Chapter 3: Family Dinner with Teeth
The humidity hadn’t broken with the evening. It clung to the skin, a thick, wet blanket that made the short walk from Carmen’s dented sedan to the Ivanovs’ townhouse feel like a trek through a swamp. The neighborhood was alive with the scent of frying plantains, blaring reggaeton from open windows, and the constant, thrumming bass of a street party someone was setting up three blocks over.
Angel slipped his key into the lock, the familiar click a welcome sound. He pushed the door open and was immediately enveloped by the dense, layered scent of home. Paprika and garlic from last night’s dinner, the clean, sharp pine of Dimitri’s cologne, the faint, musky hint of Vladimir’s workout clothes, and underneath it all, the permanent, comforting smell of pack. It was a stark, welcome contrast to the impersonal sweat and asphalt of the schoolyard.
The living room was a monument to comfortable chaos. A massive, scarred leather sectional dominated the space, facing a wall-mounted TV that was currently flashing the multicolored havoc of a first-person shooter. Sports memorabilia—a mix of Russian hockey jerseys and Miami Dolphins gear—shared wall space with framed family photos: two towering, stern-faced men holding two scrawny, pale children at a customs office; the same children, older, flipping off the camera on a snowy St. Petersburg street; a more recent one of all four of them at the beach, Dimitri and Vladimir smiling softly in the background while Elijah flexed and Angel stuck his tongue out.
Elijah was sprawled across one end of the couch, his controller clicking frantically. He was shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, every muscle in his back and shoulders coiled with digital tension. “Move, you fucking camper!” he barked at the screen.
In the large armchair by the window, Dimitri sat with a book. He was a mountain of a man, taller even than Elijah, with a shaved head and a salt-and-pepper beard that couldn’t hide the sharp line of his jaw. Reading glasses perched on his nose, and a simple silver cross hung against his thick chest. He didn’t look up from his pages.
“Boots,” he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that didn’t match his son’s yelling.
Angel kicked off his platforms neatly by the door. “Sorry, Papa.”
“How was the war zone?” Dimitri asked, turning a page. His dark eyes flicked up for a second, taking in Angel’s state.
“Hot. Sienna is still a bitch. Lijik almost killed me with a football.” Angel padded into the room, dropping his bag on the floor. He beelined for the other end of the couch, where Vladimir was leaning back, scrolling on his phone.
Vladimir was Dimitri’s match in size, but where Dimitri was carved stone, Vladimir was a bear. His hair, chestnut brown and streaked with grey, was tied back in a messy knot. A faded tattoo of a rose and dagger peeked from the sleeve of his tight black t-shirt. He looked up as Angel approached, his ice-blue eyes crinkling.
“My solnyshko returns,” he said, opening one arm. His voice was a gravelly baritone, softened by the native Russian he always used with them at home.
Angel didn’t hesitate. He climbed onto the couch, curling sideways into Vladimir’s chest, tucking his head under his chin. He fit there perfectly, a habit formed over countless days since they’d plucked two scraped-knee orphans from a state group home. Vladimir’s arm wrapped around him, large and heavy, his hand settling on Angel’s hip. He smelled of motor oil and the cheap, strong coffee he drank all day.
“He disrupted my beautiful insult,” Angel grumbled, nuzzling closer. “I was on a roll. Called him a brainless boarding.”
Vladimir chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “He deserved it. But your aim is still emotional, not tactical. Next time, wait until he’s closer. More impact.”
From his chair, Dimitri snorted. “Do not teach him guerrilla warfare, Volodya. The school sends enough emails.”
“They send emails because the school is broke and the principal is a beta who smells of fear and microwave meals,” Vladimir retorted, his fingers beginning to trace idle patterns on Angel’s side. “Our children defending their honor is the least of his problems.”
On screen, Elijah’s character exploded in a pixelated giblet shower. “Fuck!” He threw his controller onto the cushion beside him and stretched, his spine cracking. He glanced over at the pair on the couch, a familiar, shit-stirring grin spreading across his face. The quiet of the room, the domestic scene, seemed to invite mischief.
“So,” Elijah began, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. “Angel got railed in the second-floor boys’ bathroom yesterday. The one near the auto shop class. Smells like bleach and despair. Chose the stall with the lopsided toilet.”
The statement hung in the air, blunt and casual as a weather report.
Dimitri didn’t look up from his book, but a faint smirk touched his lips. He turned a page. “I hope he wiped the seat first.”
Vladimir’s hand stilled on Angel’s hip for a second. Then he grinned, a wide, wolfish thing. He looked down at Angel, who had gone very still. “This is true, lapochka?”
Angel’s face flushed a deep pink. He squirmed, but Vladimir’s arm was an iron bar. “Lijik, you snitching suka!” he hissed, grabbing a throw pillow from behind him and hurling it at his brother’s head.
Elijah caught it easily, laughing. “What? It’s not a secret. Half the team heard you. Well, heard her. You’re not exactly quiet, Angelochka.”
“I will sew your mouth shut while you sleep,” Angel shot back, his accent thickening with fury.
Vladimir’s arm tightened, pulling Angel more firmly against him. His large hand slid from Angel’s hip, down over the thin fabric of his shorts, and came to rest, possessively, on the curve of his pelvis. The touch was frank, unapologetic. “Answer the question, solnyshko. You and the Díaz girl. In the dirty bathroom.”
Angel swallowed, the fight seeping out of him under that firm, knowing touch. He nodded, his cheek rubbing against Vladimir’s shirt. “Yes.”
“Did you rawdog it?” Vladimir asked, his voice dropping, a private rumble for Angel’s ear alone. His thumb began to move, a slow, circular pressure through the fabric.
Angel shook his head quickly. “No. No, we had… we used protection. Condom. Only because we were at school. And it was… you know… quick.”
Vladimir nodded, his expression approving. “Good. School is for learning, not for pups.” His hand pressed down more firmly, a hint of pressure that made Angel’s breath catch. “But.” His ice-blue eyes sharpened, searching Angel’s face. “Did she make you cum?”
The question was direct, devoid of any embarrassment. It was a practical inquiry, a measure of a partner’s suitability. Dimitri had put his book down now, watching them over his glasses, his expression quietly attentive. Elijah smirked, picking up his controller again, pretending to be absorbed in the menu screen.
Angel felt a hot curl of shameful arousal in his gut, mixed with a profound sense of safety. This was their normal. This blunt, unvarnished care. He bit his lip, then gave a small, shy nod, his dark blue eyes huge.
A bright, proud grin split Vladimir’s face. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hand patted Angel once, twice, on the mound between his legs—a firm, unmistakable gesture of possession and praise. “She better have. Your tight little pussy can’t go to waste on a cock that won’t make you cum.”
Angel let out a squeaky, helpless giggle, burying his flaming face in Vladimir’s chest. The crude, loving words sent a jolt through him.
“Her knot substitute is adequate, then?” Dimitri asked from his chair, his tone as calm as if he were asking about the quality of a new tool.
Vladimir answered for him, his hand still splayed protectively over Angel. “Seems to be. He’s not complaining. And the girl has fire. I respect that.”
Elijah, unable to stay out of it, chimed in without looking from the game. “She smells like she’d start a fight in a CVS. It’s kind of hot. For Angel, I mean.”
“Finish your pelmeni, not your commentary,” Dimitri said evenly, though there was no real heat in it. He stood, marking his page and setting the book aside. His large frame seemed to fill the room even more. “Speaking of. Elijah, set the table. Angel, wash your hands. Volodya, release our omega. He needs to eat, not just be smothered by you.”
Vladimir laughed, a full, rich sound, and finally gave Angel’s hip a squeeze before letting him go. Angel extricated himself, his body humming with the residual warmth of the contact. As he passed Elijah’s legs, he kicked his brother’s shin.
“Ow! Brat!”
“Snitch,” Angel shot back, heading towards the small, brightly lit kitchen where the rich, savory smell of beef and onion dumplings was now unmistakable.
Dinner was a loud, messy affair. They ate at a square table in the kitchen nook, elbows knocking, talking over each other. Dimitri served the pelmeni from a large steaming pot, garnished with dollops of sour cream and fresh dill. Vladimir opened a beer for himself and one for Dimitri, and slid cans of soda towards the twins.
“So the alpha girl,” Dimitri began, skewering a dumpling. “Carmen. She is treating you with respect? In public?”
Angel nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Yeah. She’s… possessive. But like, in a good way. Holds my hand. Tells people to fuck off if they stare. Her friends are cool.”
“They were shocked about you two,” Elijah said, ripping a piece of bread. “About having two alpha dads. Valeria’s jaw actually dropped. It was funny.”
Vladimir grunted. “Their world is small. Good. Let them be shocked. It means they will think twice before causing problems.” He pointed his fork at Angel. “But this bathroom business. Be smarter. The school may be tolerant, but there are still rules. And there are still betas in charge who get nervous when an omega takes his pleasure openly. They prefer the narrative of the vulnerable omega, not the one who climbs his alpha in a stinking bathroom.”
“It wasn’t that stinking,” Angel mumbled, but he nodded. “I know.”
“He knows, Volodya,” Dimitri said softly, wiping his mouth. “He is not a fool. He is our son. He has fire, but he also has sense.” He looked at Angel, his gaze steady and proud. “Just use the sense a little more often than the fire.”
After dinner, Angel helped clear while Elijah loaded the dishwasher. The easy rhythm of chores, the clatter of plates, the low murmur of Dimitri and Vladimir talking in the living room about a problem with the truck’s transmission—it all wove around Angel, a tapestry of mundane security. This was the anchor that allowed him to be the brat in the schoolyard, the hellion in Russian, the omega who dared to wear shorts that showed the bottom of his ass cheeks.
He finished wiping the table and lingered in the doorway to the living room. Dimitri was back in his chair, book reopened. Vladimir was on the couch, one arm stretched along the back. The TV was off. The only light came from a dim floor lamp and the neon glow of the bodega sign across the street, painting the room in pulses of pink and blue.
“Papa? Daddy?” Angel said quietly.
Both men looked up.
“Spasibo,” he said. Thank you. For the food. For not… freaking out.
Dimitri’s stern face softened. Vladimir opened his arms again.
Angel went to him, this time curling up differently, lying with his head in Vladimir’s lap. Vladimir’s big hand immediately settled in his hair, fingers combing through the long platinum curls. Dimitri watched them for a moment, then went back to his reading, a contented silence descending.
Upstairs, they could hear the thump of Elijah’s music starting, the bass vibrating the ceiling.
Here, in the messy, scented, safe chaos of the living room, with a large hand in his hair and the steady presence of his other father close by, Angel felt the last of the day’s tensions bleed away. The stare from Sienna, the near-miss with the football, the performance of it all—it faded into the background hum of the city outside. This was real. This was his. The thought of Carmen, of her sharp grin and possessive hands, intertwined seamlessly with the comfort of this room. He was an omega claimed in more ways than one, and for the first time all day, he felt utterly, completely at rest. Vladimir’s fingers stroked his scalp, the rhythm slowing as Angel’s breathing deepened, drawing him gently toward sleep right there on the couch, guarded by his pack.