To ruin an Omega

Chapter 176: This is me trying

CIAN

I pulled the blanket up over my mother’s shoulders. Tucked it in around her sides. Her breathing was deep and even now. Peaceful. The kind of sleep that came from real rest, not from whatever dark place the poison had dragged her to.

The infirmary bed wasn’t where she belonged. By morning…. By morning, I’d make sure she was back in her own room. In her own bed. Where she could wake up to familiar walls and familiar light and know she was back. Fully.

I stepped back. Looked at her face. The color had come back to her cheeks. The gray pallor that had terrified me was gone. She looked like herself again. Like my mother. Not like something death had tried to claim and failed.

Thorne had left hours ago. I’d sent him away myself when his eyes started drooping and his words started slurring together. He’d argued. Of course he had. But I’d pulled rank and he’d gone. Reluctantly.

Maren was still here though. Hunched over the desk in the corner with papers spread out in front of her. Her pen scratched against the surface. Quick, efficient movements. She looked up when I moved away from the bed.

“She’s good,” I said quietly.

Maren nodded. Went back to whatever she was writing.

I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up bright in the dim room. I squinted against it and checked the time.

4:00 AM.

The numbers stared back at me. Four in the morning. I’d been here all night. We all had. Watching. Waiting. Making sure my mother kept breathing. Kept fighting. And that everything was alright.

I pocketed the phone and headed for the door.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

Maren’s head snapped up. She smiled. “You deserve some rest after all of this.”

“I’m not resting.”

Her frown deepened. “Cian—”

“I have to cook.”

The silence that followed was almost funny. Almost. Maren just stared at me. Her pen had stopped moving. Her mouth opened slightly.

“You’ve never cooked,” she said finally.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Well.” She leaned back in her chair. Crossed her arms. “I guess miracles happen.”

I shot her a look. “Hey. I’m still your Alpha. Watch your tongue.”

Her hands went up in mock surrender. But there was a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. Then I left.

The hallways were empty. Silent except for the sound of my footsteps on the stone floor. Everyone was asleep. As they should be. It was four in the goddamn morning.

But the kitchen wouldn’t be empty. The kitchen never slept. Not really. There was always someone working. Always someone preparing the next meal or cleaning up from the last one.

I pushed through the door and sure enough, there they were. Three Omegas. Already moving around the space with practiced efficiency. Chopping. Stirring. The smell of bread hung in the air.

They all froze when they saw me. One of them nearly dropped the knife she was holding.

“Alpha Cian,” the head chef said. She was older. Gray streaking through her dark hair. She wiped her hands on her apron and bowed slightly. “Do you need something?”

I swallowed. “No. The thing is—”

She didn’t let me finish. “Oh. Perhaps Luna Fia—”

“Actually.” I cut her off politely and started again. “I want to use the kitchen. Alone.”

They looked at each other. They tried to make it seem like quick glances. But even those quick glances spoke volumes.

Did everyone in this estate believe that I could not cook? Damn.

The head chef turned back to me.

“Forgive my insolence.” Her voice was careful. Measured. “But could we know why?”

“Why?” I repeated.

“I didn’t mean to offend you Alpha Cian. This is just a surprise to most of us.”

“I want to cook something.”

“We can do that,” she said immediately. “It is our job and it is no trouble at all.”

“No.” I shook my head. “It has to be me.”

She studied my face. Whatever she saw there made her nod.

She turned to the others. “Pause everything you are doing and clear the kitchen.”

They moved instantly. There was no follow up questions asked. There was no hesitation. All that followed next was just smooth, efficient motion as they set down their tools and filed toward the door.

The head chef went to a hook on the wall and pulled down a clean apron. It was plain white and simple. She held it out to me.

“Everything is labeled,” she said. “And I will be just outside if you need help.”

She bowed again. Then she was gone. The door swung shut behind her and I was alone.

I stood there for a moment. Just breathing. Taking in the space. It was bigger than I Remembered. I liked that it wasn’t a mess too. It gave me space to work with. Everything had its place. Everything was organized. Labeled, like she’d said.

I tied the apron around my waist, rolled up my sleeves and pulled out my phone and opened the notes app.

The recipe glowed on the screen. Joseph’s handwriting translated into typed text. Palm oiled beans. I’d asked for this. Demanded it, really. And now I had to actually do something with it.

I read the first four ingredients.

Black-eyed peas. Palm oil. Onions. Scotch bonnet peppers.

I looked up at the kitchen. At the rows of shelves and cabinets. At the labeled containers lined up with military precision.

Right.

I started with the beans. Found them in a large jar on the second shelf. Black-eyed peas. Dried. Hard. The recipe said to soak them first. I grabbed a bowl. A big one. Poured the beans in. They clattered against the ceramic. Loud in the quiet kitchen.

Water next. I filled the bowl until the beans were covered. Submerged. The recipe said overnight but it was already morning. I’d have to make do with what time I had.

I set the bowl aside and moved on.

Palm oil. I found it in a dark bottle. The label was worn but readable. I unscrewed the cap and the smell hit me. Rich. Earthy. Different from any oil I’d used before. Not that I’d used many.

Onions were easy. I found them in a basket near the counter. Big yellow ones. I grabbed two. Set them down. Stared at them.

I’d seen people chop onions before. Couldn’t be that hard.

I found a knife. A big one. The blade caught the light when I pulled it from the block. I positioned the onion on the cutting board. Pressed the knife down.

The onion rolled. Nearly fell off the counter. I caught it. Tried again. This time I held it steady with my other hand. Cut down. The knife went through clean. Two halves.

Good.

I kept cutting. Slicing the halves into smaller pieces. The onion started to sting my eyes. Made them water. I blinked hard. Kept going. The pieces weren’t uniform. Some were bigger than others. Some were tiny. But they were cut. That was what mattered.

The peppers were next. Scotch bonnets. Small. Orange-red. Innocent looking. I picked one up. Rolled it between my fingers.

The recipe said to remove the seeds. To chop them fine. To be careful.

I cut into the first one. The seeds were clustered in the center. Tiny. White. I scraped them out with the knife tip. Got most of them. Then I started chopping.

The smell hit me before I realized what was happening. Sharp. Burning. It went straight up my nose and into my lungs. I coughed. Stepped back. My eyes were streaming now. Not from the onions this time.

I wiped my face with my sleeve. Looked at the pepper. At the juice on the cutting board.

Careful. Right. That made sense now.

I finished chopping. Washed my hands. Twice. Then I looked back at the phone.

The beans needed to be rinsed. Three times. The recipe was specific about that.

I grabbed the bowl. Carried it to the sink. Poured out the water. It swirled down the drain. The beans stayed in the bowl. I filled it again. Swished the water around. Poured it out. Filled it again. Swished. Poured. One more time. Three rinses.

Then I needed to cook them. The recipe said to boil them until tender. To test them by pressing one between my fingers.

I found a pot. Large. Heavy bottomed. I poured the beans in. Added water until they were covered. Turned on the stove. The flame caught with a soft whoosh.

I watched the pot. Waited. The water started to move. Small bubbles at first. Then bigger ones. A full rolling boil. The beans danced in the churning water.

How long? The recipe didn’t say. Just “until tender.”

I grabbed a spoon. Fished out a bean. Waited for it to cool. Pressed it between my thumb and finger.

Still hard.

I put it back. Waited. The kitchen filled with steam. With the smell of cooking beans. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just earthy. Simple.

I tested another bean. Still hard.

I kept waiting. Testing. The beans slowly softened. Took on water. Swelled. When I pressed the next one it gave. Not mushy. But tender.

Good enough.

I drained them. Set them aside. Turned my attention back to the stove.

The palm oil needed to be heated. The recipe said to use enough to coat the bottom of the pot. I poured. Watched it spread. Turned the heat to medium.

The oil started to shimmer. To move. I added the onions. They hit the hot oil with a satisfying sizzle. I stirred them with a wooden spoon. Watched them turn translucent. Soft. The smell changed. Became sweeter. Richer.

The peppers went in next. I added them carefully. The sizzle got louder. The smell intensified. That burn was back. But controlled now. Contained in the pot.

Tomatoes. The recipe called for crushed tomatoes. I found a can. Used the opener mounted on the wall. Poured the contents into the pot. Red. Thick. The oil and tomatoes mixed. Became something new. Something that smelled like it might actually be food.

Seasoning. Salt. Pepper. The recipe listed others too. Thyme. Bay leaves. A stock cube. I found them all. Added them one by one. Stirred. The smell was building now. Layering. Becoming complex.

The beans went in last. I poured them into the sauce. Stirred gently. The red coated the beans. Turned them from pale to dark. The recipe said to let it simmer. To let the flavors marry.

I turned the heat down. Covered the pot. Waited.

The kitchen was a mess. Cutting boards covered in onion and pepper remnants. Bowls in the sink. The counter splattered with oil and tomato. I’d clean it. Eventually. But right now I just stood there. Watching the pot. Listening to the gentle bubble of the simmer.

I’d cooked something. Actually cooked. From scratch. Following a recipe written by a man who’d failed his daughter in every way that mattered. But this recipe. This one thing. It was something Fia wanted. Something that connected her to her mother.

The pot bubbled. The smell filled the kitchen. Rich. Complex. Nothing like the simple ingredients I’d started with.

I lifted the lid. Looked inside. The beans sat in thick red sauce. Steam rose into my face. I grabbed a spoon. Took a small taste.

It was good. Better than I’d expected. Not perfect maybe. But good.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

In a few hours, Fia would wake up. And when she did, I’d have this waiting for her. Her mother’s recipe. Made by me. Made with my own hands because I’d listened when she’d talked. Because I’d paid attention to what mattered to her.

It was just food. Just beans and oil and peppers. But it was more than that too.

It was a promise. A tangible one. That things were different now. That I was different. That I’d do better.

I stirred the pot one more time. Then I turned off the heat and let it rest.