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“Now this…well, this is just shredded potato. Looks like it was fried until it waved its own white flag of surrender. Back home, we’d call this a burnt offering, and throw it out back to the pigs. Eat up, darling.”

The entire table is watching with horrified, wide eyes, but Branwen ignores them and continues her perusal of the remaining food.

A spoonful of fruit lands on the small space still left on my plate. Before I can thank her, she exhales a disappointed sigh and grumbles, “At least this fruit won’t kill you. However, the melon looks like it’s been weeping since Sunday. Oh look! There’s even one little lone strawberry for color. Must’ve accidentally snuck in.”

“Are you quite finished?” Gavran’s voice cracks like a whip, slicing through her tirade. He glares at her with narrowed eyes over the rim of a steaming cup of coffee, like he’s waiting for her to give him a reason to bend her over his knee.

I would have shrunk under that male’s stare, but Branwen isn’t fazed. She flicks her hair behind her shoulder, straightens her spine, and blinks innocently. “Saints, no. But I’m happy to pause long enough for you to look stern and important if it will help your tiny cock complex.”

My fork falls from my hand, clattering against the plate and bouncing off the china before falling to the floor, somehow managing to hit every hard surface in its path on the way.

Everyone’s eyes snap my way, and I duck my head, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep up my neck.

“S-sorry,” I mutter, bending over to retrieve the fork. When I finally pull myself back into my seat, Branwen’s primly eating her toast with a knife and fork, ignoring the way Gavran can’t peel his eyes off her.

“You have five minutes to eat, Omega,” Dax tells me, attention locked on the screen of the laptop sitting open on the table next to his plate.

“Why?”

I lay my hand on Branwen’s leg under the table, squeezing gently in a silent signal not to push this. If she does, she’s going to end up in trouble.

They’re going to get angry. And I know exactly what happens when Alphas get angry.

But Branwen apparently has a death wish because she looks at me like I’ve grown a tail. I shake my head, silently pleading for her just to let it go.

Finally, she sighs, returning to her breakfast with a scowl on her face.

I do the same, but instead of taking my time like everyone else, I begin shoveling food into my mouth.

I am… famished. It’s such an odd combination of senses. On one hand, I feel the same as I have when I’ve been sick with the flu. On the other, I’m so ravenous, I don’t spare a thought for the aftermath, confident that even if I throw all this up, it’ll be worth it.

All the self-restraint I had while drinking my water is gone. I can’t remember the last time I sat at a table, participating in a meal like a proper human. The experience soothes my instincts. That, combined with being far away from that cell, helps me start to feel halfway normal.

Until my five minutes expires, that is.

I’m about to stab my fork into the strawberry I’ve been stupidly saving when Daxen grabs my plate. When he pulls it away, my Omega surges forward with a growl that I echo instinctively.

As he pulls my plate further out of reach, I chase after it, shooting to my feet and leaning over the table with my fork in hand. At the last second, I take a chance and stab at the strawberry, just barely managing to spear the piece of fruit on my fork.

Before Daxen can take it away, I pluck the fruit off my fork and shove it into my mouth with a grin.

It tastes like victory.

I refuse to look at Daxen, relishing my win and the sweet tartness of the berry on my tongue.

Branwen laughs, placing her napkin on top of her still nearly full plate of food and pushing it away.

Huh.

I didn’t even know there were napkins.

Just like that, the high of my win vanishes, leaving shame and anger in its place. I feel so incredibly small. So small that I wasn’t even important enough for a cloth napkin. Or any napkin.

Looking at Branwen’s clean clothes and bright complexion only compounds my shame, making it a thousand times worse.

Then I notice her scent.

Cherries. Sugar. Vanilla. Perfectly baked crust.