Three months and seven days…

I stood in the kitchen early Saturday morning, preparing a massive breakfast for the pack house. Ten pounds of sausage and bacon were already prepped; the fruit was sliced; coffee brewed; all that remained were the pancakes. I’d also made Alpha Liam a separate breakfast: his favorite croissants and an omelet. I hoped a happy stomach might keep him from bothering me today.

Pancakes sizzled on the griddle as I pulled the homemade croissants from the oven. They smelled divine; I’d truly excelled myself. I set the pan on the counter, grabbed the cinnamon butter I’d whipped up, and thought, Must taste test!

I walked to the counter, selected a hot croissant, and smeared on some whipped cinnamon butter. I flipped the pancakes, then took a bite of the flaky pastry. Oh my, this was far superior to leftovers!

I hummed contentedly, savoring another bite of the warm, flaky pastry. Knowing I couldn’t linger, I wrapped half in a napkin, tucked it into my apron pocket, and resolved to finish it later.

I continued cooking, keeping an eye on the clock. Alpha Liam usually arrived fifteen minutes before breakfast, inspected the menu, and then declared he didn’t want it. Breakfast was twenty-two minutes away; I needed to prepare his plate.

Reaching for a plate, I muttered, "Damn it, I need that stool!" I retrieved the step stool from the corner—I was practically the only one in the pack house who used it. Most werewolves, even the she-wolves, were taller than I. I climbed onto the stool and reached for a plate when I felt an intensely warm presence behind me. A hand reached over, grabbing the plate. I turned, offering a shy, "Thank you," only to jump back, dropping the plate and landing on my backside. No, no, no. Please, not again.

Liam

The delicious aroma of croissants drew me into the kitchen. One of the cooks made these heavenly pastries from scratch, always pairing them with incredible omelets.

I saw a small girl struggling to reach a plate. Assuming she was one of the young she-wolves my mother cared for on weekends, I offered to help. I grabbed the plate, intending to hand it to her as she turned.

My expression shifted from shock to anger as I met her dull green eyes. She jumped back, dropping the plate (though luckily, I still held it). My mother hated broken dishes.

I looked down at her tear-filled eyes. "Trying to sneak food while the cooks are away?" I asked, my irritation growing. I noticed a half-eaten croissant peeking from her apron pocket. "Seems our leftovers aren't good enough for you anymore."

She shook her head violently, eyes fixed on the floor. I couldn't believe my father allowed this traitor to remain in our pack, in our house.

I grabbed her shirt, hauling her to her feet. There was a small rip. I shoved her toward the croissant pan and slid the plate down the counter, ordering her to make me a plate. Tears welled in her eyes.

An uncomfortable feeling stirred in my chest, but I ignored it. She placed four croissants on my plate. Before I could scold her further, she retrieved my favorite omelet from the oven, added it to the plate, then grabbed silverware and a small dish, spooning in some of that delectable cinnamon butter. She turned and left.

I took my plate to the dining room as two cooks entered to finish clearing breakfast. They gave me odd looks, raising their eyebrows at my plate.

I began eating. Oh my. These croissants were addictive. Midway through, Damien, my best friend and future beta, joined me, immediately devouring his food. Goddess help his future mate…

"Lake house?" he asked between bites.

"Nah, extra training with the warriors today," I replied. A thought occurred to me: I could settle the score with that little traitor girl.

"Whatever," he said, uninterested.

As I finished, a cook brought out more croissants. I knew there were more! But I also craved a second omelet. "Any more eggs?" I asked hopefully. The omega cook shook her head and returned to the kitchen. Odd. Usually, they made seconds.