Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
FINALLY
CAL
The night before the Regional Council hearing, Cal couldn’t sleep.
He’d tried. Laid in the narrow bed at Bran’s cabin, staring at the ceiling, running through evidence and arguments and worst-case scenarios until his brain felt like it was eating itself.
The folder Wyatt had compiled sat on the nightstand—damning proof of Magnus’s fraud, the cursed honey imports, the decades-long campaign to destroy the Ursa sleuth from within.
The healing magic for his grandfather had begun, but it would be a while until they’d see any progress. All the honey storage had been tested, and three cursed batches had been destroyed.
Tomorrow, everything they’d built would be tested. Dahlia would present her research on the fraudulent surveys. Witnesses would testify. And Magnus would either be exposed as the murderer he was—or he’d slither free, and Cal would have to challenge him anyway.
Cal stared at the dark ceiling and tried not to think about what would happen if they lost.
Something in him knew Dahlia was still awake.
Go to her, the bear urged. She’s awake. She needs us.
Cal didn’t know how he knew that. The mate bond hadn’t been completed—no claiming, no permanent mark.
But he could feel her anyway. A low hum of awareness that told him Dahlia Moon was not sleeping either.
He could almost sense her restlessness, her worry, the frantic energy she channeled into flour and butter when her thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning.
He checked his phone. 12:47 a.m.
He was in his truck before he’d consciously decided to move.
The bakery was dark, but like before, light glowed from the apartment above.
Haven Shores was quiet at this hour. Main Street empty, the storefronts dark, the distant sound of waves against the shore breaking the silence.
Cal parked on the quiet street and climbed the narrow stairs to Dahlia’s door.
It was past one in the morning, but he could hear movement inside—the clatter of bowls, the hum of an oven, the soft sound of her voice singing off-key.
Stress-baking. Of course. The woman channeled her anxiety into flour and butter the way he channeled his into spreadsheets and strategy sessions. Two sides of the same coin.
He knocked softly. The singing stopped. Footsteps approached, and then the door swung open.
Dahlia stood in the doorway, flour dusting her cheek, hair piled in a messy bun, wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung off one shoulder and shorts that showed entirely too much leg for his sanity.
She looked exhausted and beautiful and like everything he’d ever wanted without knowing he was allowed to want it.
“Cal.” His name came out on a breath. “What are you—”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, drawn to her like gravity. “Apparently, neither could you.”
The apartment smelled of butter and vanilla and the ghost of every batch she’d ever baked here. It smelled like her.
Marzipan watched him from a perch on the back of the couch, keen eyes unblinking. The cat’s tail flicked once—acknowledgment, if not approval—before she turned away and began grooming her paw. Progress.
“I’m on my third batch of anxiety croissants.” Dahlia gestured toward the kitchen, where cooling racks covered every surface. “My freezer is going to be full for months.”
“You could open a bakery.” He moved toward her, closing the distance between them one deliberate step at a time. “Oh wait.”
She laughed—a tired, genuine sound that hit him square in the ribs. “Bad joke.”
“I have terrible timing.” He stopped in front of her, close enough to see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat, the way her pupils dilated as she looked up at him. “In comedy and in life.”
“Your timing seems pretty good right now.” Her voice had dropped, gone husky. “I was going crazy in here alone.”
Cal reached out, brushed a smear of flour from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was soft, flushed from the heat of the ovens. She leaned into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
“Tomorrow might go badly.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. All his fears crystallized into five syllables.
Dahlia’s hand came up to cover his where it rested against her face. “It might.”
“Magnus could win. The council could rule in his favor. Everything we’ve built—”
“Cal.” She cut him off, her fingers tightening around his. “I know. I’ve been running the same scenarios in my head for hours. That’s why there are forty-seven croissants cooling in my kitchen.”
“Forty-seven?”
“I may have miscounted. The point is—” She took a breath, and her eyes locked onto his with fierce determination. “If tomorrow goes badly, I don’t want to have wasted tonight worrying about it.”
His heart stuttered. “What do you want instead?”
“You.” Simple. Direct. Devastating. “I want you, Cal. I’ve wanted you for weeks, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
Cal’s control—the iron discipline he’d built over years of boardrooms and hostile negotiations—crumbled like ash.
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he cradled her face in both hands, tilting it up so he could look at her properly. Really look. The flour dusting her cheekbone. The way her lips had parted. The pulse hammering visibly at the base of her throat.
“You’re sure?” His voice came out ragged, barely controlled. “Because once I start, I’m not going to want to stop.”
“I’m sure.” She turned her head, brushing her lips against his palm. The gesture sent heat flooding through him. “I’ve been sure since you crashed in my storeroom and let me see you without your armor.”
He kissed her.
Not the slow, careful kisses they’d shared before. Not the desperate crash after he’d stumbled bloody to her door. This was deliberate. Consuming. The kiss of a man who’d finally stopped running from what he wanted.
He tasted her bottom lip first, teasing, before slanting his mouth over hers and deepening the kiss. She opened for him immediately, her tongue sliding against his, and the first real taste of her made him groan low in his throat.
His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth—a small, surprised sound that sent fire racing through his blood. Her arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and she kissed him back with equal hunger.
They stood like that for long minutes, learning each other through lips and tongue and breath.
Cal walked her backward until her shoulders hit the wall, and she made a needy sound when he pressed the full length of his body against hers.
He was already hard—had been since she’d opened the door—and he knew she could feel it through the thin barrier of her shorts.
“Cal.” His name was a moan against his lips. Her hips rolled against his, seeking friction, and he had to grip her waist to keep from losing his mind entirely.
“The oven,” she managed between kisses. “I should—”
Cal released her long enough to stride into the kitchen and turn off the oven. The half-formed croissants inside would be ruined. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
When he turned back, Dahlia was watching him with dark eyes and parted lips, her breath coming in rapid bursts.
The oversized shirt had slipped further down her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft swell of skin beneath.
Her nipples were visibly peaking through the thin fabric.
“Bedroom.” Not a question.
She took his hand and led him down the short hallway.
Moonlight came through lace curtains, soft and silver. The room smelled like her shampoo and warm cotton.
Here, the animal insisted. This is where she rests. This is where she’s vulnerable. She’s letting us in.
He understood the significance. Dahlia let everyone into her bakery, her life, her energy. But this space was hers alone—the one place she could stop performing, stop nurturing, stop being needed. And she was inviting him in.
Cal turned her to face him, cupping her face in both hands. “Tell me what you want. Tell me everything.”
“You.” She rose on her toes to kiss him, soft and sweet. “Inside me.” Another kiss, deeper. “Making me forget my own name.” She nipped at his lower lip, and his grip tightened involuntarily. “Think you can manage that?”
“I’m going to try.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, tasting and exploring. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before delving inside, and she melted against him with a soft moan. His hands slid down her sides, found the hem of her shirt, and paused.
“Yes,” she breathed before he could ask.
He pulled the shirt over her head in one smooth motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra—hadn’t expected company at one in the morning—and Cal’s brain short-circuited at the sight of her.
Soft curves. Skin flushed pink in the moonlight. Breasts that fit perfectly in his palms when he reached for her, dusky nipples already peaked and begging for his mouth. She was beautiful—not in the polished, artificial way of the women who’d circled him in Seattle, but real and alive.
“You’re staring.” Her voice held a hint of self-consciousness, her arms starting to come up.
“Don’t.” He caught her wrists gently, lowering them back to her sides. “You’re worth staring at. Every inch of you.”
He bent to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. When his lips closed around one nipple, she cried out, her back arching off the mattress.
He sucked gently, then harder when she fisted her hands in his hair and pulled him closer.
His tongue swirled around the stiffened peak while his hand found her other breast, rolling and pinching until she was writhing beneath him.
“Cal—” Her voice was ragged. “That feels—oh god—”
He switched sides, giving her other breast the same attention, and felt her thighs clench around his hips. She ground against him, seeking pressure where she needed it most, and the friction through their remaining clothes was maddening.