Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Marina woke up happy.
The sensation was so unfamiliar that she lay still for a moment, analyzing it like a strange ingredient in a familiar recipe. Warmth. Contentment. The particular lightness that came from waking up next to someone whose steady breathing had become the soundtrack to her dreams.
Alessandro was still asleep, truly asleep, not the restless half-consciousness that had bled into her own sleep during his first weeks here. His face had lost that sharp, controlled quality he wore like armor during waking hours. Like this, he looked younger. Almost soft.
She reached out and traced the line of his jaw. He registered the touch even in sleep: a pulse of warmth, of recognition, that rolled through her like a tide.
This is dangerous, the cautious part of her brain whispered. You’re in too deep.
But for once, she didn’t want to listen to that voice.
The bakery could wait. Just for a few more minutes. Just long enough to memorize the way the morning light caught the dark waves of his hair, the way his arm tightened around her waist when she moved closer.
Ten more days until the full moon. Ten more days until they’d have to choose.
Marina was beginning to know what she wanted to choose.
She slipped out of bed carefully, padding to her closet while Alessandro’s breathing stayed steady and deep. The trunk was where it had always been: shoved into the back corner, covered in sweaters she never wore, deliberately forgotten.
Her selkie pelt.
She hadn’t opened this trunk in two years. Hadn’t let herself touch the silvery-grey fur that connected her to the sea, to her heritage, to the part of herself she’d locked away after her grandmother died.
But this morning, with happiness warming her chest and the memory of Alessandro’s arms around her still fresh, Marina found herself kneeling on the cold floor. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid.
The pelt was there. Soft. Shimmering faintly in the early light. She could smell the ocean in its folds: salt and seaweed and something wilder, something that called to the deepest part of her blood.
She wanted to feel the water on her skin, wanted to dive deep and let the current carry her, wanted to remember what it felt like to be completely herself.
Maybe she’d show Alessandro where she kept it. Maybe she’d trust him with this secret self, the way he’d trusted her with his stories of the curse.
Maybe having it all was actually possible.
She closed the trunk gently and returned to bed, curling against Alessandro’s warmth. She felt him surface briefly (awareness of her return, a mumbled sound of contentment) before sinking back into dreams.
She should have known better.
By noon, The Salty Siren was buzzing with the usual Saturday chaos. The weekend crowd was larger than usual; word had spread about Alessandro’s dragon-fire demonstration for little Jamie Sullivan, and half the town’s children had invented reasons to visit.
“They want to see fire tricks,” Marina whispered to Alessandro as a group of young brownies pressed their noses against the display case. “You’ve become an attraction.”
“I am not a performing seal.”
“No, you’re a performing dragon. Much more impressive.” She kissed his cheek, and embarrassment flared hot across the bond, but underneath it, a reluctant pleasure at being liked for something other than his money or his name.
Dante had taken up residence at the corner table, laptop open, occasionally throwing sarcastic comments at customers who looked too impressed with his brother.
Bea kept finding reasons to visit the crystal shop’s storage room, which happened to share a wall with Dante’s preferred seat.
They bickered constantly. It was oddly charming.
Everything was annoyingly charming today.
Sunlight through the windows making the pastry cases glow.
The sourdough starter bubbling like it was in a good mood.
And Alessandro, who had somehow learned to anticipate her movements in the kitchen without being asked—passing her the whisk, catching the tray she nearly dropped when Mrs. Thornberry delivered another punchline that only Mrs. Thornberry found funny.
They’d decoded more of her grandmother’s recipe.
The Curse-Breaking Cake, the curse-breaker hidden in the cookbook, was looking more possible by the day.
Alessandro’s researchers had confirmed that similar spells existed in dragon lore.
Combined with her grandmother’s selkie magic, they might actually be able to break the Draven curse.
Marina should have known that was when things would go wrong.
The bell over the door chimed at half past two, and the temperature in the bakery dropped.
Not literally, though Marina’s selkie senses registered cold sliding into the room, brimstone beneath what smelled like Tom Ford Oud Wood. She looked up from the register and felt her smile freeze.
The man in the doorway was handsome in a polished, uncomfortable way. Silver at the temples. A tailored suit that hung the way only money like inheritance taught suits to hang. Eyes that assessed everything they touched like merchandise at an auction.
Alessandro’s recognition reached her first, a tightening behind her sternum, then obligation, then distrust, each one layered over the last like sediment.
“Alessandro!” The man’s voice was warm, familiar, utterly wrong. “I heard you were still in town. Thought I’d check in on my favorite Draven.”
“Malachar.” Alessandro’s professional mask slid into place. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Surprises keep life interesting.” Malachar’s gaze swept the bakery, cataloguing everything with a predator’s attention. When his eyes landed on Marina, calculation flickered behind the charm. “And this must be the young lady I’ve heard so much about. The baker. The selkie.”
He said ‘selkie’ like it was a particularly interesting species of prey.
“Marina Pearl.” She didn’t offer her hand. “Can I get you something?”
“Just coffee. Black.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Alessandro speaks highly of your establishment. I had to see it for myself.”
“Alessandro has excellent taste.”
“He does now.” Malachar’s attention shifted to the walls, the shelves, the recipe book displayed on its stand near the register. “What a charming little place. Very… authentic. Is that a family cookbook I see?”
Marina’s hand moved instinctively to cover the book. “It was my grandmother’s.”
“Ah, yes. The late Mrs. Pearl. I’ve heard she was quite the baker herself.” He said it like he’d heard more than that. “Selkie traditions are so fascinating. All that ancient magic, passed down through recipes and songs. So rare these days.”
Marina felt like she was being measured for a cage. A trap.
Through the bond, she pushed her unease toward Alessandro. Something’s wrong. Don’t you feel it?
He felt it. She knew he did. But his response was muted, complicated: years of obligation tangled with present-day doubt.
“Malachar has been advising my family for years,” Alessandro said, and Marina heard the subtle emphasis. He’s helped us. Be careful.
“Decades, really.” Malachar accepted the coffee she poured with mechanical courtesy.
“The Dravens and I go way back. Before this curse business started, even.” He laughed like it was a joke.
“I’ve watched Alessandro grow from a very angry young man into a very angry older man.
Always trying to fix things himself. Never asking for help. ”
“I prefer to handle problems on my own.”
“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. Which is why it’s so interesting to see you here.” Malachar’s gaze slid back to Marina. “Playing house with a baker. Wearing flour on your very expensive shirt. You must be quite special, Miss Pearl.”
The words were complimentary. The tone was not.
“She is,” Alessandro said, and his protectiveness flared against her skin.
“I can see that.” Malachar sipped his coffee, still watching her. “Selkie magic is so valuable. So delicate. It would be terrible if anything happened to it.”
The threat was wrapped in silk, but it was still a threat.
“Nothing’s going to happen to anything,” Marina said, and her voice came out steadier than she expected. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers to serve.”
She turned away before he could respond, but she felt his eyes follow her. Cold and calculating and patient.
Malachar lingered. That was the worst part.
He sat at the corner table, Dante’s usual spot, though Dante had conveniently disappeared the moment Malachar walked in, and watched. He asked Marina questions about her baking, about her grandmother, about the history of the building. Each question felt like a probe, searching for weaknesses.
“Your family has been in Sweetwater Cove for generations, I understand,” he said pleasantly. “The Pearls have quite the reputation among supernatural circles. Selkie magic running true through the bloodline.”
“We’re just bakers.”
“Just bakers. Of course.” His smile sharpened. “Though I’ve heard rumors that some selkie families preserve more than recipes. Ancient knowledge. Old ways of working magic that most have forgotten.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” He set the coffee cup down too gently, the way someone might handle something they wanted to seem to handle gently.
“Interesting. Because I’ve been researching certain…
magical phenomena for quite some time. And your family name keeps appearing in the oldest texts.
Right alongside mentions of curse-breaking rituals. ”
The floor tilted under Marina’s feet.
“I should check on the ovens,” she said, and retreated to the kitchen before he could say anything else.
Alessandro’s conflict bled through in layers: concern for her, obligation to Malachar, confusion about which feeling to trust. He followed her with his eyes but stayed at the counter, playing the gracious host to a guest who was clearly not welcome.