Chefe Novels & Stories

When we finally arrived at the kitchen, I was greeted by the sight of a massive man who was at least 6'5" in height. He had a thick beard that covered most of his face, and his arms were as thick as tree trunks. This was the head chef. Duscha introduced me to the chef, explaining that I had been brought from the human realm by the Alpha king himself to assist in any way possible. The chef nodded in acknowledgement, but his face remained stern. I could tell he was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and I was intimidated by his presence. "What is your name, human?" he asked, his voice deep and loud. I took a deep breath before answering, "Bethany." The chef hummed in response, looking me up and down a

His presence filled the space before he even spoke. “Mrs. Blackthorn,” he said smoothly, his tone refined, charming even. “I hope I’m not intruding. I do intend to come on time when it is meetings like this.” I gestured for him to sit. “Not at all. You have me at a disadvantage, though. I don’t believe we’ve met. And given your scent, I can tell that you are not from here, Alpha.” He smiled, slow and confident, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “Forgive me. Alpha Lorenzo D’Amaris. But I choose to go by Mr. D’Amaris when it is amongst humans.”

I say to Christopher when the room remains silent. "Ah, hello. Oh, Mr D'Amico, Mr Rossi. Good afternoon." The chef says as he walks in, demolishing the tension in the air. "Hi, I'm Elizabeth D'Amico, his wife in three days." "Magnifique." I flinch at the thick French accent. Why would an Italian hire a French chef? Don’t they favour their own cuisine? "I am Étienne Philippe, the second chef; what is it that you want me to make?"

“O-okay, that’s... dramatic. I like it.” He nodded once, crisp like a man who irons his soul every morning. Behind him, a tiny woman shuffled forward—half my size, round as a cookie, eyes sharp as a hawk. “Annabelle. Head chef. Your meals will be warm, balanced, and blessed by flavor gods,” she barked. “Lactose, gluten, or poison intolerance I should know about?” “…None. I think.” “Good. I already planned seven rotating menus based on your age, bloodline, and tragic backstory.”

What was the man who sat at the apex of Haicheng’s food chain doing in a place filled with grease and steam? She walked toward the light and froze in the doorway. Xavier was standing at the stove, his tall, powerful frame silhouetted against the stainless steel. His long, elegant fingers gripped a chef’s knife with practiced ease, julienning carrots into strips so fine and uniform they looked like art. Chloe was genuinely stunned. The man who could ruin a dynasty with a single phone call... could cook?

, the submissive? And now what?.... The soon to be lunar of the pack of murdering wolves. Her subconscious snickered and she glared at her. Unfortunately, the young chef thought it was directed at him and hastily lowered his eyes to the trolley. It was the teenage chef from brunch. His uniform showed the rank of a junior chef. "Mistress..." He muttered hesitantly with a familiar fluent accent. "I...I was ordered to serve you an early din...." "Why didn't a maid bring it in?" She snapped because his staring was starting to get on her already bad nerves.

“It is all right,” his parents confirmed, and climbed the staircase hand in hand. “Good day, Young Master. Is there anything you want us to do?” Chef Carl, the thirty years Head of the Chefs, greeted. “Good day to you, Chef Carl. I wish to find out if you are through with my package.” “Yes, Young Master. You can have a look.” Then, Chef Carl signalled him to the packed food and snacks, and he was pleased with them.

But I guess, people change. “Who taught you how to cook?” I decided to ask before I placed my hands on his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his torso. “The television. When my mother would leave for work, she’d leave the television on before she’d disappear for hours. I would watch lots of cooking shows because she never left me with any food. I first learnt how to make an omelette and the next thing I knew, I could perfectly make tiramisu and whip up professional chef meals.” “Do you enjoy cooking?” he shook his head no.

I grabbed an apron and called over the Head Chef to go over each course and station. One of the things that set our Pack apart from others was how my father handled Omegas. Werewolves took pride in power, strength, and our warrior spirit. My father is a progressive thinker who encouraged talent of all kinds. He had some of the best restaurants in all the Packs. The great thing was that those great cooks and chefs were here in this kitchen to bring the event together. I swelled with pride, knowing these wolves found their home here and respected my father. They would give that respect to my brother one day. Roth was the head chef. I pulled him over to get more details. "Roth, what's our plan