I stare at her. "My alphas have been eating my 'fine' baking for four years. They seem pretty alive."
Drake starts to say something, but Mel steamrolls over him.
"I'm sure it's been adorable. But now Marie has real responsibilities. She can't spend all day playing with flour when she needs to be taking care of herself and her alphas properly. That means meals planned, macros balanced, everything intentional."
The words hit harder than any correction Ragon has ever given me.
"What do you think I've been doing here?"
Her brows arch. "Stress relief. Baking is very common with anxious omegas. My last clients had one who made cupcakes whenever she was overstimulated. It was quaint. But not actually useful."
I feel like she slapped me.
Eli's scent spikes with alarm behind me. I hadn't realized he'd followed us in.
"Her baking is useful. It feeds people. It makes them feel welcome. It's how half my hospital ended up trusting this house."
Mel glances at him, recalibrating. "I don't mean to offend. I'm just saying, Marie bringing me in is a step up. She wants what's best for her alphas. Doesn't she, sweetheart?"
She turns to Marie with a smile.
Marie looks wrecked.
Her scent is all over the place, embarrassment and guilt and distress tangling together. She glances at me, at my flour-dusted hands, my mixing bowl, the cookies cooling that I'd made with her earlier.
"I didn't mean—" Marie starts, turning to Mel. "I just... you said you could help, and I thought—"
"That I'm not good enough? That I don't take proper care of the alphas?"
Silence.
The noise from the living room continues—laughter, cards shuffling, glasses clinking—but in the kitchen, the air goes razor-thin.
"That's not what I said," Mel says. "Don't be dramatic."
"You called what I do unimportant. And a waste of time. And not good enough for 'her alphas.'" I put air quotes around the last part because I want to hurt someone. "I don't know what your definition of important is, but in this house, feeding several exhausted nurses after a twelve-hour shift counts."
Drake moves closer to me, his scent rising in protective anger.
"No," Mel says crisply. "You hired me—"
"No one hired you. You were invited as a guest. You're in my kitchen, insulting my work in front of my pack."
"It's not work. It's a coping mechanism. And not a healthy one if it keeps you tied to the oven instead of integrating as a proper omega."
Something in me snaps.
"This 'coping mechanism' got me through being dumped back at the registry like a defective item. It got them through more double shifts than I can count. It built half the trust we have with the people out there." I jab a floury finger toward the living room. "You don't get to walk in here and declare it worthless because it doesn't fit your meal plan."
Her posture stiffens. "I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to Marie about what's good for her alphas."
"And those alphas are also mine. This is their house, but it's my home. You're a tourist. Act like one."
"Verena," Ragon says from the doorway.
Of course he picks now to appear.
He takes in the scene in a quick sweep: my flushed face, flour on my hands; Mel's tight mouth; Marie's wide eyes; Eli's clenched jaw.
