Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
MAGGIE
I wake tangled in the sheets; the linen clings to sweat-damp skin, my body humming like a power line after a storm. It’s funny how I now think of them as Gideon’s sheets and Gideon’s bed when they were mine to start with, but his presence is so overwhelming, it just seems that things become his almost by osmosis.
The loft is quiet except for the rhythmic hush of waves rolling through the open balcony door, their sound weaving in and out like breath. But the quiet doesn’t feel hollow—it shimmers with something reverent, as if the very air remembers what happened between us. It’s full—of magic, of muscle memory, of something raw and real. My body aches in that perfect, post-battle way—like I’ve run for miles barefoot over hot sand and kept going, anyway. My bones pulse with the echo of transformation, of claws that haven’t quite come, of instincts half-settled and humming under my skin. Every breath reminds me I’m not who I used to be. And every beat of my heart tells me I’m not alone in it.
Everything is... sharper. The smell of coffee grounds from the kitchen cuts through the air like dark chocolate and burnt earth. Outside, the gulls are louder, almost annoyingly so. My skin tingles, and not in a pleasant, afterglow kind of way—though there’s some of that. No, this is more primal. Like my senses are trying to outrun my brain.
I sit up slowly; the sheet slips down to my waist, and the moment the breeze kisses my skin, it’s like an electric current dances across every nerve ending. Not sharp—just alive. My neck pulses with awareness, not pain, but a low hum that blooms from the spot where his teeth claimed me. The mark isn’t just skin-deep—it thrums in sync with my heartbeat. A tether. A brand. A truth that pulses in my blood: I’m his, and he’s mine.
Gideon is nowhere in sight, but his scent lingers in the room—oak, smoke, a hint of something wild and ancient. It’s warm and grounding, a phantom presence that wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The wild edge of it catches in my throat and curls down my spine, a quiet reminder that he’s never far, not really. It eases the tightness in my chest, slows the flutter of my pulse, and makes me feel tethered to something bigger than the storm inside me.
Then comes the spike—a sudden, blistering surge of heat that slams through my belly and up my spine, wild and consuming. It isn’t just warmth—it’s fire, liquid and low, curling through my nerves with feral intent. My breath hitches, sharp and involuntary. One hand claws at the sheets; the other curls into a tight fist as my body trembles, my skin too hot and tight, as if trapped within itself. I’m burning from the inside out, and it’s only just beginning.
Before I can panic, he’s there. Just—there. Like he’s felt it through the bond or read the change in the air. I hear the soft rhythm of his bare feet against the floor, the gentle hush of the bedroom door gliding open. And then his voice—low, steady, already grounding me before I even see him.
“You’re spiking again,” he says gently, not asking. Telling. Knowing.
I nod, unable to form the words. Gideon’s expression changes—something primal flickering in his eyes as he crosses the room in two swift, purposeful strides. He crouches beside the bed, his presence commanding but calm, and cups my cheek with one warm, calloused palm. His thumb brushes gently along my jaw, his touch careful, grounding. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, voice deep and low like a river smoothing stone. “I’ve got you. Breathe. Let your body find me.”
And it does. The moment his skin touches mine, the worst of it recedes. His scent rolls over me like a warm front—rich, grounding, unmistakably him. It wraps around my senses, heavy with cedar and smoke and something wilder that I can’t name. The burn inside me dulls. The chaos in my bloodstream steadies. My fingers loosen, shoulders unlock, and I take a deep, shuddering breath that grounds me in the here and now. Slowly, the heat ebbs. My pulse steadies, syncing with the deep, unwavering calm of the man holding me tethered to reality.
“This is going to keep happening for a bit,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb slowly over the sharp line of my jaw. “These instinct spikes come in waves—intense, fast, then gone. It’s your senses stretching into unknown places, catching signals your body’s still learning to understand. You don’t have to fight it. Just ride the wave, and let me anchor you through it.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter, my voice rough as I lean into him.
He smirks. “You’re handling it better than most.”
* * *
The next morning, I’m back in the bakery, though I haven’t flipped the sign to open. The doors stay locked, the chairs still upturned on tables. But the ovens are already warm, casting that familiar, golden heat across my skin as I move through the back kitchen like it’s part of my body.
I’m not ready to face the world yet—not the questions, the watchful glances, the strange new rhythm my body has taken on—but I need this. The simplicity of it. The dough that responds to my hands. The scent of yeast and vanilla and scorched sugar that calms something wild inside me. The space feels steady when nothing else does.
The radio buzzes softly in the background, some bluesy station playing low and slow. I press my fingers into the dough, folding it over itself with smooth, practiced movements. My wolf hums under my skin, quiet for now, but alert. The stretch of flour-dusted countertops, the rhythm of kneading, the pulse of my breath—it all brings me back to center. This place, this work, is part of my soul. And maybe it always has been.
I don’t need to bake today. But I need to feel like myself, even if that self is something new and raw and still evolving. Before getting out the ingredients I’ll need for a special artisan bread, I unlock the front door, but don’t switch on the lights or the open sign. I’m elbow-deep in bread dough when the front bell jingles.
“Hello?” I call out.
“Hello. Does my big brother know you left the door open?” Kari’s voice replies, smug and warm.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel, smoothing flour from my fingers as I pad toward the front of the bakery. “Probably not. Are you going to tell him?”
Kari grins. “Probably not.”
The air grows noticeably lighter, warmer—probably because Kari is already waiting there, leaning on the counter with two lattes and wearing the unmistakable expression of someone holding premium blackmail material and knowing it. It’s part amused little sister, part romance writer looking for a plot twist, and all smug mischief.
“Brought caffeine,” she says, sliding one across. “And questions.”
I lift my cup. “You want answers or alibis?”
“Oh, I already know,” Kari says. Her gaze drops to my neck, to the bite I haven’t bothered to hide. She arches an eyebrow. “About time.”
There’s a pause. Then I exhale. “I’m scared, Kari. Not of him. Not of the change. I’m scared that I like it. That I like what I’m becoming.”
Kari’s expression softens. “Maybe that’s not something to be afraid of. Maybe it means you were always more than human. Maybe your soul was always wolf and the rest of you is just... catching up. Take care of him. He may be all lethal and shit, but he’s not indestructible, and I think you could destroy him if you wanted.”
I reach across the counter, smile, and squeeze Kari’s forearm. I blink hard, my lashes brushing against flushed cheeks, then give a small nod—less a gesture of understanding and more of surrender to the weight of the moment.
“He’s safe with me.”
Kari returns the smile and the nod. “Never doubted it for a minute. I love you both.”
The knot I haven’t even known I’ve been carrying—tight, coiled, forged from years of trying to control too much and feel too little—eases at the edges. It doesn’t unravel all at once, but the pressure inside my chest shifts. I feel a quiet stretch of space open up inside me, where fear has lived. And in that space, something steadier settles—acceptance, maybe. Or at least the start of it.
* * *
When the bakery is finally cleaned and locked up for the night, I take my time walking back to the loft, with Gage as my escort. Gideon and Dalton left earlier in order to do what I’m quickly beginning to think of as ‘Ranger things.’
The streets are mostly empty, the ocean air damp and heavy with the promise of a storm. I need the silence, need a minute to feel like myself again—whoever that is now. My keys jingle in my pocket as I climb the stairs to the loft two at a time, heart pounding faster than I’ll admit. Dalton is waiting outside. He indicates he and Gage have other places to be and that Gideon is waiting.
Inside, the loft is dim except for the glow from the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. The scent of sea salt and sugar still clings to my skin, and the faint sound of waves brushes up against the silence. I step through the doorway slowly, toeing off my shoes, my fingers already working loose the buttons of my flour-dusted shirt. My body hums from a long day that started in chaos and is about to end in something far more intimate.
Wordless and intent, I cross the space between us slowly, peeling off each layer of clothing as I walk. The loft is dim, quiet, private. Mine. Ours. The cool tile presses against my bare feet as I stand naked in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of butter and vanilla from the frosting I’ve begun mixing in a half-hearted attempt to find calm.
The moment I stepped into the loft and saw Gideon standing in the kitchen, all quiet dominance and smoldering patience, something inside me clicked into place. The bowl of buttercream sits on the counter, frosting clinging to my knuckles in luscious peaks. I stir absently, my mind flicking between unfinished thoughts and the magnetic pull of the man who’s claimed me as his own.
Gideon stands leaning against the counter behind me, shirtless, his jeans riding low on his hips, his arms crossed. His molten steel and wildfire gaze tracks my every movement, as if I’m something precious and breakable—or something he’s moments from devouring. There’s no smile, no grin—just heat, raw and focused. I don’t need to see his expression to feel it. The air between us tightens like a string pulled taut.
It isn’t just the kitchen that’s warm. It’s thick with tension, the kind that buzzes just beneath the skin and makes each breath feel like a prelude. My body picks up on the signal before my brain does—the heavy pulse of his attention, the invisible pull of gravity between us. I know that look, even with my back turned. That weight in the air. The quiet hum of want pressed close behind my ribs. I know what he remembers. I know exactly what he wants. And I want it, too.
“You keep looking at me like that,” I murmur, not glancing up, “and I’m going to make a mess we don’t clean up.”
His eyes burn. “Promise?”
I turn, powdered sugar dusted across my collarbone, arms bare, breath shallow. And I don’t wait.
I dip my finger into the bowl, taste the frosting slowly, letting my tongue drag across my fingertip with a deliberate tease. I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. His presence curls down my spine, awakening the wolf that still trembles just beneath my skin.
“You’re cleaning up the mess,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer with words. I can feel him moving restlessly, like the predator he is. Glancing over my shoulder, I see powdered sugar along his jaw, caught by his five o’clock shadow, and a smear of buttercream on his chest where I’d playfully swiped him with frosting. He watches me now, like he’s barely holding something in.
“You gonna keep staring or actually help?” I ask, not turning around.
His voice is low, rough. “Depends. You planning to bake cupcakes to go along with that frosting or just keep pretending that buttercream isn’t an excuse to distract yourself?”
I scoop a finger full of frosting, lick it slowly. “I don’t know that the two are mutually exclusive.”
He moves before I can blink. One long stride, and the space between us evaporates as his hands grasp my hips, spinning me to face him, backing me into the counter. The bowl wobbles behind me, but neither of us cares.
His eyes are dark. Not with anger. With hunger.
“You keep looking at me like that,” I say, my voice breathless, “like you’re starving.”
His mouth dips to my neck. “I am.”
My breath catches as his teeth graze my skin, the sharp tease of danger rolling over nerves already stretched taut. He follows it with a slow drag of his tongue, hot and deliberate, a sensual balm that sends a tremor down my spine. I reach for the top button of his jeans, but he catches my wrists mid-motion, his grip firm and unyielding.
With a low growl that thrums against my throat, he pins my arms behind my back, forcing my chest to rise against him. One hand locks my wrists together with dominant precision, while the other slides possessively down my bare spine—because I wear nothing but the flush on my skin and the scent of sugar. His fingers explore my body with reverent urgency, mapping the curve of my back, the dip of my waist, until they find the heat of my belly and linger there. My knees tremble. Between the cool tile and the consuming heat of his body, I’m trapped and gasping for breath—a needy, raw, fiery sound.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low.
I arch against him. “I started this, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t speak—he devours. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that sears, wild and consuming, lips crashing in a clash of teeth and tongue that pulls a whimper from my throat. My nails score across his back, sharp crescents of need anchoring him as he presses me firmly against the counter. His thigh muscles between mine, a demanding intrusion that makes me gasp, the hard ridge of it grinding against my center until my legs lift instinctively, locking around his waist, tethering us as our bodies find a rhythm older than words.
Laid bare in every way, my skin flushed and glowing in the low kitchen light, I’ve never felt so exposed—nor so invincible. He drinks me in, his gaze roaming from the part of my lips down the soft line of my throat and over the curves of my breasts. His touch is reverent, deliberate, the slow trail of his hands painting fire across my ribs, up to cup my breasts in his palms. His thumbs flick over my nipples, drawing a sharp gasp as I arch into his hands.
His mouth follows, taking me with aching precision, lips wrapping around a pebbled peak as his tongue circles and teases, slow and relentless. I moan his name—a sound pulled from the marrow of my being—as his mouth lavishes attention, staking another claim.
My body, slick skin against his hard muscle, moves against him as if made for it; friction and fire meet at every contact point. My hips rock with increasing need, grinding with purpose, a slow, relentless drive that leaves no room for hesitation. I’m claiming him with every motion, every breath, every demanding move of my body—this isn’t surrender. It’s sovereignty.
And Gideon? He gives it to me. All of it.
“Gideon...”
“Say it again.”
“Gideon. Please.”
He steps back just enough to undo the buttons of his jeans, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. With a low groan, he frees himself, his cock thick and already showing a drop of pre-cum at its tip. He reaches down, guides himself to me, and presses forward in one smooth, claiming stroke—deep, slow, and perfect—filling me until our bodies lock together like a seal, like a promise.
I cry out, nails digging into his back as my hips arch to meet his. He fills me with an exquisite stretch, slow at first, drawing every inch of sensation out like molten honey. Then he thrusts again—deeper, stronger—his hands gripping my hips as the rhythm builds into something primal, something wild. Every stroke is a declaration, every movement a promise, driving me higher, pushing me to the brink where breath dissolves into heat and thought vanishes into pleasure. My head falls back with a moan, surrendering to the delicious fire curling low and deep, rushing me toward the edge like a tide I can’t fight—and don’t want to.
“Ride me,” he growls against my throat.
He lifts me again—this time one powerful arm tucked under my thighs and the other braced at the small of my back—keeping me flush against him, still joined, still pulsing with the aftershock of that last thrust. He carries me to the bedroom with a rough grace, our mouths fused, my breath ragged against his neck. When we reach the bed, he drops onto it with a low groan, letting me straddle him fully, thighs wide around his hips, hair tumbling in waves over my shoulders.
I brace myself, palms splayed against the hard planes of his chest. I don’t wait for him to guide me. I rise, slow and deliberate, and sink down again, a whimper caught between pleasure and power escaping my lips. The drag of him inside me is blissfully deep, and as I find my rhythm—riding him with fierce intent—my body becomes a litany of control and carnal devotion.
He lets me take him, his gaze locked on the way I move—deliberate, sensual, fierce. My hands frame his chest for leverage, my thighs tighten around him, hips rocking with a rhythm that makes thought impossible. Every slow descent drags a low groan from deep in his chest, his fingers gripping my hips like a man holding on for dear life. My hair spills over my shoulders, a wild halo that brushes his skin as I lean forward, lips ghosting over his jaw, my breath warm and wicked. I move like I own every inch of him, like he’s mine to devour, to ride, to love—and God, he is.
The rhythmic sound of our bodies colliding fills the quiet bedroom, a slow, primal percussion echoing against the walls. My back arches, my spine a perfect curve of tension and release as I move atop him, claiming each thrust with a breathless whimper. My hands fan across his chest for leverage, my thighs tightening around his hips with every descent. Gideon’s grip on my waist is possessive, fingers digging into my flesh as he matches my rhythm, guiding me with reverent force. My head tips back, a flush blooming across my chest as I ride him harder, my moans low and wrecked, my movements nothing short of worship.
“You’re mine, Maggie. Say it.”
I lean down, press my mouth to his ear. “Yours. Always. You’re mine too.”
I shatter with his name on my lips, my body locking around him in a wave of slick, electric release that leaves me gasping. Gideon follows with a guttural roar muffled against my mouth, the sound raw and primal, his hips grinding up in desperate pulses as he empties into me, our bodies quaking through the last tremors of release. In the place where we forge and claim trust in fire, we cling to each other, undone together in a tangle of breath, sweat, and heat.
We collapse, sticky, breathless, tangled in each other.
“So,” I say, breathless but smug, “still think I can’t lead?”
He chuckles against my skin. “You led me straight to sin, Cupcake.”
Neither of us moves for a long time. The cupcakes are forgotten, the frosting abandoned—but neither of us cares.