Chapter 11: Tasting Notes

Maya's POV

By day three, I'd learned that "personal assistant" was, at best, a generous description of the job.

"Explain to me again," I said, staring down at a plate arranged with what looked like eleven identical pieces of seared duck, "why I'm tasting all of these."

"Council banquet is Friday," Elias said, not looking up from his tablet. "Alpha Ashford can't be seen eating something that disagrees with him in front of forty visiting Alphas. Imagine the headlines. Supreme Alpha Excuses Himself Mid-Toast. Pack morale would never recover."

"So I'm a food taster."

"You're quality control." Elias finally glanced up, entirely too pleased with himself. "Very important role. Extremely dignified."

"This feels like something out of a medieval court."

"Welcome to pack politics." He slid the plate closer. "Now, rank them. One being 'acceptable,' eleven being 'diplomatic incident.'"

I picked up the fork, mostly to have something to do with my hands, and only realized Damon had entered the room when Elias abruptly straightened, tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.

"Alpha. I was just—"

"Explaining that I'm a food taster," I said. "Apparently this is a real part of the job."

"It's a real part of the job," Damon confirmed, settling into the chair across from me with the ease of a man who'd clearly done this before, though something about the way his eyes lingered on me a beat too long suggested he hadn't necessarily wanted to do it with someone else sitting across the table before.

"You could just, I don't know, eat things and see if you like them."

"That's not the concern," Elias said, before Damon could answer. "The concern is—"

"The concern," Damon cut in, "is that certain packs have historically used shared meals to test loyalty, and occasionally, tolerance."

I blinked. "Tolerance to what?"

"Poison," he said, like he was commenting on the weather. "Mild doses. Enough to embarrass, not enough to kill. It's an old tradition. Mostly extinct now. Mostly."

I set my fork down very carefully. "You're telling me I might be tasting poison right now."

"No," he said. "You're tasting duck. I'm telling you why the position exists in the first place."

"That's not comforting."

"I told you," he said, the corner of his mouth doing something suspicious, "I wasn't here to comfort you."

Elias made a small, delighted sound that he quickly disguised as a cough.

I picked the fork back up out of pure stubbornness, tasted duck number four, and declared it "fine, I guess," which earned an offended noise from the chef somewhere behind the kitchen door that I hadn't realized was cracked open.

By the time we reached duck number nine, Damon had abandoned any pretense of reading whatever documents he'd brought in with him, watching instead with the focused attention of someone who'd apparently decided this was more interesting than actual work.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm observing."

"That's the same thing with better manners."

"You have very specific opinions about duck," he said. "I find it educational."

"I have very specific opinions about everything. We covered this on day one."

"You did mention that." Something warmer crept into his voice, quiet enough that Elias, mercifully, had wandered toward the window to take a phone call and missed it entirely. "I'm starting to understand why my wolf didn't have a choice in the matter."

The fork paused halfway to my mouth.

"That's not — we don't do that," I said, aiming for firm and landing somewhere closer to flustered. "Purely professional, remember? Your rule."

"My rule," he agreed easily. "Currently very difficult to enforce against myself."

"Then enforce it harder."

"Noted." He didn't look like a man taking notes on anything. He looked like a man very much enjoying watching me squirm, which, infuriatingly, only made the squirming worse.

Elias returned before I had to figure out how to respond to that, tablet raised like a peace offering. "Sorry, that was the tailor again. Green suit's ready for a final fitting tomorrow, per Miss Ellison's very correct opinion."

"It wasn't a competition," I said.

"It was absolutely a competition," Elias said. "You won. Historic moment. First person to override an Alpha's wardrobe choice in recorded history."

"I'll allow one exception," Damon said, standing, gathering the folder he'd never actually opened. "Don't get used to it."

"I fully intend to get used to it," I said. "Green today. Something bolder next week."

He paused at the door, glancing back with an expression that lingered somewhere between warning and something considerably softer.

"I'm sure you do," he said, and left before I could figure out whether that had been a threat or a promise.

Elias watched him go, then turned to me with the barely restrained glee of a man who'd just watched something significant happen and wasn't entirely sure either of us had noticed.

"Duck number ten," he said instead, sliding the plate forward, "before it gets cold."

I picked up the fork again, chest doing something warm and complicated that had absolutely nothing to do with poultry, and tried very hard to remember why professional distance had ever seemed like a reasonable idea.