The Cook Of Castamar Novels & Stories

The entire staff is apart of this group. Maid comes out from the kitchen, decked out in guns, aiming at the door ready to fire at anyone who shows any hostile intent. Joseph walks past her, checking to see if the rest of the staff was all in order. In the kitchen, there are chefs, Caçador, and Alina. The head chef walks towards Faust with their arms crossed. Beth Basilisk, the head chef of the estate, British immigrant, and the past leader of The Lovers. Another chef appears from behind her. The masochistic Lain Bergstrom, a young Brazilian girl with American heritage.

"I can't wait for this to be over. I miss Maiari so much, you guys have no idea." Catalina chimed in, her tone lighthearted as she playfully nudged her brother. "Oh, we have an idea, trust me. We've seen you moping around here like a lovesick puppy." The siblings laughed, the sound blending with the distant hum of the city but in the midst of their laughter and conversation, an unexpected guest appeared. The sliding door to the rooftop terrace creaked open, and Castor strolled in, a grin on his face.

"Thank you, Kyle. I appreciate your attention to detail." The cook, a stout woman with a warm smile, stepped forward. "Good morning, sir. I'm Maria. I'll be taking care of the culinary needs of the household." I smiled, shaking her hand. "Welcome, Maria. I'm looking forward to tasting your creations." The driver, a tall, imposing man with a stern expression, introduced himself as Jack. The four security men, Mike, Jared, Leto and Tom, were equally imposing, with a no-nonsense air about them.

I got smiles, and everyone returned to what they'd been doing. "Do you need something, My Lady?" The cook, Portia, eyed me warily, no doubt remembering my kitchen run-in from yesterday. I had no doubt that Marta had given her an earful for allowing the Alpha's wife to work with the servants in the kitchen. I felt a little guilty as I watched her round, sweet face. In her defense, Portia had tried stopping me, but I'd been adamant, and she'd given in. "Yes," I said with a smile. "I—Where is Marta?"

Someone massaged my back. “Goodnight, Mrs. Moretti,” one of them whispered. I woke up the next morning bracketed by brothers. I slipped out for a quiet moment, putting on a yellow sundress. On deck, the chef, Chat Chevalier, was already prepping. He was a lean, tattooed man from France, assisted by Sachin Singh from India. They were both strikingly handsome but talked only of their own mates back home. “Chat?” I asked. “That’s 'Cat' in French, right?”

Camila Castello. Adrian Moretti on the same team as Klaus—I’d be stupid to not see what this means. Klaus, Late King’s right hand man and the same person on the same boat my packs’ massacre—the same person that spoke of sacrificing my child for whatever voodoo shit they had planned, on the same team as Adrian.

Mira cracked it open to find Cook (yeah, the cook, queen of the kitchens), looking more fired up than a bonfire, despite the ungodly hour. “Girl,” Cook said, voice gentler than you’d expect from someone who could probably kill a man with a ladle, “fetch the ones you trust. No time to dawdle.” No arguments. Mira was gone before Cook finished talking, darting through corridors, hunting down the loyalists. Peter from the kitchens, little Martha (who handled Lyra’s dresses and probably knew more secrets than the royal spymaster), Sir Geoffrey’s page, basically, the castle’s heart and soul.

Other days, they just sat in silence, holding each other’s hands until the tremors passed. It was during one of those sessions that Castelle spoke of the bridge. “I still dream of that night,” she whispered, eyes distant. “When I almost jumped. When he caught me. Sometimes I think my soul still stands there — waiting.” The healer smiled gently. “And now?” Castelle looked at her belly, round and full with life. “Now, when I close my eyes, I see him standing there again. But this time, he’s not saving me. He’s waiting for me to walk beside him.”

Athos was in the castle kitchen, preparing a surprise for Carbius. He had dismissed the servants for the night, wanting the moment to be intimate and special. With surprising skill for a duke, he prepared a simple but delicious dinner: fresh herb-roasted fish, accompanied by grilled vegetables and a bottle of red wine he had saved for special occasions. The table in the dining hall was set with candles, creating a romantic and welcoming atmosphere.

First Person's Perspective Elena I found Marta in the big kitchen of the castle. She was standing by a wooden table, pressing and folding dough with her wrinkled hands. The warm smell of fresh bread filled the air, making my stomach rumble. The fire crackled in the old stone oven, casting a soft golden light across the room. I stood in the doorway, watching her for a moment. Marta had been with Salvatore since he was a baby. If anyone knew about his past, it was her.