Chapter 172
I made my way to the kitchen but the smell hit me first. Not the warm, comforting scent of fresh bread or the rich aroma of simmering broth I remembered being cooked at this time but something heavier, almost a chaotic mix of too many things cooking at once.
My feet echoed a little on the floor as I stepped into the Parkhouse kitchen. It was bustling with activities. Ten women or maybe more, were scattered around, chopping vegetables and stirring large pots.
Then I saw her. A small figure, her back to me, stirring a large pot. My heart leaped happily. It was Ma.
“Ma?” I breathed, the word a soft whisper, but it cut through the clatter of pots and pans.
She spun around, her eyes widening, and a gasp escaped her lips. “Faith!”
And then she was running. Her apron flapped around her as she darted across the kitchen, her arms outstretched. I met her halfway, bending down as she launched herself into my embrace. Her arms wrapped around my neck, tight, desperate. I buried my face in her soft, familiar hair, inhaling the scent of her a mix of spices, woodsmoke, and just… Ma.
–
“Oh, my sweet girl! I’ve missed you so, so much!” she sobbed into my shoulder, her voice thick with emotion.
My own eyes welled up. “Ma, I missed you too! So much!” Six months. Six long, agonizing months. It felt like an eternity. Since my Ma and Pa are just human, they’ve always been so scared to travel through different packs. They worried about the dangers, about not fitting in, about being out of place. That’s why I hadn’t seen them face–to–face in so long. But we talked, almost every day, on the phone.
She pulled back, her hands cupping my face, her eyes shining with tears and
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a joy that mirrored my own. “Look at you, my beautiful girl. You’re even more radiant.” She squeezed my hands.
I don’t know how I feel about her being here in the kitchen cooking but I also
know that she’s happy here more than she’s ever been because they’ve even
built a house here.
I smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile, and then gently disentangled myself from Ma’s embrace. “I’m so glad, Ma. Truly.” I turned to the other women in the kitchen, who had paused their work and were now watching us, their expressions unreadable. “Good afternoon, ladies,” I said, my voice clear and strong, asserting my presence, my authority.
Immediately, their heads bowed, a ripple of respect passing through the group. “Luna,” they murmured in unison, their voices low. It was a familiar gesture, a reminder of my position, my power.
But as my gaze swept over the bustling kitchen again, something still felt wrong. The sheer amount of food, the intensity of the cooking… and the time. “Is there an event today?” I asked, my brow furrowing. “A feast, perhaps? A
celebration?”
In the back of my mind, a hopeful thought sparked. Maybe… maybe they were planning a welcome–home dinner for me? A special surprise after my long absence, a way to show they cared?
A woman, stout and stern–faced, stepped forward slightly. “No, Luna,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of warmth. “This is usually the time we start
dinner.”
My hopeful thought vanished, replaced by a prickle of annoyance, a cold knot forming in my stomach. “Three o’clock?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, the question laced with disbelief. “Since when? When I left, I made sure everyone knew that dinner cooking starts at four–thirty. Earlier than that, everyone is still busy with their duties, with their training, with their families.
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And nobody likes to eat cold food. I wanted to avoid that kind of waste, that kind of disrespect for their efforts.”
The woman exchanged a glance with another, a slight smirk playing on her lips, a flicker of something defiant in her eyes. “Well, Luna,” she said, drawing out the words, a deliberate slowness in her tone, “for the past few months,
this has been our routine.”
The way she said it. The subtle emphasis on “past few months.” It wasn’t an answer. It was a taunt. An insult, thinly veiled beneath a veneer of obedience. It was a jab, a clear sign that my rules, my decisions, my authority, had been disregarded, tossed aside the moment my back was turned. My blood began to simmer, a slow, dangerous burn. I was the Luna. I was not one to be walked all over by members of my own pack, especially not in my own home, in my own kitchen.
My eyes narrowed, scanning, their faces, each woman now avoiding my gaze. “Who,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous low, each word a hammer blow in the sudden, suffocating silence, ‘told you to do such a thing?” The air in the kitchen grew thick, heavy with unspoken tension. Pots stopped clattering. The women froze, their eyes darting nervously, like trapped mice.
Then, from the very back of the kitchen, a voice, smooth and laced with an infuriating confidence, cut through the silence. “Me.”
I spun around, my heart pounding, a cold dread washing over me, replacing the anger with a chilling shock. Standing there, leaning against a counter with a triumphant, almost smug look on her face, was a woman I hadn’t seen in more than 9 years. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes, so like my own, held a glint of something I couldn’t quite place, a mixture of challenge and something darker.
No. It couldn’t be.
Annabella. My cousin from my mother’s side of the family and most
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importantly my bully.
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My mind reeled, struggling to process the image before me. What was she
doing here? Why was she in my kitchen, acting as if she owned the place?
And most importantly, why did she think she had any right to decide anything
in my pack?
