Chapter 1: Where it all started
The smell of rosemary and garlic drifted into the cool Parisian night, swirling around the cobbled alleyways before finding its way through the open windows of a black Maserati parked just outside Chez Miel, a modest bistro tucked away from tourist eyes.
Inside, Angel, apron dusted with flour and cheeks flushed from heat and frustration, muttered under his breath. He'd just been told that "a very important guest" had booked the entire restaurant for the night — without notice. Rude. He hated people like that.
He was about to storm into the front to give someone a piece of his mind when the door opened — and in walked a tall man in a tailored black coat, a faint scar beneath one eye, and eyes darker than red wine in shadow.
Sebastian Delacroix.
Angel froze. His Omega instincts stirred — not in fear, but in something deeper. Something primal. The scent of leather, musk, and clove clung to Sebastian like a storm. The Alpha's eyes fell on Angel, and lingered.
"You’re the cook?" Sebastian asked, voice smooth as aged bourbon.
Angel squared his shoulders. “Chef. And yes. I wasn’t told you were arriving.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “Your scent led me here.”
Angel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t dine out,” Sebastian said, walking toward the kitchen door, ignoring the protests of Angel’s staff. “But I smelled something on the wind. Something I wanted.”
Angel stepped back as Sebastian entered the kitchen like he owned it — which, as it turned out, he did. He’d bought the building last week.
"You—what do you mean you bought—?!" Angel's eyes flared, but Sebastian was watching him with amusement now.
“You cook like you're in love,” Sebastian said softly, trailing a finger along the counter. “I’m curious if you live the same way.”
Angel’s heart skipped. That scent — powerful, intoxicating — was dangerously close now. He hated how warm it made him feel.
“I don’t cook for people like you.”
Sebastian smiled. “Yet here I am. Hungry.”
---
That night, Angel cooked. Not out of obligation — but because something inside him, something deep in his Omega soul, wanted Sebastian to taste his flavor, his passion. Each dish was a challenge, a declaration, a promise.
And Sebastian? He sat alone in the candlelit dining room, tasting every bite as if memorizing Angel’s touch.
Outside, the moon hung low over Paris. Lavender swayed in the planters near the windows. And something old, primal, and irreversible had begun.
