Free Web NovelChapter 45: Chapter 45
Aria’s POV
Truth be told, I was a picky eater. Always had been. Growing up at my grandmother’s house, I’d often been teased about my finicky tastes. My grandmother, Kate Osbourne was a respected Elder in my pack, The Moonshadow pack.
She had always found my tastes amusing, even if I didn’t at the time. She’d pinch my ear playfully and call me a "little food snob," but even in those moments, I knew she was just trying to make me laugh.
And I did laugh, though I often stormed off, huffing about some meal I refused to eat. But then, always, Kate would emerge from the kitchen, a plate of tomato dishes in hand, just for me.
They were always sweet and sour, a mixture of flavors that I couldn’t resist. Even in my bratty moods, I would eat them with gusto, savoring every bite.
But then the prison years came. And all that... all the delicacy, was gone. That version of me hadn’t survived the cellblock. In the year and a half I spent behind those walls, I learned to choke down food I would’ve turned my nose up at before.
The tomatoes in Peter’s hand, so bright and beautiful, made a lump rise in my throat. I had been so different back then. The softness of who I once was, who I’d been allowed to be, was slipping through my fingers, a memory I could no longer hold on to.
More tears burned in my eyes, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t let myself fall apart here.
I watched Peter freeze, startled by change in demeanor. His eyes flicked to mine, and I could feel the awkwardness settle like a thick fog between us.
He fumbled for a tissue, his hands slightly trembling as he cursed himself for saying the wrong thing. My wolf noticed everything, the tension, the tightness in his shoulders, the small crack in his calm facade, but I pushed it all aside. freёweɓnovel.com
"I’m fine," I said, my voice thick, barely above a whisper. I forced a smile, brittle and fragile, like a delicate thing that might shatter with the slightest breath. But the lie hung in the air, and I couldn’t bring myself to explain that I wasn’t fine.
Peter paused, and I felt his eyes searching mine, unsure. "Are you sure?"
His awkward concern cut through the haze of my own thoughts, and I couldn’t help it. A soft laugh slipped from me, light and airy, just enough to break the tension, even if it was fleeting. The sound felt like a breath of fresh air, something that made the weight of everything lift, just a little.
Relief flooded Peter’s expression. He clutched his chest dramatically, as though he’d just survived some near catastrophe. "Phew, you scared me there."
It was stupid, but it made me smile, genuinely this time. frёewebnoѵēl.com
"My grandma used to make all sorts of tomato dishes for me," I said suddenly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I wasn’t even sure why I said it, except that the memory was there, lingering.
I wasn’t looking at Peter anymore, though. My gaze drifted off, as though I could still see her standing before me, the warmth of her presence filling the space around us. The scent of tomatoes, the simmering pots.
My voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper that might scatter in the breeze if I weren’t careful. "She made everything with tomatoes. It was her thing."
Peter paused, and I could see the realization settle in his eyes. He understood, finally, that I wasn’t just talking about food, I was missing her.
His eyes softened, taking me in. My head bowed slightly.
For a second, I could sense the tension in the air between us, the kind of tension that felt like it could break. But then Peter blinked hard, shaking off whatever had caught in his heart, and turned away, his posture stiffening again.
"Missing your grandma, huh?" His voice was playful, trying to bring things back to normal. "What kind of dishes did she make? I’m a decent cook, you know. Maybe I can whip up something close."
I smiled wistfully, warmth spreading through me, but I shook my head. "You can’t recreate her flavors," I murmured. No one can.
It was a strange thing to say, but it was true. My grandmother’s cooking wasn’t just about the taste, it was about her. The way she’d pull me into the kitchen with that knowing smile, her hands working magic as she humored my picky tastes.
She had been my world, and without her, the world felt... empty.
I scanned the towering piles of vegetables, my thoughts drifting again. The marketplace was alive with people and noise, but I felt so disconnected from it all.
"What else do we need?" I asked, trying to shift the conversation, looking at Peter as I turned back to the stalls.
He rubbed his chin, returning to his usual upbeat self. "How about some cucumbers? And maybe some fish—I heard it’s good for postpartum recovery." His voice had that easy confidence that made me feel like I could let my guard down.
We strolled through the market together, the noise of the vendors and the sizzling food filling the air around us. I could feel the warmth of the morning sun on my skin, the weight of Lana in my arms, and for a moment, everything felt... normal.
We were just two people out shopping, two people laughing and talking about nothing. From behind, we probably looked like a young couple, strolling through the market, their laughter blending into the activities of life around them.
But when I glanced over at Peter, I saw that his ears were faintly pink, and I realized he was more aware of the situation than he was letting on. His bashful smile made me laugh softly to myself. Maybe it wasn’t just me who was still figuring out how to be normal again.
I squeezed Lana gently, letting the moment wash over me, grateful for the simplicity, even if I knew it wouldn’t last forever.
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
