The kitchen was my battlefield.
Usually, I fought with timers and temperatures. Today, I was fighting a war against a woman wearing a silk blouse that probably cost more than my car.
"So," Vanessa said, leaning against the counter and looking at my spice rack with disdain. "You’re going to cook for the Pack Meeting tonight? All forty of them?"
"Yes," I said, chopping onions with rhythmic precision. Chop. Chop. Chop. "It’s a tradition. The Luna feeds the pack."
"The Luna," Vanessa corrected with a smirk, "usually hunts for the pack. Or at least organizes the caterers. But I suppose when you lack... status... you have to resort to manual labor."
She picked up a jar of dried rosemary and sniffed it. "Tell me, Elena. Do you really think feeding them stew is going to make them respect
