Minutes after Zara walked out, her scent lingering in the air, testing and challenging the inner Alpha within, I diligently strolled to the kitchen for dinner. Yet I didn't brace myself enough for what was to come. The wooden dining table, hidden by a spread-out golden-colored tablecloth, with cutlery scattered like ants, came into view as I stood on the concrete stairs—two steps down from the entrance of the kitchen—observing it all like a king to his subjects.
I didn't have to squint to see Zara's short figure, standing on wobbly legs atop the table, her toes pointed and carefully placed so as not to step on any food.
