. "He told me to put it there. Enough to make you sick. To slow you down. He wants you weak so Dorian watches you fade. Emil is the leverage. You are the target." He wiped his face with a shaking hand. "I had no choice."

Ella was silent. She thought of her father. Of what he would have done.

"Does Kael know you failed," she said.

Victor shook his head. "I report tonight. I was to tell him the poison worked."

"Then tell him. Say I am slower. That my hands shake. Buy us time."

Victor looked up. "Why help me? I tried to poison you."

"I am not helping you. I am using you." Ella's voice was cold but not cruel. "You will be my eyes in Kael's camp. Every message, every order, you bring to me. And when the time comes, we get your son back. Not because you deserve it. Because a fifteen-year-old boy does not pay for his father's sins."

Victor's shoulders shook. He nodded. Once. Hard.

Ella left him slumped against the counter and walked back to her room. She stood at the window, looking down at the garden corner. Her grandmother's iron box had waited in that dark earth for years. Now she knew why it was buried. To hide. To survive.

A knock at the door. Low. Firm.

She opened it. Dorian stood in the hallway. In his hand was the silver spoon from the iron box. The tiny one was carved with symbols she could not read. His steel-blue eyes met hers. She saw something there she had not seen before. Not hunger. Not coldness.

Fear.

He said, "I need to tell you what my father did to your grandmother."

Ella looked at the spoon. Then at him. Her chest tightened.

"Then tell me," she said.