Rejected By My Mate; Claimed By Lycan Quadruplets Chapter 27

Lisa's pov

If anyone had told me that I'd be laughing like a drunk squirrel in a different pack—of all places—I would've asked what brand of madness they were sipping.

But here I was, lips stretched in a stupid grin, flour in my hair, an apron that barely reached past my hips, and Calla giggling so hard her knees were nearly giving out. The kitchen smelled like chaos. And burnt sugar. Mostly burnt sugar.

"I told you not to leave the oven on broil!" Calla squealed, fanning the smoke with a wooden spatula that had definitely seen better days.

I covered my face with my hands, trying to hide the evidence of my war crime against what should've been perfectly innocent cookies. "You told me after I'd already turned the knob!"

"You didn't read the label?!"

"There were four knobs, Calla! FOUR!"

We both burst into another round of laughter, the kind that made your stomach cramp and your face ache. I leaned against the counter, catching my breath, brushing off some flour from my arm that was never supposed to be there in the first place. Somehow, flour always wins.

"I swear," Calla wheezed, slapping the table lightly. "If the Alpha finds out we nearly set the kitchen on fire—"

"Do you think he'd exile us?" I gasped dramatically.

"He'd probably just sigh and ask Ash to draft a new rule banning Omega baking."

"Oh great," I muttered, side-eyeing the disaster tray. "We'd be remembered in history as the girls who committed culinary homicide."

Calla snorted, pointing at me. "That one cookie actually looks like it grew teeth."

I stared. "That's not funny; it actually does."

Another fit of laughter.

I hadn't laughed like that in weeks. Months, maybe. My cheeks were warm. Not just from the oven's heat, but from something else. Something lighter. Like freedom. Like the very idea of not looking over my shoulder every ten seconds waiting for a slap or a harsh command.

This kitchen wasn't mine. The apron wasn't mine. Nothing here belonged to me—not even the laughter—but for a second, it felt like I was borrowing a version of myself I forgot existed.

"I needed this," I said, softer now.

Calla stopped laughing, her eyes warm. "Good. You deserve this."

I didn't reply. Compliments still sat strangely on my tongue. They always felt too bright. Too expensive to wear.

We spent the next hour trying to redeem our cookie tray by making pancake shapes on the stovetop. A heart. A moon. Something that looked like a wolf but ended up being aggressively abstract. My wolf, Alivia, gave a sleepy purr from deep inside me.

"I approve," she said.

Of the pancake?

"No. The peace."

Huh. That was new.

Calla made us tea while we watched our second batch cool down. I leaned over the counter, tapping my fingers against the surface as she poured the honey into our mugs like she was brewing ancient magic.

"You know..." she began, slowly stirring, "you're different when you smile."

I lifted a brow. "Is that your way of saying I usually look like a kicked cat?"

She shrugged innocently. "I mean—"

"You're awful."

"You love me."

"Only because you're the only one who didn't treat me like an infection when I got here."

She grinned, sipping her tea.

I sipped mine, warmth coating my insides. No poison. No command. Just... tea.

"I'll help you sneak the cookies to the kids later," she said.

"They'll think I hate them."

"They'll love you for trying."

That struck something in me. Being loved for trying. That sounded like a fairy tale. Like wolves who didn't grow up on scraps and cages.

I turned toward the window, staring out at the garden outside the kitchen. It was empty, save for a few leaves fluttering in the wind and—

I blinked.

Was that Ash?

He stood near the edge of the hedge, arms crossed, dressed casually in dark trousers and a loose button-down that fluttered faintly in the breeze. His hair was still damp—he'd either just showered or trained. Either way, he looked... sharp. Like he didn't belong in a garden. Or maybe the garden belonged to him.

"What are you looking at?" Calla asked.

I shook my head too quickly. "Nothing. Just checking if it's going to rain."

Liar.

I turned my gaze back down to the mug. But for some reason, I could still feel him watching. Not in a creepy way. Not in a command sort of way. Just... watching. Like I was a puzzle he didn't quite understand.

Maybe I was.

Maybe we both were.

A few hours later, Calla dragged me out again—this time to clean out the supply shed behind the east wing. It was dusty. Cramped. Filled with so many spiderwebs, I swore the spiders paid rent.

"You sure this isn't a punishment?" I asked, swatting another cobweb away.

"Punishment for what? Your war with the cookies?"

"Exactly."

We spent the next hour arguing about the best cleaning strategy and laughing over things that wouldn't be funny anywhere else. I accidentally dropped a whole box of old boots, and one of them hit Calla in the shin. She cursed dramatically. I apologized dramatically. She fake-died on the ground for five minutes while I promised her my tea stash as compensation.

By the time we stepped out of the shed, both covered in dirt and sweat, the sun was already dipping low in the sky. Everything turned gold, like the world decided to forgive us for everything stupid we did that day.

"You hungry?" Calla asked.

I nodded.

"Come on. I'll get Mira to sneak us some meat pies."

"You're my soulmate."

"I know."

We laughed again.

And somewhere—hidden by shadows, trees, or just really good silence—I knew Ash had been there again. Not close. Not direct. But there. Watching. Listening. Always in the background.

It wasn't threatening. It wasn't even intense. It was just... careful.

Maybe he didn't know what to make of me yet.

Maybe I didn't know what to make of him either.

But there was something in the way he looked—not just at me, but around me. Like he saw the weight I carried and wasn't trying to steal it. Just... observe it.

I didn't know what that meant yet.

But something told me—eventually—I would.

And when that day came, I wouldn't be the same girl who ran through hallways or cried under beds.

I'd be someone else.

Someone I was slowly becoming.