Yeah, Declan’s not gonna like that.
I step forward. “Come on, man. We’re newly bonded. You really gonna split us up? You know how alphas can get. Letting him stay’ll make this whole thing easier.”
“Newly bonded?” The man eyes us, suspicion thick in the air.
I snake an arm around Declan’s waist and stare up at him with a look I hope is adoring, leaning into him like we’ve done this a hundred times. “He’s my whole world.”
Declan lets out a grunt, then yanks me in and kisses me like he’s trying to bruise the memory into my mouth. It’s too much. Way too much. And yet?—
And yet.
His mouth is hot, demanding, and for a second, I forget why we’re here.
When we break apart, both of us breathless, the guy barely reacts. He just shrugs. “Do that again, and I might get you the package.”
I groan. “Seriously? This was supposed to be a simple handoff.” I grab Declan by the collar and kiss him again. It starts the same—a little performative, a touch over-the-top. Then he eases into it, lips softening, mouth parting like a sigh. I feel him give. Trust me. Let me in. I’m not sure I deserve it.
My tongue brushes his, and for one hot, impossible second, it’s not an act anymore.
We break apart slowly this time, stunned. Breathless. Shaky. What the hell was that?
When I glance over, the guy’s gone. The front door hangs open. It might be an invitation. Might be a trap.
“Should we follow him?” I ask, voice hoarse.
Declan hesitates, then shakes his head.
A moment later, the guy reappears with a brown paper package nearly the size of a shoebox. He hands it over without ceremony.
It’s a lot bigger than I expected.
“Good luck getting it through customs,” he mutters, then gives us a shrug that says,‘not my problem,’and slams the door in our faces.
I tuck the box under my arm and clap Declan on the back. “Good thing you’ve got connections, huh?”
He doesn’t smile, just stalks to the cab.
I follow, heart thudding too fast.
49
LUCAS
There’s a difference between acruise ship kitchenand akitchen kitchen,and this one makes that painfully clear. The countertops are built for elbow-brushing. The oven is basically child-sized. And the five of us are attempting to cook a full dinner like we’re the poster pack for a functional found-family sitcom.
Spoiler: we’re not.
Gunner’s stationed by the fridge like the self-appointed kitchen supervisor, ears perked every time a knife hits the cutting board. Ava’s taken charge, of course. Her hair’s twisted up in a knot so tight it probably requires engineering, and she’s holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
“We’re making a real meal tonight,” she says, eyes scanning us like a drill sergeant on her last nerve. “No snacks. No cereal. Something with vegetables and actual seasoning.”
Declan’s already halfway through dicing chicken breasts like he moonlights on a cooking competition show. His sleeves are rolled, his brows furrowed, and his knife is moving with precise, deadly elegance. Honestly, it’s really fucking hot. And unfair.
I’m stationed at the end of the counter with a cutting board for limes and a bowl full of tortilla chips. Because I maintain that chips are emotionally adjacent to dinner, and also because no one’s stopping me.
Emily clings to a bottle of white wine like it’s a flotation device. “House rule,” she declares. “No blood.”
“And no fire.” Ava gives Emily a pointed look, then hands Knox a butter knife. I wonder if she doesn’t trust him with the few sharp knives the kitchen is equipped with. “You’re on mango duty,” she says to Knox. “Declan’s got the chicken. Emily’s on wine, general emotional support, and looking really damn cute.” She pats Emily’s ass affectionately. Emily smiles shyly in response. “I handle the sides,” Ava adds before turning her attention to me. “Lucas, you’re on limes and making sure no one dies.”
