Chapter 31 From Coward to cook
Nyxara
The girl stirred just before dawn.
I’d been sitting in the battered armchair across the room all night, tail curled tight around my ankle, staring at her like she was a bomb that had already gone off. Blankets piled high, hot water bottle against her chest, my one decent towel wrapped around her wet hair after I’d thawed her out in the shower. She looked smaller than before—sixteen, maybe seventeen, all sharp bones and bruised hope.
Her eyes fluttered open. Violet-rimmed, bloodshot, confused. They landed on me and widened.
“You… you brought me inside,” she whispered, voice cracked from cold and crying.
I didn’t answer right away. Just watched her try to sit up, wince, and sink back into the pillows I’d grudgingly given up from my own bed.
“Where’s the money?” she asked suddenly, panic flashing as her hands patted the blankets.
“On the counter,” I said flatly. “Still in the envelope. Untouched.”
She relaxed a fraction, then the tears started again—silent this time, just tracks down her temples into her hair.
“My dad… they’re saying he—” Her voice broke completely.
“I know what they’re saying.” I stood, crossed the small room in two strides, and crouched beside the couch so we were eye-level. “Look at me.”
She did. Barely.
“Your father didn’t touch those kids. I know that. You know that. But the man who’s really doing it—he’s got power. Deep roots. Elders on his payroll. Fortress connections. The kind of wolf who smiles at charity galas while he—”
I stopped. Didn’t need to paint the picture. She was living the fallout.
“I lied in my statement,” I said, voice low. “Took his money to point the finger at your dad instead. Clean. Easy. I was supposed to walk away and never think about it again.”
Her face crumpled. “Why would you—”
“Because I’m a coward,” I cut in, sharp enough that she flinched. “Because I have my own ghosts, and I thought if I stayed numb, they couldn’t touch me anymore. But then you parked your half-frozen ass outside my door and wouldn’t leave, and…” I exhaled through my teeth. “Here we are.”
Silence stretched. Snow tapped the window like it was trying to get in.
She wiped her face with the corner of the blanket. “So you’ll help him? You’ll tell the truth now?”
I laughed—short, bitter. “It’s not that simple, kid. The director—Voss—he’s got files on me. Old ones. Things I did when I was younger and angrier. Things that would get me executed without a trial if certain elders saw them. He dangles that over my head, I stay quiet. I talk, he releases it, and I’m the one in chains. Or worse.”
Her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t look away. “So my dad just… rots?”
“No.” The word came out harder than I meant. I rubbed a hand over my face, horns itching under my skin. “I’m going to get him out. I’m going to burn Voss and every wolf shielding him. But it’s not going to happen overnight.”
She searched my face, desperate for the lie and not finding it.
“I need time,” I went on. “Weeks. Maybe months. I have to be smart—gather proof that sticks, find wolves I can actually trust, cut the roots without the whole tree falling on us first. One wrong move and your dad stays locked up, I end up dead, and Voss just finds another scapegoat.”
Her fingers twisted in the blanket. “I can’t wait months. He’s… he’s not strong. The drinking—”
“I know.” I reached out—hesitated—then rested my hand over her cold ones. “I’ll get money to him in holding. Better food, warmer cell, protection from the worst guards. I have contacts. But you have to be patient. And you have to stay hidden. If Voss finds out you’re with me, he’ll use you to shut me up permanently.”
She swallowed hard. Nodded once.
“You’ll stay here,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “Couch is yours. I’ll get a proper bed tomorrow. You don’t leave this apartment without me. You don’t answer the door. You don’t trust anyone who isn’t me. Understand?”
Another nod, slower this time.
I stood, tail flicking once in agitation. “What’s your name, anyway? Can’t keep calling you ‘the kid who almost froze on my doorstep.’”
A ghost of a smile—tiny, broken, but real. “Lira.”
“Lira,” I repeated. Tasted the weight of it. “Get some more sleep. When you wake up, we’ll eat. Then we start planning how to dismantle an empire without getting both of us killed.”
The coffee went down like punishment, but it kept me upright. I stayed leaning against the counter long after the mug was empty, staring at the steam curling up like it might spell out a plan if I glared hard enough.
It didn’t.
Lira’s soft, even breathing drifted in from the couch—deep asleep again, trusting me to keep watch. The sound of it scraped at something raw inside my chest.
I set the mug down harder than necessary.
And then, because my brain apparently hated me, it supplied the next uninvited thought:
What am I feeding her tonight?
I actually snorted out loud. Dinner. I was thinking about dinner. Like some bored pack housewife planning a menu instead of a succubus who usually survived on caffeine, spite, and whatever bar served the strongest whiskey.
I rubbed my temples. “You’ve lost it, Nyxara. Officially.”
But the thought stuck, stubborn as frost.
I glanced toward the living room again. She was still out cold, curled into a tiny ball under my blankets, one foot sticking out like she was testing if the world was safe yet.
Teenagers eat a lot, right? Growing. Healing from hypothermia. Plotting revenge. All that takes fuel.
I opened the fridge door slowly, like I was expecting it to bite me.
Inside: two flat sodas, a bag of chips that had gone stale sometime last month, and a single onion that had started growing its own ecosystem.
I hissed—long, low, genuinely pissed off.
“Perfect. Starvation diet it is.”
No. Not an option.
I grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet into boots, and scribbled a note on the back of an old receipt:Gone for supplies. Do NOT open the door for anyone. Scream if you have to. I’ll hear you. –N
I left it on the coffee table where she’d see it first thing, then slipped out, locking the door three times behind me.
The market was crowded, loud, and smelled like fresh bread and wet wolf fur. I moved through it like a shadow, grabbing things without really thinking: carrots, potatoes, onions that weren’t trying to become plants, a whole chicken (because protein), rice, spices in little jars that all looked the same. Eggs. Milk. Bread that wasn’t molded. Fruit that didn’t look like it had lost a fight.
The cashier—a bored beta with purple streaks in her hair—raised an eyebrow at the mountain of groceries.
“Feeding an army?”
“Something like that,” I muttered, paying in cash and vanishing before she could make small talk.
Back home, I dumped the bags on the counter and stared at them like they were explosives.
Cooking. Actual cooking.
I pulled up a recipe on my phone: “Simple chicken stew for idiots who can’t boil water.”
Step one sounded harmless enough.
I preheated the oven—then remembered stew didn’t need an oven. Swore. Turned it off.
Chopped vegetables next. The knife felt awkward in my hand; I usually used blades for entirely different purposes. Carrots went flying. One potato rolled under the fridge. The onion made my eyes water so bad I had to step back, cursing, tail lashing hard enough to knock over a spice jar.
By the time the chicken hit the pot, the kitchen looked like a crime scene: vegetable peels everywhere, flour on my shirt (why did I even buy flour?), smoke curling from the pan where I’d let the oil get too hot.
The chicken sizzled like it was personally offended.
I may have panicked and thrown water on it.
Steam exploded. The smoke alarm screamed. I flailed a towel at it until it shut up, coughing, eyes streaming.
The chicken was… mostly cooked. One side charred, the other pale and suspicious.
I scraped the black bits off (mostly), dumped in the uneven vegetables, added water, and every spice I could reach until the whole thing smelled like regret and garlic.
It simmered. Miraculously didn’t explode.
I leaned against the counter again, covered in flour and defeat, and started laughing.
Couldn’t stop.
Low at first, then louder—breathless, ridiculous, wiping tears with the back of my wrist.
Me. Nyxara. The succubus who once made an elder piss himself in a council meeting.
Defeated by a fucking chicken.
Still laughing, I stirred the pot. It didn’t look half bad. Smelled… edible. Spicy enough to hide the sins.
When the sun started dipping low, painting the walls orange through the grimy window, I ladled a big bowlful, grabbed a spoon, and walked into the living room.
Lira was stirring, blinking awake, nose twitching at the smell.
I sat on the coffee table in front of her, held out the bowl.
“Eat.”
She pushed herself up slowly, hair wild, eyes still puffy from crying and sleep. Took the bowl with both hands like it might vanish.
“You… cooked this?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I grumbled. “It’s stew. Probably. Just eat it before it gets cold or I decide to feed it to the stray cats.”
She took a tentative spoonful. Chewed. Eyes widened.
Then she ate like she hadn’t in weeks—fast, careful not to spill, making small happy sounds she probably didn’t realize she was making.
I stayed perched on the table, arms crossed, pretending I wasn’t watching every bite like a hawk.
When she scraped the bowl clean, she looked up at me—shy, hesitant.
“It was really good.”
I snorted. “It was a war crime with vegetables. But there’s more if you want seconds.”
She nodded, fast.
I refilled the bowl without a word.
When she finished that one too, she set it aside and pulled the blanket around her shoulders.
“Nyxara?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve never had anyone cook for me before. Not since Mom left.”
The words hit low and dirty.
I looked away, jaw tight. “Get used to it, kid. Until we fix this mess, you’re stuck with my culinary terrorism.”
She smiled—small, real, warm enough to make something in my chest ache.
I stood abruptly, took the bowls to the sink.
Behind me, soft: “Thank you.”
This time I didn’t tell her not to.
I just started washing dishes, tail flicking once—not in irritation.