The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Chapter 63: Chapter 63 What are you doing here?

Aria’s POV

I followed the scent down the hallway to my kitchen, my stomach growling loudly enough to embarrass me.

And then I stopped dead in the doorway.

Damian stood at my stove, his back to me, wearing nothing but a white apron tied around his waist and a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants.

The apron strings cut across his bare back, highlighting every muscle as he moved—his shoulders impossibly broad and defined, his spine a perfect line down to the dimples just above his waistband.

The sweats hung so low on his hips I could see the sharp V of muscle disappearing below the fabric. His ass looked obscene in those pants.

He flipped a pancake with one hand, completely at ease, humming something under his breath.

This was the same man who’d pinned me against the bathroom counter last night. The same man whose reputation made Alphas twice his age nervous.

The Alpha King.

And he was in my kitchen. Barefoot. Making me breakfast.

"You’re staring," he said without turning around.

I blinked. "I’m late."

"Then sit down and eat." He glanced over his shoulder, those dark gray eyes pinning me in place.

A strand of black hair fell across his forehead, making him look almost boyish. Almost. "You’re not going anywhere on an empty stomach."

"Damian, I don’t have time—"

"You have time." He turned fully now, spatula in hand, and leaned against my counter like he owned it.

The apron did absolutely nothing to hide how built he was—his chest bare and perfect, abs cut like they’d been carved from stone. "After last night, you need to eat."

My face heated. "I’m fine."

"You can barely walk."

"I can walk perfectly fine," I lied, crossing my arms over my chest.

His mouth curved into that infuriating smirk. "Sure you can, baby girl."

I wanted to argue, but my stomach growled again—loud enough that he definitely heard it.

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Sit."

"I have a meeting at nine-thirty—"

"Then you’ll be five minutes late." He plated a stack of pancakes, added bacon and scrambled eggs, and set it on my kitchen island. "Sit. Down."

I didn’t move.

He sighed, setting down the spatula, and walked over to me.

Up close, the sight of him was even more unfair—bare chest still marked with faint scratches from my nails, those perfectly cut abs, the trail of dark hair leading down into his sweats.

The contrast was insane. Last night he’d been all dominance and control, fucking me like he wanted to break me. Now he looked like some kind of domesticated wet dream.

"Aria." His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "I know work is important to you. But you’re no good to anyone if you pass out halfway through the day."

"I’m not going to pass out—"

"You didn’t eat dinner last night. And I worked you pretty hard." His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, his voice dropping lower. "Let me take care of you. Just this once."

The way he said it—low and rough, like it physically hurt him to let me go—made something twist in my chest.

This was dangerous. Too intimate. Too much like something real.

"Fine," I muttered. "But I’m eating fast."

"Deal."

I slid onto the barstool, and he set the plate in front of me. The pancakes were perfect—golden brown, still steaming. I cut into them and took a bite.

Oh my god.

"These are really good," I said, unable to hide my surprise.

Damian poured me a cup of coffee—exactly how I liked it, I realized, light and sweet—and set it beside my plate. "You sound shocked."

"I just didn’t expect..." I gestured vaguely at him, at the kitchen, at the entire surreal situation.

"That I could cook?" He leaned against the counter across from me, arms crossed over that bare chest, watching me eat with an intensity that made my skin heat.

"If you had studied in England like I did, I imagine you would have learned this skill too."

I took another bite, trying not to think about how domestic this felt. Him half-naked in my kitchen. Me eating breakfast he made. The morning light streaming through the windows.

It was too much. Too comfortable. Too easy to imagine this becoming routine.

"You should really put on a shirt," I said, not looking at him.

"Why? Does it bother you?"

"Yes."

His smirk widened. "Good."

I rolled my eyes and focused on my food. The faster I ate, the faster I could leave and stop thinking about how the most powerful Alpha in the country looked stupidly attractive in that ridiculous apron.

By the time I finished, I had exactly twelve minutes to get to the office.

"I have to go," I said, sliding off the stool and grabbing my purse from the counter.

Damian caught my wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "Take the rest of the pancakes. You’ll be hungry by ten."

"I don’t have time—"

He was already packing them into a container, adding a fork. "Now you do."

I wanted to argue. But the look on his face stopped me—not commanding, just... concerned. Like he actually gave a damn whether I ate lunch.

"Thank you," I said quietly, taking the container.

His hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. "Have dinner with me tonight?"

It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t quite a command either.

"I’ll think about it," I said.

His jaw tightened. "You’re really going to make me beg?"

"Maybe." I stepped closer, rising on my toes to press a quick kiss to his mouth. "Thanks for breakfast."

I tried to pull away, but his arm came around my waist, hauling me against him.

The kiss turned deeper immediately—his tongue sliding against mine, his hand fisting in my hair. I melted into it, my body betraying me, pressing against the hard planes of his bare chest.

And then I felt it.

He was hard. Again.

"Damian—"

"Stay," he murmured against my lips, his hips rolling against mine. I could feel every inch of him through those thin sweatpants. "Call in sick."

"I can’t—"

His hand slid down to grip my ass, pulling me tighter against him. "Yes, you can."

For a second—one stupid, reckless second—I almost said yes.

Then sanity kicked in.

I shoved against his chest, breaking the kiss. "No."

He groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. "You’re killing me."

"You’ll survive." I ducked under his arm and headed for the door. "I’ll text you."

"Aria—"

"Lock up when you leave. And put on some damn clothes."

I grabbed my keys and practically ran out the door before he could pull me back inside.

---

The drive to the office was a blur. I kept replaying the morning in my head—his hands on my waist, the way he’d looked in my kitchen, that damn apron barely covering anything.

The Alpha King. In my apartment. Making me pancakes.

I was so fucked.

By the time I pulled into the parking garage, I was fifteen minutes late and completely flustered.

I grabbed my bag and the container of pancakes and hurried toward the elevator, heels clicking against the concrete.

And then I saw him.

Ethan.

He was standing by the entrance, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

There were dark circles under his eyes, and his usually perfect hair looked disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it.

He kept checking his watch and glancing around the lobby with barely concealed impatience.

His light blue eyes locked on me immediately when I walked in, surprise flickering across his face.

"Aria."

I stopped, my stomach dropping.

"What are you doing here?" Ethan asked, confusion replacing the expectant look he’d worn moments before.