Eggs are supposed to be the easiest fucking thing to cook. Crack 'em, scramble 'em, don't burn 'em.
Simple.
So why the fuck am I staring at a pan of what looks like yellow rubber with black edges?
“Shit,” I mutter, scraping the spatula through the mess. The eggs stick to the bottom of the pan like they've signed a blood oath to never leave. I crank the heat higher, thinking maybe that'll loosen them up.
Smoke immediately billows from the pan.
"Motherfucker!" I lunge for the heat dial, cranking it back down as the smoke detector starts its high-pitched screech. I grab a dish towel and wave it frantically at the ceiling, like I'm surrendering to the kitchen gods who clearly have it out for me this morning.
The smoke detector finally shuts up, but the eggs are beyond salvation. I dump the blackened mess into the trash and grabanother carton from the fridge. Our fourth this morning. At this rate, we'll single-handedly cause an egg shortage.
But I'm determined to get this right. The pack needs to eat.
Ourgrowingpack.
Last night's events replay in my head as I crack more eggs into a bowl. The omega—ouromega—upstairs with Wraith. The sounds they made. The honeysuckle scent that still lingers in the air, fainter now but unmistakable. My failed attempt to talk to Plague, which ended with him looking at me like I'd suggested we rob a bank together.
I'm not even sure what I was trying to do there. The omega's heat scent must have scrambled my brain worse than these eggs.
Speaking of which…
I pour the new batch into a fresh pan, keeping the heat lower this time. Maybe that's the trick.
"What the hell are you doing to those poor eggs?"
I don't need to turn around to know it's Plague. That crisp, judgmental tone could only belong to one person.
"Making breakfast," I grunt, not looking up from my culinary disaster-in-progress. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're conducting a science experiment on how quickly protein can be transformed into carbon." He moves closer, his scent—clean and sharp, like fresh snow—hitting me as he approaches. He's freshly showered, his long black hair pulled back in a perfect low ponytail, wearing a black turtleneck that clings to his lean frame.
After last night's weird conversation, I'm not sure how to act around him. So I default to what I know best.
Being a smartass.
"Well, if you think you can do better, pretty boy, be my guest." I step aside with a mock bow, gesturing to the stove with my spatula.
Plague eyes the smoking pan with distaste. "I could hardly do worse."
"Then put your money where your mouth is."
He sighs that long-suffering sigh that makes me want to either punch him or... something else I'm not thinking about right now. Shit, my wires are crossed asfuck. Without another word, he takes the spatula from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine for just a second too long.
I step back, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter to watch him work. Plague dumps my latest egg attempt into the trash and washes the pan, muttering under his breath the entire time.
"You know," I say, watching him crack eggs perfectly into a bowl, "for someone who acts like he's above basic human needs, you sure know your way around a kitchen."
"I lived alone for years before joining this team," he replies without looking up. "Unlikesomepeople, I don't consider takeout a food group."
"Sushi's got all the food groups you could ever need."
He whisks the eggs with a little milk and what looks like... are those fresh herbs? Where the fuck did he find those in our bachelor wasteland of a kitchen?
"So," I say, because apparently I can't keep my mouth shut even when it's in my best interest, "about last night?—"
"We're not discussing that." His tone leaves no room for argument as he pours the eggs into the heated pan.
