Epilogue #2
The sun was just starting to bake the streets when I made it into Dairyville proper.
My bike rumbled under me, stubborn and loud and comforting.
The main square was buzzing: the hardware store’s lights flickering, drug store clerk propping the door with her hip, a couple of ranch hands sipping coffee from to-go cups on the courthouse steps.
The bakery was impossible to miss. The yellow paint didn’t just stand out; it shouted.
Looked like somebody had poured a can of daylight over the old facade.
On either side, the buildings were more subdued—hardware store to the left, hair salon to the right, both painted a tasteful gray and navy.
The bakery blazed in the middle like a beacon of warmth.
I parked at the curb, killed the engine, and took a breath.
There was a sweetness in the air that hit me even outside, something rich and golden, like the memory of Sunday mornings our housekeeper baking delicious treats my mom was too busy to be bothered with.
My stomach gave a hopeful twitch. So did my wolf the moment I stepped through the door.
The bell above the entrance announced me with a happy little jingle. The sound was so at odds with the world I came from that it almost made me shiver. I squared my shoulders like I was looking for a fight, and stepped inside, boots leaving a dust mark on the freshly mopped tile.
It was bright in here. Sunlight pooled on every surface, bouncing off lemon-painted walls and glass display cases.
The counters gleamed. There were several small tables, each with mismatched chairs, and the smell—God, the smell—was a full-bodied gut punch: vanilla, caramelizing sugar, a sharp drift of citrus that made my teeth ache.
I wasn’t sure if it was the pastries or the beauty standing at the counter.
There she was, five feet five inches of delicious curves and softness.
She stood, back straight, hands folded on the counter, waiting as I took her in.
Even from here, I could see her subtle nervousness.
Her skin was pale as fresh milk, hair a black river of silk falling over one shoulder.
Her eyes, like two emeralds, sharp, and assessing.
I knew before she opened her mouth or even smiled that she wasn’t human. It was in the stillness of her hands, in the unnatural green of her eyes, and in the way her presence pressed against my chest. My wolf bristled, then settled, as if recognizing some ancient rule.
“Mornin’,” she said, with a voice soft as air. Southern, maybe Savannah or Atlanta, with a sweetness I didn’t want to trust. “Can I help you?”
I tried not to let the military training take over. I kept my voice easy. “Depends. You the new owner?”
She tilted slightly. “That’s what the deed says,” she affirmed. I wondered if she was using magic on me right then. Her voice had a definite, natural, magical lilt. “I’m Aspen.”
Aspen. It suited her. Delicate but tough, the kind of name you give something that survives bad winters.
“Big Papa,” I said, offering the club nickname out of habit. “I’m with Iron Valor.”
Her eyes darted to my jacket, to the patch. She didn’t flinch, but something in her posture shifted. “I heard about y’all. From the hardware guy. He said your club runs most of the town.”
I shrugged. “We don’t run it. We just keep things quiet.”
She smiled, a quick flash of white teeth. “That’s what people say right before they admit they run things.”
My lips twitched. I liked her for all of three seconds. Then I caught a glint of a large leather-bound book on a shelf behind the counter. A grimoire. The reminder that she was a witch. I stiffened, old habits coming back.
“You’re a witch,” I blurted.
She blinked hard as though she had misheard. “Excuse me?”
I nodded toward the shelf. “That’s a grimoire. You can’t deny it.”
A flush crawled up her neck, but she held my stare. “So what if I am?”
“I just like to know what I’m eating,” I said, deadpan.
The friendly atmosphere I’d been enjoying had gone frosty. She looked at her hands, then back up. “You’re here for the cake tasting.”
I wondered if she was clairvoyant as well. “Mind reader, also?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Pearl called this morning. She said you’d be coming.”
Of course. Pearl never left anything to chance.
She gestured to a table. Yep, the charming beauty was all business now. “Sit. Let me just hop on my broom and fly back to the kitchen to get your samples.”
I just stared at her for a minute.
“It’s called sarcasm. Geez.” She called over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen, unaware that the luscious sway of her hips was almost as intriguing as her personality.
I picked the chair that put my back to the wall. Old habit, again. She disappeared into the kitchen, and for a moment I just sat there, breathing in the sugar and butter and watching sunlight creep across the floor.
She came back with a wooden tray, four slices of cake on clean white plates, each with a tiny fork stuck in the side.
“Carrot, chocolate, strawberry, and lemon.”
I glanced at the slices. The carrot was topped with a smear of cream cheese icing so white it glowed. The chocolate was almost black, dusted with something golden. The lemon wasn’t fancy but was iced with some kind of fluffy icing and had a creamy curd-type filling.
I tried the carrot first. It was good. Too sweet for my taste, but the texture was right, and the frosting had that tang people liked.
The chocolate was dense, and rich, and bitter in a way I respected. She watched my every move, her eyes anxious and curious at the same time.
The strawberry was fresh, moist and full of flavor. The icing creamy.
Then I tried the lemon. The moment I did, the world just about stopped.
The cake was light, so delicate I barely tasted it before it melted away. But the flavor—it was sun-warmed, sharp, so perfectly balanced it nearly made me angry. And that acid bite hit right in the jaw.
I set the fork down.
She waited, holding her breath.
“What did you put in this?” I asked, almost accusing.
Her brows pinched together. “Lemon. Sugar. Eggs. Butter. Little bit of buttermilk, maybe.”
“No magic?”
Her face closed up. Now she just looked hurt. “I promise you mister, if I had any discernible magical abilities, I likely wouldn’t even know how to bake. Now, do you like the damn cakes or not?”
I tried to read her, but all I saw was exhaustion, and wounds that ran about as deep as the scars I carried. I knew that look. I’d seen it in the mirror off and on for years.
“I’m not judging,” I said, voice softer now. “Wolves and witches don’t usually mix. Experience makes me a little skeptical.”
She laughed a sarcastic laugh. “Really? I wasn’t aware of the ancient history between wolves and witches.” She looked away, then back at me. “Someone told me the Iron Valor Pack was different. That I might be safe if I were to move here alone. Maybe they were mistaken?”
Shit. She looked so small and vulnerable. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Iron Valor judges people strictly on their merit.” I told her.
“Maybe you could have given me that courtesy before you threw out accusations.” She attempted to glare at me. Cutest thing ever.
She was right. I came in here with a chip on my shoulder ready to judge her. “Again, my apologies.”
I looked down at the cake, then up at her again. “You ever bake for two hundred?”
She blinked. “Two hundred?”
“We’re doing a mating ceremony in three weeks. Might be more like two-twenty if the vampires show.”
Her jaw dropped, just enough to be funny. “Vampires?”
I nodded. “They’re friends of ours. You’ll know them when you see them. Pale, overdressed, allergic to small talk.”
She grinned, but it faded quick. “Who’s ceremony?”
“Our Alpha and Luna,” I said. “Pretty big deal. We need something good.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I can do it.”
I believed her.
There was a pause, long enough for the clock over the counter to tick three times. I tried to picture her in this place, alone at dawn, mixing batter and humming to herself. I wondered if it made her happy, why she was here alone.
“What’s your story?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “You mean, why is a witch baking cakes in the middle of wolf country?”
“Something like that.”
She looked at her hands, then out the window. “My mom died. Before she did, for some reason she bought me this place. Said it’d be safer here than with my coven. She actually told me to run. So I ran.”
“Sorry about your mom. Why would you need to run from your coven? Thought they are usually your family.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t say anything for a long time, then, “My entire coven always said I wasn’t much of a witch.
Treated me like garbage. Never called me by my name, just ‘dud.’ I could never do what the others did.
Never reached the point to where my magic manifested.
But my mother, who was the most powerful witch in our coven next to the Wyrdmother, taught me how to bake.
Don’t know if she knew what the future held or what, but here I am. ”
The last word trembled, and I saw it for what it was: a plea not to push any further.
I cleared my throat. “We’ll take the lemon. It’s delicious.”
She tried to hide her smile. “That’s the first real compliment I’ve had since I can’t remember.”
Her reaction to the praise hit me in the balls. “Well, you should get used to it.”
She hesitated, then said, “What’s your actual name, Big Papa?”
I considered lying, then thought better of it. “Jonas. But everyone calls me JT, or just Rice.”
She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Jonas.”
I looked at her again, really looked, and the urge to run had faded. There was an edge to her. She wore the look of someone who’d been through her own hell and survived it, same as I did.
“I’ll send payment through Pearl,” I said, standing.
She followed me to the door. “I’ll make a small sample cake by tomorrow. Prefer a style? I can do fancy, but I like it simple.”
“Simple’s better,” I said. “And Aspen?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep the magic to yourself. Most folks in Dairyville are human, and they don’t like what they can’t explain.”
She nodded, but there was a spark of defiant humor in her eyes. “If I ever figure out how to make my magic work, I’ll be sure to keep it under my witch’s hat.”
I smiled, despite myself. “See you around.”
As I stepped outside, the sunlight hit me like a slap. My wolf grumbled inside, annoyed at how I’d handled her, like I should’ve been softer or at least less of an ass. Because I truly was mostly a nice guy.
I turned back. She was in the window, hands pressed around a coffee mug, looking after me like she half expected I’d vanish.
My wolf growled, deep and low, a wordless warning. Then he said the word that I’d already had rolling around in my brain and had been trying desperately to dismiss:
“Mate.”
I started my bike, the engine snarling, and took off down Main.
The taste of cake was still on my tongue.
The girl was still in my head. This was something I didn’t need right now with everything else that was on my plate.
How could I explain it? I didn’t know any examples of wolf and witch mated couples.
Was this even a thing? Maybe I just hadn’t been laid in so damn long my dick was just confused by the first new gorgeous flesh it had seen in forever.
“NO, MATE.”
“Alright. Calm the fuck down. Her flesh is gorgeous. You just want to sink your teeth into her.”
Great. Now I’m arguing with my wolf. Life just keeps getting better and better. That little witch said she had no ability to use magic, but she sure as shit put a spell on me.