Chapter 17
Big Papa
The sun wasn’t up when I rolled Aspen out of bed, but that didn’t matter. My mate always did her best work in the deep dark before dawn, and today, it was doubly important. It was the first day Buttercream a soft, electric warmth that took the place of the cold, anxious knot I’d carried since the day my convoy blew up outside Mosul.
I kept my left hand on the wheel, right hand on her thigh, thumb idly tracing circles.
Every so often she’d lean over, bump my shoulder, and let out this little huff that meant she was excited and nervous at the same time.
I loved that sound. I loved her. I still couldn’t believe I was allowed to say it, to think it, to have her so completely.
When we hit Dairyville proper, the bakery stood out like a sunrise. She’d repainted the door last weekend, and even in the dead of night, the bright yellow screamed cheerfulness. I parked at the curb, cut the engine, and just watched her for a second.
She finished her coffee, wiped the sleep from her eyes, and smiled at me, soft as a secret. “Ready for round two?” she asked, voice rough from sleep.
“Always,” I said. “I’m gonna stick around for a while. At least ‘til you and Oscar get your wards in place.”
She nodded her head, then hesitated. “I’d like that.”
That made me happier than it should’ve.
Inside, the place was still and clean. Oscar sat atop the glass counter, tiny paws folded, looking like he’d been carved from cinnamon toast. He was wearing a navy corduroy jacket and an orange and navy plaid vest, because of course he was. When he saw us, he gave a regal nod.
“Good morning, sir. Miss,” he said. “The perimeter appears undisturbed.”
Aspen grinned and tousled his head, then busied herself turning on the kitchen lights and prepping the ovens.
I wandered over to a table near the door, set up my laptop, and started in on the day’s job: mapping the security and logistics for Bronc and Juliet’s upcoming mating ceremony.
I pulled up a shared doc, dropped a pin for the event site, and then typed out the supply list in the clean, military block letters Menace had drilled into me years ago.
But I wasn’t really focused on the logistics.
I kept glancing up at Aspen as she and Oscar started the protection rituals.
It was a two-part system: Oscar took the right wall, Aspen took the left, and together they made a slow circuit of the interior.
Oscar walked with precise, dignified steps, every so often pausing to tap a glowing sigil onto the baseboard.
The light would linger, then fade, leaving a faint scent of fresh air and sage.
Aspen followed, whispering lines from her mother’s grimoire, shaking a tin of salt over the windowsills and doors.
I found it mesmerizing. She wasn’t the bumbling, unsure girl who’d shown up in town weeks ago. She was in charge now. Her voice was clear, her hands steady, her magic alive and visible. She belonged here, and the bakery was her temple.
Every few minutes, she’d peek over her shoulder at me, green eyes sparkling, and I’d lift my coffee in salute. We didn’t have to say anything—our bond did the talking.
After the first round of wards, she disappeared into the kitchen to start mixing dough.
I watched the light come up over the street, painting everything a delicate pink.
There was nothing threatening on the horizon, just the usual mix of half-asleep commuters and ranch hands grabbing coffee before work.
I went back to my list. Supplies: checked. Site perimeter: checked. Backup generator: requested. I was halfway through the communications plan when Oscar hopped onto my table, landing so lightly he didn’t even ruffle the papers.
He eyed the screen, then me, then the screen again. “You are most efficient, sir. Have you considered a career in logistics?”
I snorted. “Had one. Wasn’t as fun as it looks.”
Oscar leaned in, as if about to whisper a national secret. “She’s much changed, you know. Since last night.”
I looked over at the kitchen. I could see Aspen’s silhouette through the frosted glass, arms moving in a steady rhythm as she worked the dough.
“I know,” I said, soft as a whisper. “She’s… incredible.”
Oscar twitched his nose, the picture of sage wisdom. “You are as well. A bit more…unrestrained this morning, if I may say so.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well, some things are worth letting go for.”
Oscar nodded, then fixed me with a stare so intense it might have punctured armor. “I shall inform you if anything strange is detected, sir. Until then, please enjoy your…logistics.” He said the word like it was a rare delicacy.
I shook my head and got back to work, but it was impossible to focus now. My mind kept wandering to the bedroom, to the way Aspen had trembled under me, the way she’d clawed my back and screamed my name like it was the only word in the world. I felt myself start to harden, just thinking about it.
I shifted in my seat, tried to distract myself with an email, but the bond lit up again—this time with a sharp jolt of amusement. Aspen must have felt it, because a second later she called out from the kitchen.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, voice sing-song. “You’re making me wet in here, and I have to wear these panties all day.”
I about died. Oscar made a strangled, scandalized sound, then covered his face with both paws.
I could hear her giggling, muffled by the swinging kitchen door. “You’re not even in the room and you’re already getting me in trouble,” she said, still laughing. “I have a new rule. No making me horny when there’s raw dough around.”
“I’ll try,” I said, but didn’t mean it. The warmth in my chest grew to a slow, steady burn. I’d spent years believing I was broken, unlikely to find this kind of happiness. Now it felt like the universe was making up for lost time.
Oscar composed himself, then pointedly straightened his cravat. “I shall be monitoring the yeast, Miss, should you require my assistance.”
“Thank you, Oscar,” she replied. “You’re a true professional.”
He puffed up, pleased.
The morning rolled on. I finished my work, double-checked the comms, then leaned back and just watched the bakery come to life.
Aspen was in her element, humming along to an old Fleetwood Mac song, hands dusted with flour, hair coming loose from her bun a bit.
Oscar busied himself with inventory, reading off ingredient lists in his perfect British diction.
I got up, stretched, and wandered to the front counter. I poured another mug of coffee, then perched on a stool, watching the street. It was quiet—nothing suspicious, nothing wrong. For the first time since I’d woken up in a hospital bed almost ten years ago, I felt completely, irrevocably right.
My phone buzzed. Maddie.
Hey, stud. Pearl’s kitchen is doing lunch drop-off today. Me and maybe Parker will bring the goods. Is 11:30 cool?
I typed back: Perfect. Aspen will want potato salad.
Maddie’s reply came instantly: Your girl has excellent taste. See you soon, Big Papa.
I smiled, pocketed the phone, and listened to the hum of the bakery. I could have stood there all day, just breathing in the scent of fresh bread and sugar, listening to Aspen and Oscar bicker about the proper pronunciation of “croissant.”
At 6:00, we unlocked the front door. The first customer was a rancher in a battered Carhartt, who left with two dozen kolaches and a smile. By 7:00, the place was half full. Oscar stayed hidden in the back as Aspen worked the counter and the oven, and I played bouncer—discreet, but ready.
A woman in a gray jacket lingered outside for a minute, but she moved on, and nothing felt off. I let myself relax.
The moment I stepped inside the clubhouse, I was slammed by the familiar mix of coffee, leather, and motor oil. It was the smell of my second home.
Gunner and Arsenal were in the kitchen, arguing over whether brisket or ribs should be on the menu for Saturday’s ceremony.
Gunner had a heavy mug of black coffee in his grip and wore his cut over a plaid shirt that matched his boots, while Arsenal, true to form, dressed like he’d just stepped out of an urban sniper’s fantasy.
He saw me, narrowed his eyes, and nodded.
That was about as much affection as Arsenal ever gave anyone.
“Hey, lover boy,” Gunner called. “Heard you finally bit the bullet.”
“Bullet’s not the only thing I bit,” I shot back, dropping my bag on the nearest chair. “And if you keep running your mouth, I’ll let my mate put a spell on your pecker.”
Gunner laughed, shaking his head. “I’m immune. My balls are sanctified by barbecue and bourbon.”
Arsenal snorted. “I’m just waiting for the day one of you falls for a real monster. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”
“One of these days you’re gonna fall in love with the exact wrong person,” I told him, grinning. “Karma’s a bitch, buddy.”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said he’d taken the hit.
Church started right on time, as it always did. Bronc presided from the head of the battered oak table, flipping through a dog-eared binder of schedules and supply lists. Maddie was there too, hunched over her laptop, eyes darting between her screen and the room like a bird of prey.
Bronc cleared his throat. “Let’s get moving. First up: Saturday’s ceremony. Papa, you got the site locked down?”