Chapter 13 Beau
Beau
The shop smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. We’d just wrapped up one of our busiest days since the bakery’s opening.
Not that I minded. I was buzzing. Not from sugar, but from potential.
We’d closed early, turned the sign with a satisfying click, and now the whole Bear and Bun crew was spread out across the front counter, sleeves rolled up, aprons dusted with flour and pride.
“Okay,” I said, clapping my hands once. “Let’s get down to it.”
“You mean let’s crush Wolf and Whisk into powdered sugar,” Rafael said, lounging against the counter like he didn’t care, even though he definitely cared.
“That too,” I said, grinning.
The town-wide baking competition was already the talk of the town. Flyers had started going up.
The Golden Whisk Trophy practically gleamed in my imagination. And yeah, part of me wanted to win because it’d be great exposure, but mostly?
I wanted to beat the wolves. Badly.
This was our chance to show Sugarpaw Springs, and every snooty food blogger from here to Redwood Hollow, that Bear and Bun wasn’t just some scrappy, back-alley bakery run by misfit shifters.
We were the real deal.
“This could really put us on the map,” Rafael said, growing serious for a moment.
“I heard the festival’s pulling in actual food critics.
Not just the local paper this year. The kind who write pieces that trend online.
If they like what they taste... it’s free PR.
We go viral, and suddenly we’re packed through fall. ”
“Even the wolves looked a little nervous when it was announced,” Leo added. “Did you see James’s face? He was already thinking up sabotage plans.”
“Let him try,” I said with a growl. “We’ve got secret weapons.”
Everyone turned to look at Sean.
He blinked, a little flustered. “What? Me?”
“Yes, you, culinary wunderkind,” Cassian said with a wink. “You’re our secret weapon. No pressure, though.”
Sean rolled his eyes but he was smiling and blushing, which I liked too much.
“Alright, so let’s strategize,” I said. “We get one signature item to showcase. Something that screams Bear and Bun.”
“Bear Claws?” Leo suggested immediately.
“Too obvious,” Sean said, thoughtful. “They’re great, but we want something unexpected. Elevated.”
I watched his face as he spoke. I always did. He got this crease in his brow when he was deep in food-thought, and I’d started reading his expressions like a second language.
“What about savory-sweet?” he continued. “It’s memorable. Like a honey-rosemary peach hand pie with gouda and black pepper crust.”
The room went very quiet.
Then Rafael gave a low whistle. “Dang Sean, that sounds... sexy.”
Cassian fake-fainted.
I leaned forward, propped my elbows on the counter, and met Sean’s eyes. “You make that, we win.”
His lips curled. “You’re just saying that because I’m cute.”
I smirked. “That’s true. But also, you’re a genius. So. Double threat.”
After that, the brainstorming kicked into high gear. We threw out ideas, argued over fillings, debated crust textures like it was life or death.
Someone suggested something with lavender, and someone else booed them out of the room. It was chaotic. Loud. Home.
Eventually, the guys packed up.
Cassian needed to walk someone’s dog, Rafael got a late-night gym text, and Leo claimed he had a “date” which we all knew probably meant rewatching cooking competitions in his pajamas.
Sean and I stayed behind. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Not with that buzz still in my chest. Not when I could spend another hour or two in a quiet kitchen with him.
“You want to try making a test batch of those pies?” I asked.
Sean’s eyes lit up. “You’re reading my mind.”
We set up in the kitchen, with him peeling peaches and measuring spices, me prepping the crust.
We moved around each other easily now, like we’d always known how to. He passed me the butter without me asking.
I filled the sink just as he needed to rinse his hands. It was a rhythm, a dance, and it made something inside me ache with how good it felt.
I watched the way his fingers moved as he folded the dough, gentle but sure. The concentration on his face.
The little bounce in his step when he tasted the filling and muttered, “Yup, that’s it.”
Gosh. I could do this forever.
The smell of warm pastry filled the kitchen. I set the timer, then turned toward him. He was leaning against the counter, licking a bit of peach filling off his thumb. I stared.
“What?” he asked, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I stepped closer. “You’re dangerous.”
He tilted his head. “You just figuring that out now?”
“Let’s make a deal,” I said, pressing my hand to the counter beside him. “If we win this thing, you let me take you on a fancy date. Suit, no apron, the works.”
His smirk softened into something sweeter. “What if we don’t win?”
“Still taking you out. I’m not that dumb,” I told him.
He laughed, and I kissed him. Slow. Lazy. Flour still on our hands, the scent of peaches and pastry hanging in the air like promise.
The timer dinged. We broke apart, reluctantly.
“I think we just invented a winner,” Sean said, breathless.
I grinned. “I think I already did the second I found you.”
He rolled his eyes but stepped closer again. We pulled the pies from the oven, golden and bubbling and perfect.
“You’ve got flour on your nose,” I said, voice low, stepping toward him.
He reached up to wipe it, but I caught his wrist gently. “Let me.”
I brushed my thumb across the tip of his nose. He scrunched it a little, grinning, and I let my fingers linger longer than necessary.
His eyes flicked up to meet mine. They were soft, curious, and way too easy to get lost in.
“Got it,” I murmured, but I didn’t move back.
He didn’t either.
Sean pushed up on his toes, closing the space between us. His lips brushed mine, warm and slow, a quiet kind of kiss that still somehow lit up every nerve in my chest.
I kissed him back, threading my fingers into his hair. He tasted like cinnamon and peaches. I pulled away only when I absolutely had to breathe.
“We’re dangerous in a kitchen,” I said, my voice a little rough.
Sean laughed, but there was heat in his eyes too. “Should we go before we burn the place down?”
“Yeah,” I said, but my hand found his as we turned off the lights and locked up.
We walked the few blocks to his apartment quietly, the easy kind of quiet where you didn’t have to fill the silence.
The air had cooled, the sidewalks mostly empty, and I could feel the exhaustion settling into my bones.
But not in a bad way. In the kind of way that said you did something good today.
By the time we stepped inside his apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, replaced by hunger and a bone-deep ache.
“I can throw something together,” Sean offered, toeing off his shoes, but I stopped him with a shake of my head.
“Let’s just order something,” I said, already tugging my phone from my pocket. “You worked your magic enough tonight. Let someone else feed us for once.”
He smiled in that sleepy way that made my heart stutter. “Pizza?”
“Pepperoni and extra cheese?” I asked.
“God, yes.”
We crashed onto his couch twenty minutes later, a half-eaten pizza box between us, some indie movie playing on the TV neither of us was really watching.
Sean was curled up under my arm, head on my shoulder, socked feet tucked under him, blanket barely clinging to his hips.
I hadn’t realized I was staring at him until he blinked up at me.
“What?” he murmured.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just wondering how I got this lucky.”
He flushed and burrowed in closer, his fingers idly tracing circles on my chest through my shirt. My bear huffed softly inside me, deeply content.
But under all that comfort, something darker stirred.
The competition, our crazy little crew, all of it made me proud. I’d never imagined something like this when I walked away from my old life.
I thought I’d end up alone in the woods, maybe opening a sad roadside stand selling burnt muffins to truckers.
Now? We were prepping for a festival baking showdown, and the guy in my arms had kissed me like I was something worth holding onto.
And yet, in the middle of all this warmth, Orin lurked in the back of my mind like a cold draft under the door.
The way Sean had said his name. The fear behind it. I hated it.
The old me, the one who’d clawed his way out of Ironwood Falls, the one who didn’t blink twice before throwing a punch, he would’ve hunted Orin down already.
Tracked him like prey, cornered him in some alley, and made damn sure he understood what it meant to threaten someone I cared about.
Back then, I wouldn’t have waited. Wouldn’t have paced the floor or stared at the ceiling wondering what the right thing was. I was the justice.
I was teeth and fury and retribution wrapped in flesh.
And if Orin had so much as looked in Sean’s direction with bad intentions, I would’ve put him on the ground and made sure he never looked at anyone like that again.
Violence had been the only language I knew. It was what I was raised on. Scar for scar, blow for blow. You didn’t talk things out in my old clan.
You didn’t call for help. You handled it. With claws. With blood. With teeth buried in someone’s shoulder until they learned their place.
And the worst part?
There was something... addictive about it.
That dark heat in your chest, the rush when your fist connected, the satisfaction of knowing you could protect what was yours because no one would dare cross you again.
It was simple. Brutal. And it worked.
You didn’t have to worry about rules or whether someone deserved forgiveness. You just acted. You won. You survived.
And sometimes, God help me, I missed it.
Not the clan. Not the cruelty or the way it ate at your soul day after day. But the certainty. The clarity.
Back then, you didn’t second-guess yourself. You didn’t lie awake hoping the police would handle it, or that the threat would just vanish. You took care of it.
Even Rafael wouldn’t have fully understood that, not the way Levi did.
My brother and I were raised knowing that, one day, we’d inherit our father’s empire of blood.
Some mornings, when the scars itched terribly, I thought of Levi and wondered how he was doing. Did he come to resent me for leaving?
But now... I had Sean. I had Bear and Bun. I had Rafael, Leo, Cass, and Dorian. I had Sunday mornings full of laughter and burnt toast.
I had peace. Hard-earned, precious peace. And that part of me, the one who used to revel in being feared, it was caged now. Rusty, chained, and half-starved, but not gone.
And tonight, curled up on the couch with Sean warm and safe in my arms, that part of me rattled the bars. Because what if peace wasn’t enough to keep him safe?
What if being good, being better, wasn’t enough?
What if it took becoming that monster again, just for a moment, to make sure Sean never had to look over his shoulder?
I tightened my arms around him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
No. Not unless I had to. Not unless there was no other way.
Because if I crossed that line again... I wasn’t sure I could come back. And losing Sean? Losing this life I was building?
That would ruin me more than any war ever could.
Sean stirred softly beside me, his hand slipping under my shirt, warm against my ribs.
“You’re tense,” he whispered.
“Just thinking,” I said.
He tilted his head to look at me. “About Orin?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“I trust you, Beau.”
His voice was quiet. Steady.
I swallowed hard and cupped his face, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I just want you safe. That’s all.”
“I am,” he said, wrapping his arms around me tighter. “I feel safest right here.”
And just like that, the beast inside me quieted.