Betsy gasped. “Oh, I’d love that. So much.” She’d never had friends. It hadn’t been possible. She’s had her parents. They’d gotten less and less attentive as she’d gotten older. But they’d been there.
“Great. Then we’ll plan that. I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Sure.” Betsy hit End on the phone and walked into the kitchen. She had no idea if Cyrus even had any food in the house. The one thing she could do was cook. It was what she had hoped to do once the business with Nathan was over. That would obviously not be happening now. A pang struck her heart. She was never going to school, never going to become a chef. Never see the world.
Tears threatened, and she blinked them away. She had this whole new world to explore; she’d become a werewolf, or, rather, she had discovered she had always been one. Nathan was being dealt with. Her parents would be okay, one way or another. Cyrus, who was hot as hell, and sweet to boot, belonged to her. What business did she have to be crying over culinary school, which probably would never have happened anyway?
She found the eggs in his fridge, along with some bacon and biscuits. Someone kept it stocked, but she’d guess it wasn’t Cyrus. She smiled at the thought. There were trade-offs, and even if she hadn’t been given a choice, she couldn’t let herself dwell on the negatives. Other things were too good to complain about.
Betsy broke the eggs on the side of a bowl and got started in making breakfast and quit thinking about things that wouldn’t do any good anyway.
Chapter Eleven
Cyrus opened his eyes and took a deep breath. His muscles were loose, and his head clear for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. He rubbed at his eyes and sniffed the air. His apartment smelled different. He scented…eggs. Someone was cooking breakfast.
A rush of memory pushed into his head, and he grinned. Betsy was here. He’d fallen asleep next to her after she had, well, given him immense pleasure the likes of which he had never known before. She’d tried, very badly, to trick him into falling asleep. He’d gone along because the woman had wanted to take care of him and it had felt so nice to he had no intention of arguing with her. Besides, he hadn’t really thought he’d fall asleep.
He threw his legs over the bed and glanced at the clock when he stood up. Did that say nine o’clock? Shit. He wasn’t just late; he was seriously late.
Cyrus bounded into the kitchen and took a deep breath. Wow. Her cooking whatever she prepared smelled like heaven. He’d never actually lived in a house with someone who could cook before. His mother had burned water when she tried. They’d all preferred meals she could reheat.
“What are you making?” He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She fit perfectly to him, and he inhaled her vanilla scent into his lungs. A man could get used to this.
“Eggs.”
It was the sound of her voice that alerted him. He hadn’t smelled distress over the scents of cooking and the vanilla, but it was there. Betsy was upset. Cyrus took a steadying breath. Yesterday had been a lot. It was ridiculous to think she wouldn’t be overwhelmed. Of course, he’d woken up happier than he’d ever been. But that was neither here nor there. This was her first day greeting the dawn as a werewolf. Maybe it didn’t look so pretty in the light of morning. He resisted the urge to chuck something across the room.
“What’s wrong?” Whatever she needed, he’d figure it out. If she wanted space, she could have another apartment in the building. He owned the whole thing. He’d court her or date her or whatever. Surely some member of his pack could tell him how to do that.
“I’m being stupid.” She wiped at her eyes. “I hope you like scrambled eggs. I didn’t want to wake you to ask how you liked them. Oh, and I spoke to Lake. The meeting with Alexei has been moved to lunch. No need to rush in.”
“You did?” She turned off the stovetop, and he turned her around until she faced him. One thing he would not do was stop touching her. That might kill him. She’d adjust, but she’d damn well do it in his arms even if it were three apartments down from his. “That was very kind of you to take care of that. I like my eggs however you want to cook them, and I don’t expect you to cook and clean, by the way. That’s not necessary. You don’t have to.”
“I actually like to cook.”
His cock jumped at the reminder of exactly what those other things she liked to do were, one particular act had knocked him for such a loop he’d completely conked out afterwards. He forced his attention back where it belonged. “You’re crying. This doesn’t seem like joyful cooking to me.”