Head Chef's POV
The kitchen was loud and warm and smelled of toasted bread and sautéed mushrooms, the way it always did at half past seven in the morning.
I wiped my hands on my apron and watched critically as everything was being prepared, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be.
The porridge was ready. The eggs were done. The fruit had been sliced exactly the way I'd demanded and arranged on the silver tray in the particular pattern I'd designed specifically for the Luna's meals - because even if the Alpha hadn't said a single word about how the girl was to be treated, I had eyes. And I'd seen the way he'd looked at her right before she was escorted through the back door.
"Delia!" I called, not looking up from the sauce I was adjusting.
Silence.
I looked up.
"Where is Delia?"
The kitchen girls exchanged glances - the kind of glance that meant someone knows something and no one wants to say it.
I set down my spoon with impatience.
"I will ask one more time."
