“What’s hockey butt?” Estelle whispers to me.
“I’ll tell you later.”
The two women walk out of the diner with their heads together. I’m really counting on their soft, gooey centers to make this work for us.
I slouch in the booth. This little taste of success pops the balloon of all the stress, and I can finally let the exhaustion wash over me.
Estelle knocks my shoulder with hers, then takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s going to be okay, you know.”
“Eventually,” I agree, not entirely convinced.
“She’s stronger than she looks.” She pats the back of my hand, reminding me sharply of Enzo for some reason. “And she’s got good alphas looking out for her. You’ll be good for her, Liam.” A small smile plays at her lips. “So, stop looking so goddamn miserable.”
I snort softly. “I’ll work on that.”
Estelle slides out of the booth so I can get up. I groan as she starts bussing the table.
“I’m serious, you’re a good alpha.”
“Yeah, sure,” I deflect. “Beckett’s going to have an insane travel schedule for the next few weeks. You want to come hang out? I’ll grill steaks.” I want to make it completely clear to everyone that this pack doesn’t coop up their omega and we’d never stand between Ash and her friends.
“Sure. And we’re going to have to get a google calendar together around girls’ nights. I don’t think Bella is going to be able to go a week without a gossip sesh with her new BFF.”
“Deal.” I give Estelle a side hug and turn for the door.
“Oh, and Liam?” Her voice lifts, sweet as sugar. “If you ever hurt Ash, I will kill you.”
My face goes cold. We both know that is not an empty threat. I smile as best I can and give her a salute as I push open the door.
Chapter fifty-five
PIERCE
“Fuck.”
I drop the piece of chicken back into the pan and turn to run my finger under cold water.
“Use tongs, you dummy.” I feel it’s only right to insult my own intelligence and kitchen skills since Liam and Beckett aren’t here to do it for me. I yank a drawer open and dig around for the stupid tongs.
“I suck at cooking, and even I know not to touch a hot pan.”
My heart kicks into double time as Ash enters the kitchen. She’s wearing one of Beckett’s shirts, the neckline cut out so it falls off one shoulder. That’s such a Florida thing. Butchering T-shirts, cutting the sleeves off to make muscle shirts, crop-topping them. They could get super intricate with slits and beads. One of the betas in my birth pack had a side hustle of selling them to tourists. An unsuccessful side hustle, but A for effort.
Ash’s collarbones look impossibly delicate, highlighted by the strap of her black bra peeking out. The shirt goes past her butt. I’m not sure she has anything under the T-shirt. I turn back to the chicken. I don’t need to be thinking about that right now.
I check my phone. No messages from Beckett, but Alexei sent a group text with the details for tonight’s viewing party. I’m supposed to bring buffalo chicken dip, and I’m doubling down on the spice because watching Alexei’s face turn red is one of life’s simple pleasures.
“What are you making?” She yawns, and I hear her pad across the kitchen.
“Buffalo chicken dip for Alexei’s thing tonight.” My voice sounds rough, even to my own ears. I gotta get a grip.
She doesn’t respond, just wanders around the edge of the island counter. Her fingers tap against the counter, nails bitten to the quick. I want to take her hands in mine, bring them to my lips. I want to trace each knuckle with my tongue.
Christ, I need to get a grip.
I flip the chicken over. Did she eat breakfast? She doesn’t seem to eat actual food until we sit down to dinner. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’ve seen her open the fridge on her own. Maybe she doesn’t feel at home yet or comfortable enough to poke around the fridge by herself.
A memory gut punches me. Randal never had food in the house. We had splurged one night. Got fried chicken to watch Game of Thrones. He sauntered through on his way out the door for work. Lynn’s mouth was stuffed with a chicken leg. “You got to stop eating that shit, you’ll get fat.” She was like ten and skin and bones.
