Chapter 4
The kitchen smelled of roasted herbs and simmering broth, the scent wrapping around me like a long-forgotten comfort. I moved through the space with practiced ease, my hands working automatically as I stirred the stew. Cooking had always been second nature to me—a labor of love, a quiet act of devotion—but tonight, the act felt hollow.
Tonight, I wasn’t just making dinner. I was cooking for the last time in this pack.
I didn’t let myself linger on the thought. I didn’t let myself feel.
Instead, I focused on the warmth of the pot against my palm, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through vegetables, the way the fire crackled beneath the bubbling stew.
For years, I had been the one to do this. Every meal, every gathering, every celebration.
Not because it was my duty, but because I had wanted to. For him.
Even when Damon never once acknowledged the effort. Even when he took it for granted.
I should have stopped a long time ago.
I lifted the ladle, bringing a spoonful of the rich, aromatic broth to my lips. Perfect. It was warm and hearty, seasoned just right.
I had just begun plating when I heard him enter.
The air in the room shifted. The warmth that had lingered in the kitchen was stripped away in an instant. I didn’t need to turn around to know he was in a foul mood—I could feel it in the way his energy pressed against me, sharp and cutting.
His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as he approached.
I inhaled, steadying myself. Just a little longer.
Damon stopped at the counter, arms crossed as he stared down at the meal I had carefully prepared.
I waited for the usual indifference. The half-hearted nod before he walked away without a word of thanks.
But today was different.
The moment his eyes landed on the stew, his lips curled in disgust.
“What the hell is this?”
I blinked. “Dinner.”
His jaw tightened, irritation flashing in his gaze. "This?" He gestured to the plated food like it was something vile.
I set down the ladle, keeping my voice steady. “Yes, this.”
Damon let out a low, humorless chuckle. “You expect me to eat this garbage?”
The insult should have hurt. Maybe once, it would have.
But after everything? After watching him parade his mistress in front of me? After hearing the cruel words he whispered behind my back?
I simply stared at him, my face carefully blank.
“I made it the way I always do,” I said calmly.
His expression darkened. “Well, then maybe you’ve been making it wrong this whole time.”
I said nothing, refusing to take the bait.
Damon’s anger thrived on reactions. He wanted me to flinch. He wanted me to cower.
But tonight, he would get nothing.
His hand shot out, grabbing the heavy pot from the stove. For a brief second, I thought he was going to throw it at the wall. Instead, he took a step toward the sink and, in one smooth motion, poured everything down the drain.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
I just watched as the stew—the meal I had spent hours preparing—disappeared in a swirl of wasted effort.
The scent of roasted herbs turned bitter in my nose, the steam rising from the sink mocking me.
A sharp, searing pain flared across my hand.
I hissed, jerking back. Some of the stew had splashed, burning the skin along my wrist. It hurt, but I didn’t make a sound.
Damon turned, leaning casually against the counter as he studied me with cold amusement.
“Even an animal wouldn’t eat that,” he muttered.
The words echoed in my head, bouncing off every scar, every past humiliation.
Not once had I ever asked for his gratitude. Not once had I demanded his appreciation.
But to pour it out?
To burn me in the process?
I slowly exhaled, wiping my hand against my dress. The pain was manageable. The sting, temporary.
The damage had already been done long before this moment.
“Noted,” I murmured.
Damon raised a brow, as if surprised by my lack of reaction. He had expected tears. Maybe even anger.
But I was beyond that now.
I turned away, grabbing a damp cloth to press against the burn.
For the past years, I had stood in this very kitchen, making meals for a man who had never once deserved them.
And tonight, for the last time, I had done it again.
A few warriors passed by the open kitchen door, throwing me quick glances—not all of them cruel, not all of them indifferent.
Some of them had always respected me. They had eaten what I made, thanked me in quiet ways Damon never did.
They were not the problem.
But they also weren’t the reason I was leaving.
Damon pushed off the counter, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled.
“Alina made dinner at her place,” he said carelessly. “I’ll just eat there.”
Of course, he would.
I nodded, setting the cloth aside. “Enjoy.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the lack of emotion in my voice unsettled him.
I wasn’t giving him anything.
No tears. No anger. No sign that he had wounded me.
Because he hadn’t.
Not in the way he wanted.
Without another word, I walked out of the kitchen, leaving the empty pot behind.