Chapter 16
Sean
The sun was up, warm and golden, brushing across the rooftops of Sugarpaw Springs like honey.
The air smelled like dew and distant pine. I walked the familiar path toward the bakery, the sidewalks lined with flower boxes and chalkboard signs. Everything looked normal.
But something was wrong. Terribly, unmistakably wrong.
The town was silent.
No morning chatter, no dogs barking, no kids riding bikes or couples sipping coffee outside their favorite cafes. Every storefront I passed was closed, windows dark.
A breeze drifted down the street, stirring a newspaper across the asphalt, but there was no one to read it.
The pit in my stomach grew heavier with every step.
My feet moved on their own, each one landing too hard against the pavement, like I was walking underwater.
A pressure built in my chest, something instinctive, primal. My wolf shifted uneasily beneath my skin, ears flat, tail tucked.
Leave, it warned.
But I couldn’t. I was already pushing open the bakery door. The bell above didn’t ring. I stepped inside and the scent hit me first.
Not bread. Not sugar. Not cinnamon or clove.
Blood. Metallic and thick. So strong it coated my tongue.
“No,” I whispered.
My eyes adjusted slowly to the dark interior. The curtains were drawn. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room. I took a few shaky steps forward and saw them.
Rafael. Slumped behind the counter, his eyes glassy and wide, staring at nothing.
Blood soaked his apron and shirt, a dark stain spreading beneath his body like a dying flower. His mouth hung open like he’d been mid-sentence.
Cassian lay nearby, his hand still clutching a broken coffee cup. His throat had been slashed, jagged and deep. Blood sprayed the wall behind him like some deranged painting.
I staggered back.
“No, no. What is this?” I whispered.
Dorian was facedown, his arm twisted unnaturally behind his back, his head cracked open against the tile. There was a pool of crimson under him, already drying.
Even Leo, sweet, shy Leo, was curled up near the display case, his eyes open, lips parted in a final breath he never got to finish.
Terror hollowed out my insides. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it, echoing in my skull. Then I saw Beau.
He was on the floor behind the counter, sprawled on his back. His shirt was torn, blood soaking through his chest.
His big hands, those hands that had held me, comforted me, made dough like magic, were limp at his sides.
His throat had been torn out.The wound was deep, angry, raw. His eyes were still open, but the light was gone.
I let out a sound, part sob, part scream, and stumbled toward him, falling to my knees beside his body.
“Beau…no. Please—” My hands shook as I reached for him, already knowing it was too late. “Please, wake up!”
A chuckle cut through the silence. Low. Cruel. I looked up.
Orin stood over Beau’s corpse, a bloody knife dangling from his fingers. He was dressed in black now. None of the chef’s whites he used to wear.
Just a sleek, predatory shadow with blood spattered across his shirt and sleeves. His grin widened when he saw me.
“Morning, Sean,” he said, voice dripping sweet venom. “You're just in time.”
My breath caught in my throat. I scrambled backward, palms slick with blood.
Orin stepped over Beau’s body casually, like he was stepping over a log in the woods. The blade in his hand glinted red and wet.
“What did you do?” I choked out.
“What I had to do,” he said, crouching down so we were eye-level. “They got in the way. They tried to protect you.”
He smiled again. That same calm, patient smile I remembered from that night in the kitchen. The one that said he enjoyed this. That the blood on his hands meant nothing to him.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
The whole bakery felt like it was tilting sideways. The walls were closing in, suffocating me with the stench of death and cinnamon and copper.
“This isn’t real,” I whispered.
Orin leaned closer, the knife resting against my cheek. “You sure?”
I screamed, but no sound came out.
Just the knife, pressing in, just enough to draw blood. Just enough to make sure I knew this wasn’t over.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he whispered. “Before I come for you and your new friends.”
Then he drove the blade into Beau’s chest again. I lunged forward, but the room shattered.
Everything around me split apart like glass. Blood, bodies, walls, floor, it all came crashing down into blackness.
I woke with a gasp, heart thundering, lungs dragging in air like I’d just surfaced from drowning.
Everything was dark. For a second, I couldn’t tell if I was still in the nightmare.
I didn’t know where I was, only that my chest hurt and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Then I felt the weight behind me. Solid. Steady.
Warm.
Beau.
I was curled up against him, his arm heavy and secure around my waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of my neck.
My body was tucked tight into his, the way it always did when we shared a bed, as if my subconscious knew, even in sleep, where safety lived.
Relief hit so hard, it knocked a choked breath out of me.
He’s alive.
I didn’t need to check the bakery floor to know it hadn’t happened. I didn’t need to feel the cold, slick blood or see the lifeless eyes of my friends.
I didn’t need to hear Orin’s voice, purring in my ear like death dressed in charm. It was over.
Just a nightmare.
But my heart didn’t care. It kept racing, clawing at my ribs like it still thought we were in danger. My hands trembled in the sheets, and I tried not to wake Beau.
He needed rest. I wanted him to rest. But the dream had settled its claws deep, and no matter how tightly I clung to the warmth of reality, it wouldn’t let go.
I took a slow breath, then another, counting them the way Beau had taught me.
Four in. Four out.
My pulse started to settle.
He shifted slightly behind me, and I froze, worried I’d disturbed him, but he didn’t stir beyond that.
His arm stayed around my waist, the heat of his bare chest pressing gently into my back. I could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow, grounding me.
The moonlight slipped in through the curtains and cast a soft glow over the room, enough for me to see his hand resting over my stomach. His skin was rough, warm. Protective.
Everything about Beau was that way, his presence, his voice, his touch. Like armor I didn’t know I needed until I had it.
And yet...
My eyes drifted to the curve of his shoulder.
Scars, pale and long-healed, caught the moonlight like whispers of old wounds. Some of them I’d asked about. Others he didn’t talk much about.
I reached out, fingertips brushing one of them gently. A jagged one near his ribs. If Beau got involved in my mess… would he have more scars someday?
Or worse…
Would he even survive?
I swallowed hard, blinking fast. The image of him on the bakery floor, cold, blood-soaked and lifeless, flickered behind my eyes like static. My stomach twisted.
I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.
Beau sighed softly in his sleep, lips brushing the nape of my neck. He always did that. Always curled around me like a shield even in dreams.
I couldn’t stay still anymore.
Carefully, slowly, I pried myself from his embrace. His arm slipped off me with only a faint murmur of protest from him.
I waited, breath held, to see if he’d wake, but he didn’t. He only rolled onto his back, one hand resting against his chest. I stood, heart aching as I looked down at him.
Beau looked peaceful like this. Golden-brown skin bathed in silver light.
Chest rising with easy breaths. That faint frown he always had during the day was gone. It was rare, this version of him. Untouched by the world. Untouched by me.
I turned away before I could spiral further. The kitchen was familiar, even in the dim light. It was quiet. Still. Safe.
My bare feet padded softly across the floor. I turned on only the stove light, not wanting to ruin the calm with anything too bright.
The old light buzzed faintly overhead, casting the countertops in a warm, amber glow. I tied an apron around my waist, Beau’s, because mine was in the wash, and rolled up my sleeves.
Baking always helped.
When everything was chaos, when my thoughts were loud and sharp, baking was the one thing I could control.
A rhythm. A recipe. A task that asked for precision and gave something sweet in return.
I pulled out the ingredients for cinnamon rolls. The old-fashioned kind, like the ones Beau first taught me to make.
Flour. Yeast. Milk. Sugar. Butter. Eggs.
Each motion helped pull me back to the present. Each whisk, each measured scoop. I mixed the dough, letting the warmth of the milk soothe the chill still coiled around my bones.
Kneading helped.
There was something satisfying in the repetition of it. My hands sank into the dough, pushing and folding, grounding myself in the rhythm.
The nightmare still clung to me, sticky and insidious, but this... this helped me forget, at least momentarily.
I set the dough aside to rise and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to fall apart. Was it stupid to be this shaken over a dream?
It wasn’t just a dream. It was a warning. A possibility.
Orin was real, and dangerous.
I’d seen what he did. And if he had tracked me here, if he was already in town, then how long until the nightmare became truth? I closed my eyes, breathing slow.
I didn’t want Beau caught in this, but I also didn’t want to be without him. That thought alone twisted something deep inside me.
At first, I told myself Sugarpaw Springs would be temporary. Just a hiding place. A quiet, out-of-the-way town where I could disappear long enough to feel normal again.
Somewhere I could catch my breath, regroup, maybe find some part-time work and lie low until Orin lost interest or until I figured out where to run next.
But then…
The town got under my skin in the softest, sneakiest ways.
The quiet streets lined with flower boxes. The scent of pine in the morning. The locals who remembered your name and asked how your day was like they meant it.
The way Bear and Bun smelled like safety and cinnamon. The way the other shifters laughed loudly and didn’t judge me when I flinched at sudden sounds.
And Beau was never what I expected. Not when we met. Not even now.
He was quiet and gruff and looked like he could rip a man in half with one hand, and yet he baked cookies for grieving old ladies.
Beau stayed up late trying to perfect lemon bars because he wanted them “just right,” and always made sure I had a clean apron and a bottle of water when I started working.
He saw me. Really saw me.
I’d started waking up wanting to see him. Wanting to open the bakery. Wanting to greet the locals and sneak a bear claw when Rafael wasn’t looking.
Somewhere between the dough and the long hours and the stolen smiles across flour-dusted counters, I’d stopped surviving and started… living again.
So yeah. I didn’t want to leave. Not the bakery. Not the town. And definitely not Beau.
But was I being selfish?
Was it selfish to want a life here, knowing that Orin was still out there? That my presence might put everyone I’d come to care about in danger?
I wrapped my arms around myself, the question sinking deep. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t strong. I was just a guy who ran when things got ugly, and they always got ugly.
What if staying here just brought that ugliness with me? What if all the safety I’d found was just borrowed time? And if something did happen…
Could I live with myself if Beau got hurt?
Or worse?
My throat tightened. The thought was unbearable. But leaving him now, walking away from this… that felt unbearable too.
I was torn in half, strung between fear and hope, and I didn’t know which part of me would win. Stay with him. Stay with your mate, my wolf pleaded.
“I want to,” I whispered.
The kitchen timer buzzed, startling me slightly. I blinked, checked the dough. It had risen beautifully, soft and warm under my fingers.
I punched it down gently and rolled it out, spreading the filling. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Butter. A little nutmeg, the way Beau liked.
As I worked, I thought about telling him.
The whole truth.
The rumors about Orin’s connections. The whispers I’d heard back in culinary school. The way Orin would disappear for weeks and come back smelling like smoke and steel.
I hadn’t told Beau everything, not because I didn’t trust him, but because it never felt real until now.
Now, it felt too real, and too dangerous.
I rolled the dough into a log and sliced it into perfect spirals. The scent of cinnamon started to fill the kitchen, sweet and nostalgic.
I arranged the rolls in a pan, covered them, and set them aside for their second rise. Then I just... stood there. Staring at them.
Wishing I could stay like this forever. Safe. Baking. Hiding. But life didn’t work that way. Especially not mine. I turned, looking toward the hallway.
It was still quiet. Beau hadn’t woken.