Kidnapped Alpha Mate

Chapter 21- What He Didn't Break

As we step through the door, the warm scent of old wood greets us, . Laughter spills from the group gathered around the couches, their voices rich and easy, like a well-worn melody. The sound wraps around me, grounding me in this moment, and I can't help but feel a little lighter.

My eyes flicker to the scene unfolding in front of us. Miller, towering and broad-shouldered, is gasping for air, his face turning an alarming shade of red as Sam—a petite ball of energy—has him locked in a headlock. She's barely a fraction of his size, but somehow, she's got him in a vice grip.

I can't suppress the giggle that bubbles up from deep inside me. The contrast between their sizes is almost comical, and Miller's muffled protests only add to the absurdity of the moment.

"Say it! Say it!" Sam demands, her voice sharp with playful triumph, her breath coming fast and heavy.

Miller, struggling and his face scrunching with effort, finally mutters, "Fine, fine..." The words tumble out in a strained rasp, "You're better than me..."

"And!" Sam insists, squeezing tighter, her fingers digging into his neck, demanding the rest.

"And... I'm a dick," he forces out, his voice cracking slightly from the pressure, his broad chest heaving as he tries to push himself upright, only to be pulled back down by Sam's relentless hold.

With a dramatic flourish, Sam releases him, her movements light and swift, and Miller collapses to the floor with a dull thud, the soft carpet muffling the impact. He lies there for a moment, panting and clutching at his neck as if he's trying to catch his breath, the skin on his face flushed with embarrassment and exertion.

Jackson, who's been watching from the doorway behind me, raises an eyebrow, his deep voice a low rumble that cuts through the laughter like a knife through butter. "What is happening here?" he asks, his gaze flicking between the two, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile.

"Oh, um, Miller said that Sam is just an annoying Barbie doll and that he's a better fighter than her... So, my babe beat his ass!" Michael chuckled, his laughter bubbling up as he delivered the punchline with a grin that was both smug and amused.

Everyone burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the room, while Miller shot us all a venomous glare from the floor. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest, and his face was locked in a scowl that was almost comical, considering how much of a brute he was in comparison to Sam.

"Excuse me, Alpha Wells, but lunch is ready," a soft voice interrupted, cutting through the laughter. A short, older blonde woman in her mid-fifties stood in the doorway, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her smile warm but respectful.

"Thank you, Betsy," Jackson replied smoothly, giving her a respectful nod. His deep voice was warm, a little stern, but he made sure to show her the gratitude she deserved.

With a shared look of excitement, we all made our way toward the kitchen. As soon as we stepped inside, the air was thick with the savory aroma of something delicious. The scent of garlic and fresh herbs hit me first, followed by the rich, hearty fragrance of slow-cooked sauces.

Laid out before us was a true feast—a mouth-watering spread of Italian delicacies that made my stomach growl. There were golden slices of bruschetta, the bread perfectly crisp and topped with juicy tomatoes, fresh basil, and a drizzle of olive oil. The creamy carbonara was rich and velvety, each pasta glistening under the sauce. A steaming bowl of seafood risotto sat alongside it, fragrant with the tang of saffron and briny mussels and shrimp.

The centerpiece was a perfectly roasted beef braciola, browned to perfection with the smell of rosemary and garlic infusing the air, and beside it, a sizzling chicken cacciatore—tender pieces of chicken bathed in a savory tomato sauce, surrounded by olives and peppers.