"What do you want to eat?" Kasteil asked, leaning casually against the counter.
"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Takeouts?"
The suggestion slipped out automatically. I didn't want to cook. No—that wasn't accurate. I wasn't the best cook. Cooking had always been an issue for me. I hated it. I wasn't a fan of it at all.
Andrew would hit me with the pot most times. The memory flashed sharp and sudden, the heavy clang of metal against my arm, the sting blooming into bruises I'd hide for days. Why? Because I was defective as an omega. Because I couldn't cook. Not like I couldn't at all—I wasn't completely hopeless—but I wasn't good. And why wasn't I good? Because I didn't like it. Because it made me feel like a failure. An omega who can't cook.
