Claimed by My Ex's Half-Brother-Chapter 122 Not bad, right?

Victoria’s POV

I rolled my eyes at his suspicious look. Here I was, slaving over a hot stove, and he thought I had some hidden agenda.

"What’s with the paranoia?" I asked, setting the last dish down with a satisfying thunk. "I cooked because I was bored out of my mind. After everything that went down... I owed you one. You’ve never actually tasted my cooking, so dig in!"

I was pretty damn confident in my kitchen skills, though I wasn’t sure if they’d blow Damian’s mind or just pass muster.

He grabbed his fork and knife, slicing into the perfectly golden beef Wellington I’d spent hours perfecting. The pastry shattered beautifully, revealing the pink, juicy center wrapped in earthy mushroom duxelles. When he took that first bite, I held my breath.

His eyebrows shot up—barely there, but I caught it.

"Not bad, right?" I couldn’t resist gloating. "I’m no Gordon Ramsay, but I could hold my own in a cook-off."

"Didn’t expect a pack princess to know her way around a kitchen," he said, already going back for seconds.

I caught the appreciation in his dark eyes, but something else flickered there too—irritation, maybe jealousy. Shit. He was thinking about Ethan.

"That’s pretty sexist," I shot back. "What does pack status have to do with feeding myself? I’m not some helpless socialite."

"How many times did you cook for him?" The question came out sharp as a blade, jealousy dripping from every word.

"Why are we talking about that asshole during a nice dinner?" I snapped, my good mood evaporating instantly. "Everyone has a past. Can we not dig up my personal disasters?"

Just hearing Ethan’s name made my wolf bristle with disgust. Seeing my genuine revulsion, Damian’s expression softened.

"Eat more," I urged, gesturing at the spread. "I went overboard."

I hated wasting food, and I’d definitely cooked enough to feed a small pack. The table groaned under gourmet dishes: the beef Wellington as centerpiece, creamy wild mushroom soup, butter-poached lobster tails, truffle risotto, and honey-glazed carrots.

I popped open a bottle of Cabernet, pouring him a generous glass before filling my own.

"So," he drawled, swirling the wine like some wine snob, "you think one meal—granted, it’s incredible—clears your debt? That all your life’s worth?"

"Life doesn’t have a price tag," I replied. "But yeah, I’m grateful. You ever need anything—anything at all—just say the word. Deal?"

"So you owe me a favor?" His eyes narrowed as he studied me across the candlelit table. "Seems to me you already owe me several."

"How do you figure?" I genuinely couldn’t remember racking up multiple debts. "That’s just wishful thinking."

He laughed, low and dangerous. "Trying to skip out on your tabs?"

"Impossible. I always pay my debts. You’re making shit up."

I tried to replay our encounters, but there’d been so much chaos between us that I couldn’t keep score.

"Who’s scamming who?" he challenged, his voice dropping an octave.

"For a guy, you sure keep detailed records," I deflected. "Here, drink up."

We kept drinking, glass after glass, until we’d polished off the entire bottle. The wine hit me hard, and even Damian seemed more relaxed than usual, his Alpha control slipping just enough to be interesting.

Dinner flew by. He’d demolished generous portions of everything, whether seafood or the heavier dishes. Guy could eat.

After we finished, my head buzzed pleasantly from the wine. I padded to the bedroom and returned with his three jackets. Holding the bundle against my chest, I extended them toward him.

"These are yours. Fresh from the dry cleaner."

"Keep them," he said, not moving to take them. His gaze locked on my flushed face instead. "Souvenirs."

The wine had painted my usually pale skin pink, and I could feel the heat in my cheeks. My eyes felt heavy-lidded, and I knew they looked softer than usual. My naturally long lashes felt like they were batting on their own.

"Why would I want souvenirs?" I asked, my lips feeling unusually sensitive as I spoke. "Worried they’re contaminated? I barely wore them, and they’re spotless."

"Leave them here," he said, his voice turning rough. "I’ll wear them next time I’m over."

"And when exactly are you planning your next visit?" This wasn’t his personal closet, and he definitely didn’t live here.

His eyes had gone midnight dark, holding me captive as he stared directly into mine.

"Right now seems like perfect timing," he murmured.

"Perfect timing for wha—"

The word died as his mouth crashed into mine. Damian’s kiss was pure demand, giving me zero chance to think, let alone protest.

The jackets hit the floor as his arms wrapped around my waist. Wine lingered between us, rich and intoxicating as his lips moved against mine with growing hunger.

We stumbled from standing to the nearby couch. He dropped down first, pulling me onto his lap so I straddled his thighs, the position leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Trapped in his embrace, I surrendered to his relentless mouth. Fire ignited in my core, spreading heat through every nerve ending. I felt myself climbing toward some cliff edge, dizzy with want and craving more than just these kisses.

Time became meaningless as we devoured each other. At some point, he’d tugged my blouse off one shoulder, exposing skin to cool air. My thoughts turned to fog, my body responding on pure instinct while his eyes stayed dark and predatory—more dangerous than I’d ever seen them.

When Damian kissed me again, he suddenly flipped our positions, pressing me deep into the cushions beneath his solid weight.

He’d given me chances to pull back. I hadn’t taken them. Now I’d face whatever came next.

His weight settled against me, all hard muscle and heated skin. I could feel every ridge of his body through our clothes, and the thick evidence of his arousal pressed insistently against my thigh. My breath hitched as his mouth traveled from my lips to my jaw, then down to the sensitive curve where my neck met my shoulder.