Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
GIDEON
T he waffles are good, but the bacon is better. Crisp, peppered, exactly how I like it—none of that flimsy diner stuff, but thick-cut and seared with purpose. I sit in a back booth at the Stranded Waffle, a pier-front joint that straddles the line between kitsch and comfort with the kind of charm only an upscale greasy spoon could pull off.
Nautical flags hang from the beams, and the salty air carries the scent of griddle oil and sea breeze. The place is noisy without being loud, and just offbeat enough that no one pays much attention to a man who could bench press a truck and looks like he hasn’t smiled in a week. I have one elbow on the table, a fork in my hand, and a cooling mug of black coffee in front of me. Across from me, my little sister, Kari, levels me with the kind of look that means I’m not getting out of here without a mission.
"So did you roust me out of bed to stuff me with waffles," I say, taking another bite, "or for a favor you haven't asked yet?"
Kari arches one eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup. "You always were even faster with your mouth than you are with your Glock, but yeah. I need something."
I lean back. I don’t like surprises, but when Kari calls and says, "Meet me," I go.
No questions. I owe her that. More than that. She covered for me when I couldn’t cover for myself, back in the days when I’d come back from missions with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking and a jaw so tight I could barely speak. When the silence between adrenaline spikes started to feel like it was swallowing me whole. Kari never pushed. She just gave me a place to stay, bringing me coffee, making dumb jokes, and reminding me of who I was when the lines between man and wolf blurred too far. We have a bond that goes deeper than blood—pack-deep. Wolf-deep. The kind of connection you don’t question. You honor it.
"It’s Maggie," Kari says, voice low.
I blink, a corner of my mouth twitching in something almost like a smile. "The shy one with the enormous eyes and cupcake fixation? Yeah, I remember her. Always wore those baggy hoodies like she was trying to disappear, but even then... she had this quiet kind of beauty. Like she didn’t know what to do with it, so she hid it. Always hanging back, but watching everything. Thoughtful."
Kari gives me a look, but nods. "That's the one. I never even thought you noticed her..."
"Oh, I noticed," I chuckle.
"She's my best friend, Gideon. You are not allowed to think of her that way," Kari scolds.
My little sister can be fiercely protective of the people she cares about, and even I know Maggie Tate probably deserves someone a hell of a lot cleaner and less complicated than me—especially considering the little human has no idea I’m a wolf-shifter.
Truth be told, I haven’t forgotten her. Not really. Even back then, when she was just Kari’s quiet friend hovering around the edges in oversized sweatshirts with sleeves too long for her hands, I noticed. She had this way of drawing attention without trying, like a secret waiting to be uncovered.
After seeing a photo of her all grown up in a glossy baking magazine, hair pulled back, eyes sharp, and lips quirked with barely contained mischief, it stirred something primal. I’ve had more than one dream since then I wouldn’t exactly confess to Kari—dreams where Maggie wasn’t just Little Red Riding Hood, but the kind of woman who dared the wolf to bite.
When I say nothing, my sister eyes me suspiciously, but says nothing... for at least a minute—something of a record for my chatterbox sister. "Her fixation," Kari finally continues, "is now a full business called Sea Salt let that settle. Something inside me stirs—a low, subtle thrum that isn’t quite thought or instinct. It’s older than both. The wolf in me stirs like it’s caught the scent of something that matters. My jaw tightens slightly, my focus narrowing. "She come to you?"
"No. She’s blaming herself. Thinks she’s just hard to work for. But it’s more than a few burnt batches of cupcakes and cranky staff."
"Like what?"
"Ovens malfunctioning; deliveries that are late, wrong or never show up. She's had a fridge—a brand new one—go out for exactly six hours. Twice. That’s not just bad luck."
I don’t speak right away. Instead, I pick up my phone and pull up the bakery's website. Sleek. Clean. Reviews are glowing. The shop has a loyal following and a ridiculous number of preorders for a business that doesn’t even have a walk-up window. I dig deeper. Local features. Small-business awards. Wedding vendor recommendations. It isn’t a fluke. Maggie Tate has built a damn good operation.
"Doesn’t add up," I mutter.
"Exactly."
I set my phone down. "You want me to look into it."
"I want you to help her. She won’t ask. But if something's going down, I want someone on the inside who can sniff it out. Someone who knows how to watch without drawing attention. Someone who can handle it if things go sideways."
"She still doesn't know about us, right?"
Kari shakes her head. "No. She doesn't need to know. She does, however, need help."
"Does she know I'm a Texas Ranger?"
Kari shakes her head. "No. She knows you're not in the Marines anymore, but not any details of when that happened or what you're doing now. She doesn't need more reasons to feel watched. And I know you. You're wired and need a mission right now or you’ll climb out of your own skin."
She isn’t wrong. The last op Team W pulled left a sour taste. Not the mission itself—that was clean enough. But the aftermath, the politics, the way our work never seemed to stick—it all drags at something raw beneath my skin.
I haven’t shifted in days—even though Rush has urged me to—and the wolf inside me is pacing. Snarling. Growling low in the back of my mind, frustrated by the stillness, the waiting. I feel it in the way my muscles tense for no reason, the way my jaw aches from clenching, how my hearing stays dialed up like I’m waiting for a shot to ring out.
Restless doesn’t cover it—not even baking, my usual therapy, is helping. The quiet rhythm of measuring and mixing no longer soothes the part of me that growls for release. The wolf is close to the surface now, prowling beneath my skin, ears pricked, teeth bared.
I feel it in the constant thrum of unease in my chest, the low-grade adrenaline that has nowhere to go. I need motion. A fight. A mission. Something to chase or protect or destroy—anything that gives me purpose. And right now, Maggie Tate’s trouble doesn’t just look like a distraction. It looks like a trigger. Something in her story scrapes against my instincts like flint against steel. The wolf inside me isn’t just awake. It’s watching.
"What is it you want me to do?"
Kari leans forward. "I want you to go undercover."
I chuckle. "You want me to pretend to be a baker? Don't you think she might recognize me?"
"Oh, I'm sure she will. But that's why her knowing you're not a Marine anymore will work for us."
"Us?" I query.
"You. It'll work for you. And here's the best part: you don't have to pretend to be front of the house staff or a dishwasher. You can be a baker, because you are a baker, and a damn good one, I might add."
"I just bake for myself and the guys..."
"Gid, I've tasted your stuff. Trust me, Maggie will be lucky to have you. She can really use the help—not just with figuring out if something is going on, but her assistant left her in the lurch. You can apply for Kyle's job. You can help her with the baking and watch her back at the same time. Find out who’s trying to screw her over. And if it turns out to be nothing? Then you get a few weeks here in town close to your favorite sister..."
"You're my only sister." It’s an old joke between us.
"Whatever," Kari says with a wave of her hand. "But you'd be here in town, close to the beach and me and making cupcakes. Worst-case scenario, you learn to pipe buttercream."
I almost smile. Almost.
"Fine. But if someone lays a hand on her, all bets are off."
"That’s why I called you."
Later that afternoon, I pull into the small parking lot behind Sea Salt & Sugar, the rumble of my engine cutting through the coastal quiet. I sit for a long beat, letting my eyes roam over the storefront. The place is charming as hell, almost too perfect. Coastal blue paint, curved gold-trim signage, a storefront window framed with pale curtains and little chalkboard signs touting today’s flavors. It looks like the kind of place that sells joy by the dozen, yeah, but there’s more to it. Something about it feels...alive. Like it breathes. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, not in warning, but in recognition—like it knows this place matters before I even step foot inside. Like it’s waiting.
I pull up the image of Maggie on her website’s 'About' page. She is smiling, holding a tray of cupcakes like they are crown jewels—bright-eyed, confident, and completely in her element. But it isn’t just the professional pose that catches me. It’s the way her smile doesn’t look staged. The glint of something sharp and self-assured behind her eyes.
The girl I remember always wore her hoodies like armor, soft and oversized, as if hiding in plain sight. She'd been more shadow than person, sure—but I saw her even then. Noticed the way she observed everything, how her quiet wasn’t emptiness but thought. And now? Now she isn’t hiding anymore. The woman in the photo has stepped into the light, and it hits me in a way I’m not ready for.
My wolf stretches beneath my skin, low and alert, drawn to her with a quiet intensity that makes my breath come a little slower, heavier. Something ancient shifts inside me—not quite lust, not quite possession, but something primal. A flicker of recognition, like she belongs to a part of me I rarely let surface. My instincts twitch. Not danger, exactly. Just… awareness. Interest. Fate. A magnetic pull I don’t try to fight. My wolf stirs, not just curious now, but ready. Hungry. Protective.
I shut off the engine, get out, and head for the front door. A handwritten sign, slightly crooked yet charming as hell, is taped to the glass. Now Hiring—Assistant Baker. Must love sugar and early mornings. The words make me chuckle under my breath. There is something disarmingly honest about it—no corporate branding, no buzzwords. Just need, spelled out in looping script.
My wolf perks up again, drawn to the scent of vanilla and the low hum of energy inside the shop. There’s something about it that makes my pulse both slow and sharp at the same time—like walking into the edge of a storm that hasn’t broken yet. My body responds first, then my instincts. And for one sharp second, the wild part of me whispers a word I never let myself consider lightly: mate.
I shut it down fast. That isn’t what this is. Can’t be. Fated mates are a fairy tale the old packs cling to—a myth wrapped in biology and magic. I don’t do fate. I do control. Strategy. Intention. Whatever this pull is, it’s just instinct. Curiosity. Maybe attraction, sure. But not fate.
Still, my wolf doesn’t agree. It prowls forward like it knows something I don’t, ears perked, tail high. It isn’t just a job post. It’s a signal. One I’m here to answer.
I grin as I step inside.
Game on.