Bear and Bun (Sugarpaw Springs #1)

Chapter 1

Beau

I woke up on the floor, heart racing, sweat clinging to my skin like a second, colder layer. My cheek was pressed against cracked tile, my back ached, and the old scars there itched like fire ants.

Faint light crept in through the dirty window, slicing across the dust-heavy air. But what had really yanked me out of sleep, what always did, wasn’t the cold floor or the ache.

It was the sound, still ringing in my ears.

The snarls. The snap of bone. The wet, sickening sound of claws ripping flesh from muscle. And the certainty, deep in my chest, that it was going to be my turn to die.

I groaned, rolled onto my side, and forced my stiff body upright. My breath came in shallow gasps. Took me a minute to realize where I was.

The room looked like it had been forgotten by time. There was peeling wallpaper, cobwebs in every corner, busted furniture sagging with age.

For a heartbeat, I thought I was back there.

But then the window caught my eye.

Outside, Sugarpaw Springs slept peacefully beneath a navy-blue sky freckled with stars. A porch light glowed across the street. Somewhere, a dog barked once and fell silent.

This wasn’t my old clan’s territory. This wasn’t the blood-soaked compound or the screaming night drills or the way they used pain as punctuation.

This was my escape, and I’d made it. I sat there for a moment, soaking it in, brushing away the last echoes of the nightmare like cobwebs from my shoulders.

“Hey, Beau. You up?” came Rafael’s voice, faint through the floorboards.

I huffed out a quiet laugh and pushed to my feet. My best friend, if you could call someone who saw you bury bodies and still chose to follow you a friend.

We grew up together in that hellhole. Would’ve been my second-in-command if I’d taken the lead alpha title like everyone expected. But if I had… Levi would be dead.

And I liked my brother alive just fine. So did he, probably. There were footsteps up the stairs. A soft knock. The door creaked open.

Rafael stepped in, already dressed, hair pulled back, calm as ever despite the fact he looked like he could wrestle a mountain lion and win.

His gaze swept over me, bare-chested, scarred, only in boxers, and he arched one eyebrow. His face was a map of old wounds, but his eyes were sharp.

“Thought we were going to check the festival out?” he said.

“We are. Give me a few minutes,” I said, voice still gravel-thick from sleep and memory.

He nodded, stepping back. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

The shower groaned when I turned the knob, cold water sputtering from the rusty head. No hot water, of course. I grunted, head tilted back, letting it hit me. It felt like ice.

My back stung where the water hit old claw marks. Still, I didn’t move. I stood there, letting the worst of the morning sweat and nightmares rinse away.

After a few seconds, the pressure picked up. It just took time to warm up. So did I. Clean, dressed, and a little steadier, I headed downstairs.

The bakery greeted me like it always did. Half dead and half beautiful.

Sunlight slipped through grime-covered windows, catching on floating dust motes. The wood floors were warped in places, and the counter had a long split right through the middle. Shelves hung crooked.

The display case was cracked. The walls were stained with time. But under all that, I could see what it could be. What it would be. My dream.

Not the legacy of violence my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather shoved down my throat. Not the dynasty of domination they thought was destiny. No. This was different.

Simpler. Softer. Mine.

I ran my fingertips over the dusty counter, drawing a line through years of abandonment.

Behind me, Rafael said nothing. I knew he was watching me. He always did, like he was waiting for the moment I broke and asked to go back. But he never pushed. He just… stood with me.

And it was a lot of work. So much more than I ever thought. Fixing this place up. Trying to make something worth staying for.

And what if the town hated our food? What if all they saw were scars and teeth and old blood?

What if my father had been right? What if all I was good for was killing? But I had to try. I turned, straightening my shoulders, and met Rafael’s gaze.

“Let’s go,” I said.

The festival was in full swing by the time Rafael and I stepped onto Main Street.

Sugarpaw Springs had dressed itself in bright bunting and paper lanterns, the scent of kettle corn and grilled meat thick in the air.

Kids laughed, vendors shouted, and music pulsed from somewhere near the town square. And yet, when we walked past, the atmosphere shifted. It always did.

I saw the way people looked at us. Like we were dogs off leash. Scarred. Too big. Too quiet. Too bearish. A mother gently tugged her son closer when we passed.

A man selling wood-carved flutes stopped mid-spiel to watch us walk by, eyes narrowed, mouth a tight line. I caught the muttered words. “Bunch of brutes.”

I tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the scent of cinnamon and sugar, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the way Rafael’s boots thudded solid and steady beside me. But it was hard.

We were used to being watched like this, but not by civilians. And not when we were trying to do something good.

Rafael’s shoulders went rigid beside me. His eyes locked on the flute guy, who was still staring.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Rafael growled, voice sharp and low.

The man flinched, then turned away, pretending to fix his display.

I grabbed Rafael’s arm, fingers wrapping tight.

“Enough,” I said, voice firmer than I meant.

His head whipped toward me, and for a split second, I saw the heat in his eyes. But then my tone hit him. The weight of it. The command. Alpha voice.

I released him like I’d touched fire. Guilt cracked across my chest. “Sorry.”

But Rafael just blinked and let out a breath. “No need,” he muttered. “I was being a jerk.”

“You were being protective,” I said quietly. “But the people here, they’re not used to us. Not yet.”

He grunted. “They’re used to the wolves.”

I followed his gaze to a sleek, polished booth trimmed with forest green banners. Wolf and Whisk, painted in neat, hand-lettered cursive.

A long table lined with immaculate cupcakes, tarts, and tiny jars of what looked like strawberry preserves. The line in front of it was steady. Easy.

“They’ve been here longer,” I said. “They’ve had time to prove themselves.”

“Or they’ve just had better manners,” Rafael muttered.

I didn’t respond. Because maybe he wasn’t wrong.

Our eyes caught Callum’s. He was tall and muscular, all smooth posture and the calm confidence of someone who knew his place here. The lead alpha of the wolf pack that ran Wolf and Whisk.

The only other shifter-run business in town. We’d checked them out months ago before we bought our property. Evaluated them. Tasted the competition.

Callum held my gaze, unreadable. Not hostile. Not friendly either. Just…watching. There was a challenge there. A “try us” in his stance.

I looked away first. We were here to blend in, not throw down.

I started to move to the next stall when a figure broke from the crowd, heading straight for us with the kind of easy swagger that said he wasn’t afraid of being noticed.

“Hey, bears.” James, one of Callum’s wolves. Lean, messy-haired, with a grin that said he enjoyed making people uncomfortable. He balanced a tray of cupcakes on one hand like it was nothing. “Sampler?”

I exchanged a look with Rafael. He looked like he wanted to say no thanks with his fist. I sighed and took one. Rafael did too, after a long pause.

I bit into it. It was perfect. Moist. Balanced. Just the right amount of citrus and sugar. The frosting melted on my tongue. Dang it.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” James asked, clearly fishing.

“It’s fine,” Rafael said with a grunt, licking a smear of icing off his thumb.

James just smirked wider.

“James!” Callum’s voice rang out, sharp but not unkind. “There are other customers.”

James gave a lazy little bow and turned away. “Enjoy the rest of the festival, bears.”

I stared down at the last bite of my cupcake, then popped it in my mouth. I hated how good it was. Hated the doubt that curled in my chest like smoke. Could we ever make something like this?

Would the people here ever want to try what we made?

I turned slowly, looking at the other stalls. They sold hand pies, apple cider, barbecued skewers, jams, funnel cake. Everyone smiling. Everyone at home.

We weren’t yet. But we would be. I looked at Rafael, and my voice came steady, sure.

“Next year, Bear and Bun will be here,” I said.

Rafael looked at me for a moment, then nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “We will.”

We kept walking, weaving through the stalls, buying more food than any rational person should. Hand pies, candied nuts, warm cider, fried everything—sweet, sticky, and savory all at once.

I spent too much, maybe, but I didn’t care. I wanted to hold on to this night, any way I could. This feeling. That hunger in my chest, it wasn’t just for festival food. It was for more.

More than what my father said I’d ever be. More than what Ironwood Falls tried to carve me into. I wanted to prove something. Not just to Sugarpaw Springs, but to myself. That I could be better.

We found a bench near the edge of the fairgrounds.

Or, rather, we approached a bench and the humans sitting there took one look at Rafael and I with our arms overflowing with fried dough and drinks, and cleared out like we were contagious.

One woman left behind a basket of half-eaten kettle corn.

“Nice,” Rafael muttered, tossing the trash into the nearest bin like he was used to it.

He flopped onto the bench with a sigh, cracking open another pastry like nothing happened. I sat beside him, letting my shoulders sag for the first time all day.

“Beau, don’t be intimidated,” Rafael said after a beat.

“I’m not,” I said, shaking my head. “If anything, I’m fired up.”

He glanced over, then smiled, one of the rare, real ones that reached his eyes. “Good.” Relief softened the lines around his mouth.

Sometimes I wondered if Rafael followed me here just out of loyalty. If he missed our old clan. I hesitated, then asked the question that had been gnawing at me since the day we arrived.

“You miss it back... there?” I asked.

I didn’t say home. Ironwood Falls was never that. It was a cage with cold walls and colder traditions.

“Not one bit,” Rafael said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He gave my shoulder a pat. “I want to be here, Beau. And ignoring the townsfolk acting like we’re gonna sprout claws and tear their picnic blankets apart... I kind of like it here.”

I didn’t say anything. Part of me wanted to believe him. The other part wondered if he was just saying what he thought I needed to hear.

Rafael leaned back on the bench, peeling the wrapper off a cupcake. I noted it was the same one James offered him earlier. I didn’t even realize he’d gone back to Wolf & Whisk.

Maybe it was for “research.” I didn’t ask. I stared at the frosting, pink and perfect, and thought of Levi. Of the last time I saw him.

I’d been bleeding, broken, barely breathing. He’d looked down at me through the haze of pain, eyes steady even after everything. He’d made sure everyone thought I was dead. That was the plan.

“Live and love for both of us,” he whispered that day, voice barely audible over the sound of my heartbeat slowing down.

He didn’t just expect me to make good on opening the bakery. He expected me to find someone to share it with. To have a life worth something. One thing at a time, I thought.

The sky burst above us in a shower of light, gold and green and bright blue.

The fireworks had started. I leaned back, warm food on my lap, Rafael beside me, and the hollow echo of Levi’s voice still lingering in my ears.

Live and love.