Chapter Two — The Chef and the Crowned Omega
Rain made London honest.
It stripped the city down to wet stone, smeared reflections, and the smell of iron that rose from the pavement like a confession. Thomas Hale loved the rain. It made deliveries late, diners forgiving, and kitchens feel like fortresses.
Tonight, it made him early.
He locked the restaurant doors behind him, coat collar turned up, container of béarnaise tucked carefully under his arm. It was still warm. Still perfect. He was unreasonably proud of it.
Halfway down the alley, he noticed the police tape.
That was unusual.
"Must be filming," he muttered.
A woman in a dark suit stood just beyond the cordon, hair pulled back, posture straight as a blade. She was speaking quietly into her sleeve.
Thomas stopped.
"…Elara?"
She turned.
For a fraction of a second, the wolf slipped.
Then she smiled.
"Oh. Hi, Tom."
Rain slicked her suit. Black, tailored, immaculate. Nothing like the gallery cardigans she usually wore. Something about her voice had shifted—flatter, colder.
"What's going on?" he asked, glancing at the tape, the shadows beyond. "You forget to tell me you'd changed careers?"
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Nothing dramatic. Security incident."
"In an alley?"
"London has many alleys."
He frowned. "You're soaked."
"So are you."
He brightened, lifting the container. "I made béarnaise. You said the last one was too acidic, so I adjusted—"
A sharp sound echoed from deeper in the alley. Something metallic, wet.
Thomas flinched. "Was that—"
"Construction," Elara said immediately.
"At night?"
"Emergency maintenance."
He nodded. Of course. London was always under maintenance.
Behind her, men in rain-dark coats moved with unnatural quiet. One of them dragged something heavy that left a darker trail on the ground.
Thomas squinted. "Is that… paint?"
Elara followed his gaze, then stepped fully into his line of sight, blocking the view.
"Tom." She took his free hand, fingers cool. "Go home."
He laughed softly. "You sound like you're giving orders."
"Habit."
He kissed her knuckles. "I'll leave the sauce in the fridge. Tell your… coworkers… I said hello."
"They already like you."
"I know."
He turned and walked away, humming.
Only when he reached the street did his smile falter.
"…I really need to stop buying mushrooms from that supplier," he murmured.
--
Elara watched him disappear.
Then she turned back into the alley.
The body lay twisted against the brick, rain washing blood into the drain. Sigils burned faintly into the skin, already fading. Amateur work. Desperate.
"Terror cell confirmed," someone said quietly.
She nodded. "Containment?"
"Complete."
Her earpiece crackled. "Asset Hale, status?"
"Uncompromised," she replied. "As always."
She knelt beside the body, wolf-eyes flaring briefly as she read what humans could not. Intent. Hunger. Fear.
They had been looking for leverage.
They had found the wrong family.
--
At home, Thomas reheated leftovers and fed the cat.
Ellie padded into the kitchen, half-asleep.
"Daddy," she murmured, hugging his leg. "Mummy smells like rain and sharp things."
He smiled, lifting her up. "Your mum works very hard."
She yawned. "She always wins."
"Yes," Thomas said softly. "She does."
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, love held.