Chapter 18
Aspen
I’d always heard that the day after you bonded with a mate, the whole world changed.
Parker described it like being plugged into a high-voltage line: colors seemed brighter, food tasted richer, and every glance from your partner carried the electric promise of sin and safety both.
I’d assumed she was exaggerating. After all, I’d lived my life outside the fairy tale—hated by my coven, and lately hiding from ghosts and green-jacketed men.
But she hadn’t lied. By noon, I was so tuned into Papa that when he stubbed his toe in the next room over, my own foot ached in sympathy. When he sneezed, I felt a tickle in my own nose. When he looked at me from across the bakery, something in my chest just…warmed.
“Not today, but maybe soon,” I found myself saying over and over. “Should I set some aside for you next week?”
By the third hour, I’d written “Sourdough Friday Coming Soon!” on the chalkboard in my best curly handwriting. Oscar, hidden in the prep area decked out in a tiny navy vest, watched the crowd with a patience I’d never seen in another living being.
“Is this common?” he whispered as a man in muddy overalls asked about rye. “The sudden demand for loaves?”
“Sandwich bread isn’t glamorous, but people want fresh baked, no preservatives these days,” I whispered back, “and if it pays the bills, I’ll bake my body weight in it.”
He snorted, but his little black eyes gleamed. “You underestimate the power of bread, Miss. Empires have risen and fallen on less.”
The bakery hummed. I lost myself in the ritual: scoop, knead, proof, shape, bake.
Each doughball was a little prayer for a day when the world might let me feed it.
By two, the rush had died down. Only the real die-hards remained—the kind who nursed a single sticky bun for three hours, “just for the atmosphere,” while using our Wi-Fi to get a little work done.
Papa showed up at 11:30 on the dot. He knew Maddie had brought lunch. I was happy he decided to stay and get a little work done himself.
The bakery was mine, but his presence filled the room.
He wore a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and his Iron Valor jacket, the leather faded to near-gray at the elbows.
He looked tired but happy, his eyes softer than I’d ever seen them.
I wanted to drag him behind the counter and devour him in the walk-in, but I had some standards.
He took in the mess, the crumbs, the empty racks, and let out a low whistle. “Lemon bar riots, huh?”
“Don’t mock my struggles,” I said, leaning over the counter to kiss his cheek.
He grinned, rubbing the spot I’d kissed like he meant to keep it there all day. “Never.”
Oscar hopped over to the espresso machine and set about making two shots, muttering, “At last, a man who appreciates strong brew.”
Papa put the “CLOSED” sign on the door then squeezed behind the counter, grabbed a rag, and started wiping down tables like he’d worked here all his life.
I stared at him for a moment, then shook my head and started on the next batch of dough for tomorrow.
I hoped this would become our routine. We worked in tandem, no words needed, every motion smooth and easy.
Halfway through mopping the floor, he looked up and said, “So, was your mom a professional baker too? Is that how you learned to do all of this?”
“Not exactly.” I snorted. “She owned an herb shop for about ten years. Mostly soaps, shampoos, and herbal remedies. The bakery was her side hustle. I worked with her after school and on the weekends. She claimed it kept me out of trouble, but mostly it kept the bullies in the coven from eating me whole.”
He leaned against the mop handle, arms crossed. “That’s your mother in those pictures, right? The ones by the register?”
I looked at the little frame with the faded photo of Mama and me, arms around each other, flour on our faces and smiles so big you could park a truck in them. “Yeah. She was the real deal. Not some Instagram witch. She could do things I still can’t believe.”
Oscar interjected, “Miss Waters’s mother once brewed a tea that cured a high priestess’s gallstones. She did not even use a cauldron.”
Papa barked a laugh. “I believe it. Your magic’s getting stronger every day.”
I hesitated, kneading dough with more force than necessary. “I think she started that shop because she knew I’d never fit in with the others. Not really. She was getting me ready for another path.”
He came over, took my floury hands in his, and brushed a stray hair from my cheek. “She did a damn good job.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Speaking as your familiar, Miss, I must say you are more powerful than you give yourself credit for.”
I felt my face heat. “Having you here helps, Oscar. I never dreamed the fates would send me a familiar. Now, sometimes, I feel like I can actually do something.”
Oscar bowed his head. “It is an honor to serve.”
Papa squeezed my hands again. “I’d have killed for a family like that.”
“Don’t you have one?” I asked, brow furrowing. “You never talk about your parents.”
He shrugged, his face closing off a little. “They’re around. Oil business, lots of money, very little time for the actual work of raising wolves. My brother runs most of it now. I’m the family disappointment.”
Oscar sniffed. “From what I hear, sir, you are considered a model citizen in at least six counties.”
He grinned at that, but I saw the shadow in his eyes. “It’s different for wolves, I guess. There’s always a pack, a system. But it’s not always a family, not really. Not the way you and your mom had it.”
I wanted to ask more, to press my hand against his chest and see what memories I could dredge up, but the look on his face said it was enough for now. Instead, I put the dough in the fridge and shut the door.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “For the first time in a long time, I feel…safe.”
He looked at me, his gaze so intense I had to look away. “You are. Always.”
The light outside faded to gold, then to gray. The bakery’s lamps glowed against the deepening dark, casting long shadows across the counter. I wiped down the last tray, tossed the rag in the hamper, and switched off the ovens.
Oscar hopped onto my shoulder, whispering, “The sandwich revolution will not wait, Miss.”
I smiled and ruffled his fur. “We’ll get the recipe right tomorrow.”
Papa stepped behind the counter, wrapped me in a bear hug, and pressed his lips to the crown of my head. We stood like that for a while, the world outside fading to nothing, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon clinging to our skin.
Finally, he let go. “You ready for dinner?”
“Always,” I said. “But you’re driving. My hands are shot.”
He lifted my hands to his lips, kissed each knuckle, and said, “Deal.”
We locked up, Oscar double-checking every window. The last glow of the day lingered on the glass, but inside, everything was warm and good and just for us.
As I stepped out into the cold with Papa at my side and Oscar on my shoulder, I knew that this was what home felt like. Not a place, but a promise. A little magic, a little mess, and someone to hold you at the end of the day.
And maybe, just maybe, a loaf of sandwich bread waiting for you in the morning.
Pearl’s Bar & Grill was always busiest right after dark, when the last rays of sun fell through the high windows and turned the row of whiskey bottles into a stained-glass altar.
The place pulsed with noise—old country on the jukebox, shifter kids running laps around the pool table, the thud and sizzle of someone in the kitchen tenderizing meat with a small mallet.
The air was warm and crowded and tasted of fried onions, spilled beer, and something sweet and smoky I could never quite name.
Oscar had insisted on coming with us, though he’d have to pop out and pop in on his own. He’d popped in, sitting next to me the moment we sat at a corner booth, paws perched on the rim like a prairie dog at the edge of a foxhole. He made himself invisible to everyone but Papa, Pearl, and me.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said to Pearl as she floated by, white hair piled high and lipstick brighter than the neon sign outside.
Pearl didn’t even blink. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wild,” she said, setting down two waters and a thick menu. “You want the usual, Papa?”
He nodded. “Chicken fried steak, double mashed potatoes, extra gravy.”
Pearl grinned. “I figured. And for the lady?”
I tried to remember what was on the menu, but Oscar piped up, “Might I suggest the meatloaf? The tomato sauce is particularly delightful.”
Pearl cocked an eyebrow at me, waiting.
“I’ll go with the meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” I said, blushing.
She winked. “Your mate bite sparkles, Aspen. Congrats. You two are perfect together.”
I nearly choked. Papa grinned wide, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Thanks, Pearl. We’re happy.”
The first ten minutes were a parade of shifters who stopped by the booth to say hi, slap Papa on the back, or, if they were female, give me the up-and-down and then a thumbs-up.
Most just said, “Congrats” or “I’m so happy Big Papa finally found a wonderful girl,” but a few asked real questions.
Was it true I baked everything from scratch?
Did I ever take custom cake orders? Was I really about to offer sandwich bread, or was that just a rumor?
Oscar wanted to field the questions, but I had to remind him that many of the people here were human and would freak out at a talking prairie dog.
The only one who didn’t come over was Arsenal, who sat at the bar with his back to the room and a single whiskey in front of him.
Halfway through dinner, Gunner appeared, cowboy hat and all. He scooted in next to Papa and stuck his hand out for a shake. “Well, well, Big Papa, looks like you hit the jackpot.”
Papa took the handshake, then flicked his eyes toward me. “I think I did.”
Gunner turned his full attention to me, brown eyes sharp and kind. “You got some magic in you, don’t you?”