The air in the kitchen, thick with the scent of rising steam, fresh bread, and the sweat of laboring bodies, felt like it was charged with a pre-storm electricity. But when Varg's dominant, woody pheromones crashed over me, the oxygen seemed to vanish from the room.
The Omegas' whispers, usually filled with that nauseating, faux-politeness, scattered like dust beneath the crushing weight of Varg's presence. He pulled me against him with such raw, unbridled force that I felt my bones ache as my back collided with the granite-hard wall of his chest.
He pressed a lingering, possessive kiss into the curve of my neck, his eyes scanning me with a dark, predatory intensity.
"Masters do not assist servants, Vespera." Varg said, his voice cutting through the kitchen's domestic clatter like a sharpened blade of authority.
