The Last Straw

NESSA'S POV

I rolled my eyes and let out a long sigh before looking up at the blonde with the buzz cut for only a brief second. The way he stood there with that mocking smile still on his face made my blood heat up all over again, but I forced myself to keep my voice steady even though the strange pull in my chest kept trying to distract me every time our eyes met. “I do not care if you are here to mock me,” I told him, my tone flat and tired. “Clearly you have nothing better to do with your time, but I have to get this over with soon, so I would appreciate it if you either left me alone and let me do my thing, or if you are going to insist on staying, then the least you could do is keep your mouth shut and just watch silently like a little mouse.”

He stared back at me, looking mostly unbothered by my remark. His arms stayed loose at his sides, and that same casual arrogance sat on his face like it belonged there permanently. For a second I thought he was going to fire something rude right back at me, the way he had done every other time we had spoken since I walked through the front door. Instead, he simply turned without another word and walked out of the kitchen. The sudden silence that followed his exit surprised me more than it should have. One minute he was standing there making fun of me in an apron, and the next minute the doorway was empty and I was alone again with the smell of garlic and cooking chicken filling the air.

That surprise quickly turned into a low concern that settled deep in my stomach. The boys were clearly determined to throw me out one way or another, for whatever reason they had decided on, and I had a strong feeling that they were not going to be too happy about the fact that I was doing exactly what they wanted instead of trying to prove myself stubborn. They had expected me to argue, to refuse, to storm out of the kitchen and give them the excuse they needed to kick me out of the house. By actually cooking the food they demanded, I was taking that excuse away from them, and something told me they would not like losing that particular power play. I tried not to overthink it. Overthinking would only slow me down, and the clock on the wall was still ticking toward the end of the hour they had given me.

I turned back to the stove and focused on finishing the stir-fry. The quinoa had already finished cooking and sat fluffy and ready in its pot. I gave the chicken and vegetables one last toss so that everything was coated evenly in the light lemon and herb sauce I had made, and then I switched off the burner. The kitchen smelled better than I expected for something thrown together under pressure, and a small part of me felt proud that I had managed to create a full meal that actually looked and smelled healthy in the time they had allowed. I reached for the stack of plates that sat on the counter near the sink and started forcing myself to dish as many of them as I could. My hands moved quickly but carefully, scooping a solid portion of quinoa onto each plate before adding a generous amount of the chicken and vegetables on top. 

I had no intention of playing the servant up until the point of carrying the food to them. The most I would do was dish it and leave it right here in the kitchen for them to come and pick up themselves. If they wanted to eat, they could walk their own feet into this room and grab a plate. I was their trainer and nutritionist, not their maid, and I was not about to start setting a precedent that I would serve them hand and foot just because they had decided to test me on my first night. 

I counted carefully as I worked, making sure I prepared nine different plates since that had been the number of boys I remembered seeing earlier in the living room and again when they gathered in the kitchen. Nine plates lined up in a neat row along the long counter, each one looking the same and smelling just as good as the last. When the final plate was filled, I stepped back and wiped my hands on the apron, feeling the weight of the hour finally lift from my shoulders.

I untied the apron, hung it back on its hook, and headed out of the kitchen, hoping I would find at least one of them so I could tell him that their dinner was ready. The hallways felt quieter than they had earlier, the kind of quiet that made every soft sound stand out more than it should. As soon as I stepped fully out of the kitchen, I started to hear noises from somewhere deeper in the house. It sounded like all the boys were seated together and laughing about something, the kind of loud, overlapping laughter that came from a group of people who were completely comfortable and not worried about anything. 

The sound pulled me forward without much thought. I followed it through the open living room and past the framed team photos on the walls until the noise grew clearer and I could tell it was coming from the dining area.

I arrived in the doorway of the dining area, and the second my eyes took in the full scene, my stomach dropped hard, and my fists automatically froze at my sides from the immediate rage that flooded through me. All nine of the boys were seated around the long wooden table, and in front of them were multiple boxes of pizza stacked open and half-empty. Greasy slices sat on paper plates and in their hands, and they were all munching on the pizza without a care in the world, talking and laughing between bites almost like they had completely forgotten that they had basically threatened me to make them dinner or face being kicked out of the house. 

The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the space and mixed with the leftover scent of my cooking that still clung to my clothes. It felt like a slap in the face after the hour I had just spent chopping, stirring, and plating food they had demanded.

I stood there for a few long seconds trying to process what I was seeing before the words finally left my mouth. “What is happening?” I asked, even though I could clearly see exactly what was happening. 

My voice came out tighter than I wanted, but it was loud enough to cut through their laughter. One by one they turned their attention to me. Some of the younger ones looked a little guilty the moment their eyes landed on me standing in the doorway. Their hands slowed on the pizza slices, and a couple of them glanced down at the table like they suddenly remembered the whole dinner challenge they had thrown at me earlier. The three who ran the house, the ones I had started thinking of as the three musketeers in my head, did not look guilty at all. They smirked smugly in my direction, the same arrogance from before sitting comfortably on their faces as if this whole scene had been planned from the start.

The rude blonde was the one who spoke first. He leaned back in his chair with a slice of pizza still in one hand and casually responded, “What do you think we are doing? Are you blind?” 

The words landed with the same careless edge he had used on me since the moment he opened his mouth earlier that evening. A few of the other boys chuckled under their breath, but the sound died quickly when I did not look away.

I tried not to let my rage make my voice shake as I forced the next question out. “Why are you eating fucking pizza after you asked me to make you dinner?” The swear word slipped out sharper than the rest of the sentence, but I did not bother taking it back. The heat in my chest was climbing fast, and the strange pull I still felt toward the three of them only made the anger worse because I hated that my body kept reacting to them even while they sat there insulting me with every bite of pizza.

The brunette gave the most nonchalant shrug I had ever seen and simply responded with the words, “Because we can.” His voice stayed calm and almost bored, like the answer should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain. The quiet one beside him did not even bother speaking. He just kept that same controlled smirk on his face and watched me like he was waiting to see how long it would take for me to break.

As soon as I heard the brunette’s response, every iota of patience inside me vanished into thin air. The last thin thread of self-control I had been holding onto since I walked into this house snapped clean. I stood in the doorway staring at the nine of them surrounded by empty pizza boxes and the leftovers of a meal they had ordered while I cooked the one they demanded, and in that exact moment I immediately knew what to do to wipe that horrid smirk off their faces.