Caleb did not bother running around the long serving counter to use the kitchen's swinging double doors.
Driven by pure, unfiltered Alpha instinct, he placed his massive hands flat on the wooden surface of the serving window and vaulted his entire, towering frame directly over the counter. He cleared the space effortlessly, his heavy combat boots hitting the pristine white kitchen tiles with a deafening THUD that made the line cooks physically jump backward in terror.
He was at my side in a fraction of a second.
His massive, warm hands gripped my shoulders, turning me away from the grill to face him.
I looked up at my husband. The Alpha of the North—the man who had walked into the Vanguard Spire, torn the head off a Machine God with his bare teeth, and commanded an army of killers
