Reborn as a villain:Claim the omega, Kiss the beta, Kill the dukes Chapter 15: Light in your eyes

Chapter Fourteen

Ciel

It’s been a week since we started living here.

And I hate how I’m getting used to it.

The soft linens. The sea breeze. The way sunlight slips through the wide windows in the morning and settles across the hardwood floors like gold. I hate how my body relaxes here—how my shoulders don’t rise to my ears at every creak or knock, how I’ve stopped sleeping with my shoes on just in case.

How I’m starting to feel... safe.

And maybe that’s why I’m in the kitchen right now. Because for the first ti in forever, I actually want to do sothing simple. Sothing soft. Sothing that doesn’t involve survival instincts or second-guessing.

Cooking.

The one thing I used to love. The thing that reminded of ho, before everything.

I scan the pantry, and—damn. Everything I ordered actually arrived. The dried herbs, the good soy sauce, the lentils, the delicate little tins of smoked paprika and cumin and fennel seed. The spices are lined up like soldiers on the shelf, the fridge is stocked, and the cookware?

Better than anything I’ve touched in years.

Jack gave full reign over the kitchen. Said I could do whatever I liked. And, to be fair, it didn’t look like he ever used it anyway—the oven practically coughed when I turned it on this morning, and the pantry had exactly one half-open box of protein bars and a bottle of olive oil that expired six months ago.

Now it’s mine. My little kingdom.

I pull on a soft apron and get to work. My hands don’t shake like they used to. They stir and chop and season with purpose. I slice onions and garlic, start a broth on the stove, and begin kneading dough for flatbread while the scent of simring herbs fills the air.

The baby kicks softly. I pause, hand on my belly.

"Slls good, huh? You’re going to love food as much as I do."

I don’t hear him co in, but I feel it—the air shifts, that subtle weight of pheromones. I glance over my shoulder.

Jack is leaning in the doorway.

His eyes scan the scene—the floured counter, the steam rising from the pot, barefoot in an apron like so tragic dostic fantasy.

He looks stunned.

"I was going to order takeout," he says, almost apologetic.

I arch a brow. "If you bring another plastic tub of greasy noodles into this house, I’ll feed it to the seagulls. And I won’t even feel bad about it."

His mouth twitches. "Noted."

He steps closer, cautious. I stiffen imdiately—instinct. Fight-or-flight buzzing low in my chest.

And he freezes. Doesn’t move another inch. Just raises his hands slightly, like he’s saying see? not a threat.

"I didn’t an to corner you," he says gently.

I breathe out. "I know."

The silence stretches, but it’s not sharp. He lingers in the doorway, watching knead dough like it’s an Olympic sport.

"I just..." My throat tightens. "I need to do sothing. I’m tired of sitting around in my own head. And I love the kitchen. It gives peace."

Sothing shifts in his face. His voice softens. "Clearly. You’ve got a light in your eyes I’ve only seen once before."

I pause, brow furrowed. "When?"

"When you talk about your son."

The words knock the air out of . I glance down quickly, pretending to fuss with the flour. But my hands falter. My heart feels too big for my chest.

Before I can think of a response, he clears his throat, rubbing his neck like he’s embarrassed. "I’ll, uh... go set the table."

"You know where everything is?" I ask, teasing without aning to.

He grins, already turning. "Nope. But how hard can it be?"

***

Jack

Turns out: very hard.

I’ve opened five drawers and found exactly one potato masher, three bottle openers, and sothing that looks like a dieval torture device but is apparently a garlic press.

Plates? No clue. Forks? Forget it.

"Need help?" Ciel calls sweetly from the kitchen.

"Nope!" I yell back, shoving the wrong drawer closed like I didn’t just find six identical whisks. "Totally under control!"

Eventually, I get everything onto the table. Knives where spoons should go. Napkins folded like abstract origami disasters. Cups upside down.

Ciel walks in, takes one look, and snorts so hard he nearly drops the tray of bread.

"Wow," he says, trying and failing to look serious. "A true artist. Bold. Chaotic. Revolutionary."

I point at the ss. "It’s called avant-garde dining. You wouldn’t get it."

He actually laughs—soft, unguarded, like a bell rung in an empty room. And damn if it doesn’t make the whole disaster worth it.