Chapter Thirty-Seven-Ryan
The smell of rising dough and roasted cinnamon filled the air, warm and comforting.
Normally, the steady rhythm of bakery work helped clear my head.
Mixing, kneading, baking—there was peace in the routine.
But not today.
Today, the batter was perfect, the pastries golden, and still I couldn’t stop thinking about Donny.
She’d been quiet all morning, withdrawn ever since the truth about those damn flyers came out.
The salon—her pride, her place—targeted by people who didn’t deserve to shine her boots.
It made my teeth ache to think about how much that place meant to her.
How hard she’d worked.
How much of herself she poured into every snip of the scissors.
And now, someone was trying to destroy it. And for what?
I pressed the heel of my hand into a mound of dough, wishing it were the face of whoever was behind this.
“She deserves better,” I muttered to myself.
“Hmm?” Bella called over her shoulder as she boxed up a batch of ghost-shaped donuts.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking.”
Thinking of my mate.
Of how she kissed me with her whole heart, even when she pretended to push me away.
Of how she muttered threats to her grumpy familiar like a sailor but cried in secret over every lost client.
Of how she kissed my fingertips like they were sacred.
My mate. My Witch. My Donatella.
My chest tightened.
And then—it hit me.
A tug.
Not physical, not visible, but deeper than nerves, deeper than breath.
The matebond.
It yanked tight, sudden and sharp, like a fishhook snagging my sternum.
I froze, one flour-covered hand in midair.
“Donny.”
Something was wrong.
My blood turned cold. I turned toward Bella, who was staring at her phone with wide eyes.
“Bella?” I growled.
She held up the screen, her face paling. “Gryn just texted me.”
I crossed the counter in a blink, reading the words.
Gryn
Something is wrong with Grandpa Al. Donny needs help. Now.
My Bear surged forward, half-shift clawing at my skin, ready to destroy whoever had dared hurt what was mine.
“Where is she?” I asked, barely controlling the rumble in my throat.
Bella shoved off her apron. “I don’t know, but I think they went to the cemetery—Gryn was talking to Petyr about dark magic and Grandpa Al yesterday.”
I was already moving. “Let’s go.”
Bella raced beside me, grabbing her bag. “Evie’s on her way. We’ll meet them there.”
I didn’t stop to grab my jacket. Didn’t care that I had flour in my hair or dough on my jeans.
I just knew my mate needed me.
“Hang on, Honey,” I growled, pushing the door open with one flour-dusted hand. “I’m coming for you.”