Alpha's Regret: Marked By The Lycan King

Estelle’s POV

Everyone looked over at me in surprise as my stomach betrayed me with another rumbling sound. Heat crept up my neck, and I pressed a hand to my abdomen.

“Well, that settles it,” Josephine declared with obvious satisfaction. “You need to eat immediately.”

Zayne stepped forward. “I’ll have the kitchen staff prepare something for you right away.”

But Josephine caught the eye of a staff member hovering near the doorway. The woman took one look at Josephine’s meaningful stare and quickly scurried away, disappearing from sight.

“Oh dear,” Josephine said, though she didn’t sound concerned at all. “It seems the staff are all terribly busy right now. They’re completely unavailable.”

Zayne raised an eyebrow at his grandmother’s obvious maneuvering. “Unavailable?”

“Completely swamped,” Josephine insisted with a straight face. “Kitchen duties, cleaning, you know how it is. They simply cannot spare anyone at the moment.”

Oliver nodded solemnly, playing along. “Such dedicated workers. Always so busy.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up as if she’d just had a brilliant idea. “Zayne, why don’t you cook something for Estelle yourself? I’m sure you remember how.”

I blinked in surprise, looking between them. “You can cook?”

Zayne’s lips curved into a small, pained smile. “I can. Though I can’t guarantee the quality will match the palace chefs.”

Something about his modest response made warmth spread through my chest. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

“Perfect!” Josephine clapped her hands together. “Off you go, both of you. Oliver and I have medical matters to discuss anyway.”

Oliver practically shooed us toward the door. “Take your time. These examinations can be quite lengthy.”

Before I knew it, Zayne and I were walking down the corridor together, heading toward the palace kitchens. The silence between us felt comfortable rather than awkward.

“Your grandmother is quite the matchmaker,” I said lightly.

Zayne chuckled. “Subtle as a sledgehammer. I apologize for her meddling.”

“I don’t mind it,” I admitted. “It’s actually rather sweet.”

We reached the kitchens, and Zayne pushed open the heavy doors. The space was completely empty of staff, just as Josephine had claimed. However, fresh ingredients were laid out neatly on the central counter alongside various cooking utensils and pans.

I surveyed the perfectly arranged setup with amusement. “For staff who are so terribly busy, they certainly had time to prepare everything we might need for a meal.”

Zayne smiled but said nothing, moving toward the ingredients. He reached for an apron hanging on a nearby hook and pulled it over his head.

I found myself watching as he tied the strings behind his back. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he reached around, and his long, slender fingers worked deftly with the knots. The simple domestic action was unexpectedly mesmerizing.

My mouth went dry. I forced myself to breathe and swallow before dragging my attention back to his face.

Zayne turned around, now properly aproned, and caught my gaze. “So, what would you like to eat?”

“Oh, anything simple is fine,” I said quickly. “Whatever’s easiest for you.”

His head tilted slightly. “Don’t you trust my cooking skills?”

I hurriedly shook my head. “That’s not it at all! I just don’t want to give you trouble or take up too much of your time.”

“Mason has everything handled back in the office,” Zayne said, his voice warm. “I’m yours for the evening.”

My heart did a little flip at his words. The casual way he said it made the simple statement feel intimate.

“How does pasta sound?” he asked.

I nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

Zayne moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. He selected ingredients with practiced ease and set a pot of water to boil. His movements were confident and economical, like someone who’d done this countless times before.

I leaned against the counter, content to watch him work. He handled the knife with expert precision, cutting pancetta into neat pieces. When he adjusted the flame under his pan, the motion was fluid and practiced.

“You seem very skilled at this,” I commented.

Zayne nodded, his attention focused on the sizzling pancetta. “I spent my teenage years and early twenties outside of lycan territory. I had to take care of myself during that time.”

He stirred the pan contents, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. “I learned many basic survival skills out of necessity. Cooking was one of them.”

The pasta water began to boil, and he added the noodles with practiced timing.

“At one point, I even worked at a restaurant as a cook,” he continued conversationally.

My eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

“For about eight months,” he confirmed, whisking eggs and cheese together for the carbonara sauce. “It was good work. It kept me busy, and the job also included meals. I enjoyed it.”

I studied his profile as he concentrated on his cooking. There was something almost peaceful about the way he moved through these domestic tasks.

“Why did the heir to the lycan throne have to do all these things?” I asked softly.

For someone who was born to take over the supernatural world, I would’ve assumed that he had servants to handle his meals for him. Even if he could cook, it would be out of personal interest or betterment, rather than for survival.

Zayne’s hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their work. When he spoke, his tone remained completely casual, as if he were discussing the weather.

“I wasn’t the heir that the lycans wanted.” He drained the pasta and began combining it with the sauce. “In fact, they wanted me dead.”

The smile dropped from my face completely.