Chapter 11
QUINN
Ihold it together through the rest of the block party. Somehow.
I smile at customers. I hand out samples of lavender shortbread and rose macarons.
I laugh at the right moments during conversations I won't remember five minutes later.
My hands stay steady as I box up orders and make change, even though the legal notice sits folded in my apron pocket like a lead weight.
Lanek doesn't leave my side. Not once.
He doesn't hover or fuss or try to distract me with conversation.
He simply exists in my space, a massive, immovable presence that radiates protection and barely contained violence.
Every time someone approaches the booth, his shoulders shift slightly forward.
Every time I reach for something, his hand is already there, steadying the table or adjusting the tent pole or silently passing me whatever I need before I have to ask for it.
It should feel suffocating. Instead, it's the only thing keeping me from completely unraveling in front of half the neighborhood.
By the time the festival winds down and the vendors start packing up their booths, the forced cheerfulness has scraped me raw. My face hurts from smiling. My voice sounds brittle and too bright even to my own ears. I need to be alone before I shatter completely.
"I've got it from here," I tell Lanek, already turning away to start breaking down the display. "You should get your smoker back to the shop before—"
"Quinn."
Just my name. That's all. But the way he says it, low and careful, like I'm something fragile he's trying not to break, makes my throat tighten dangerously.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Really. It's just...
it's been a long day. I need to clean up and go home and figure out what the hell I'm going to do about Corrigan and his stupid rent increase and—" My voice cracks.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the sharp pain to force back the tears threatening to spill over.
Lanek's hand settles on my shoulder, warm and impossibly gentle. "Let me help."
"You can't." The words come out sharper than I intend. "This isn't something you can fix by glaring at it or... or dismantling it like a carcass. This is business. Contracts. Money I don't have."
"Then let me carry your boxes."
It's such a simple offer. So practical and straightforward and utterly, devastatingly kind that something inside me cracks.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and together we pack up what's left of my inventory in silence.
The bakery feels different in the dark.
During the day, with the lights blazing and the ovens running and the front windows full of pastel displays, it's mine. My kingdom. The physical manifestation of every dream I've worked myself half to death trying to build.
But now, with only the dim security lights casting long shadows across the stainless steel counters, it just looks small.
Vulnerable. Like something that could be swept away by a man in an expensive suit with a legal document and a complete disregard for anything that doesn't pad his profit margins.
I stand in the kitchen, still holding the folded notice, and finally let myself feel the full weight of what's happening.
I'm going to lose this place.
Three thousand extra dollars a month isn't just difficult.
It's impossible. My profit margins are already razor-thin.
Between equipment maintenance, ingredient costs, the occasional health inspector bribe in the form of premium wedding cakes, and the simple reality of competing with chain bakeries that can undercut my prices because they're using premade frozen garbage—I barely break even most months.
There's no room in my budget for a rent increase this massive. Corrigan knows it. That's why he's doing this. He doesn't want tenants. He wants us all gone so he can bulldoze the building and put up another soulless luxury condo development.
The worst part is that I understand the business logic. Property values in this neighborhood have tripled in the last five years. From a pure investment standpoint, we're all just obstacles preventing him from maximizing his return.
But this bakery isn't an investment to me. It's everything.
The sob catches me by surprise, tearing out of my chest. Then another. And another. And suddenly I'm standing in my dark kitchen, crying so hard I can barely breathe, mourning something I haven't even lost yet.
I don't hear the back door open. Don't hear his footsteps crossing the tile floor. I only know Lanek is there when his massive arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back to him.
"I've got you," he rumbles, and the deep vibration of his voice against my spine makes me cry harder.
"I'm sorry," I gasp out between sobs. "I'm sorry, I just..
. I worked so hard for this. I gave up everything.
I haven't had a vacation in three years.
I haven't bought new clothes or gone to a movie or done anything except work and bake and try to make this place successful, and it's still not enough. It's never going to be enough."
"Shh." His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, holding me against him while I fall apart. "You don't have to apologize for feeling this."
"I hate crying," I admit miserably. "I hate being weak and pathetic and—"
"You're not weak. You're standing in the wreckage of an attack by a predator who uses money instead of claws, and you're still fighting. That's not weakness, little baker. That's strength."
Something about the way he says it, like it's simple fact rather than empty comfort, makes the tears slow.
I turn in his arms, pressing my body against him, and just breathe.
He smells like woodsmoke and black pepper and the faint metallic tang of the industrial cleaner he uses on his butcher blocks. It's become familiar. Grounding.
Safe.
We stand like that for a long time, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles against my back, neither of us speaking.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid, but it's not uncomfortable.
It's... intimate. The kind of quiet that only exists between people who've stopped performing for each other.
Eventually, my breathing steadies. The tears dry on my cheeks, leaving them sticky and tight. I should pull away. Step back. Rebuild the professional boundaries I've been desperately trying to maintain since the night of the fire.
Instead, I tilt my head back to look up at him.
The dim security lighting casts his features in sharp relief, all hard angles and brutal beauty. His dark eyes track across my face, cataloging every tear track, every sign of distress.
It doesn't.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For not trying to fix it."
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of salt. "I want to fix it. I want to walk into Corrigan's office and dismantle him piece by piece until he understands what happens when he threatens what's mine. But that's not what you need right now."
"What do I need?"
The question hangs between us, charged with possibility.
His hand slides from my face down to cup the back of my neck, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. "Tell me, Quinn. What do you need?"
The smart answer would be space. Distance. Time to figure out my financial disaster without the complication of whatever this thing between us is becoming.
But I'm so tired of being smart. So tired of being careful and controlled and responsible. Right now, standing in the ruins of my carefully constructed life, I just want to feel something other than fear and grief and crushing inadequacy.
I want to feel alive.
"You," I breathe, and the word is barely out of my mouth before he's kissing me.
It's nothing like the desperate collision against the prep counter after the fire. That was all adrenaline and fury and built-up tension finally exploding. This is slower. Deeper. He kisses me like he's trying to memorize the taste of me, his large hands cradling my face gently.
I rise up on my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck, needing to be closer. He makes a low sound of approval and lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he turns and walks us backward until my spine meets the cold stainless steel of the industrial refrigerator.
The temperature contrast makes me gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming every inch he can reach. One hand fists in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
I should care about the bruises. Should care that I'm making out with my business rival in my kitchen like a teenager. Should care about anything other than the way his body feels pressed against mine, all hard muscle and barely restrained power.
I don't.
My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling with them desperately.
I need skin. Need to feel him without barriers.
He helps me, shrugging out of the fabric and tossing it aside, and then there's just him.
Miles of grey skin marked with intricate black tattoos, muscle shifting beneath the surface as he moves.
"You're so small," he murmurs against my throat, his tusks grazing my pulse point. "So fucking soft everywhere I'm hard. I could break you so easily."
"Then don't," I challenge breathlessly.
His laugh is dark and rough. "Oh, little baker. I'm going to do much worse than break you. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."
He carries me across the kitchen like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the heavy wooden prep table I use for rolling pastry dough.
The surface is cool beneath my thighs as he steps between my legs, his hands spanning my waist, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how completely he surrounds me. How thoroughly he dominates the space.
I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel claimed.
My hands map the broad expanse of his chest, following the lines of his tattoos, learning the landscape of him.
He lets me explore, his breathing growing heavier, his muscles tensing beneath my touch.
When my fingers trace the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath his waistband, he catches my wrist.
"Careful," he warns, but there's no real threat in it. Just promise.
"Or what?" I gaze up at him, defiant despite the heat pooling low in my belly.
"Or I'll stop being gentle."
"Maybe I don't want gentle."
We shift from controlled desire to barely leashed hunger in a heartbeat. His hands find the hem of my flour-dusted dress, pushing it up my thighs, his calloused palms rough against my skin. I arch into the touch, needing more, needing everything.
He kisses me again, harder this time, all pretense of tenderness abandoned.
His teeth catch my lower lip, pulling slightly, and I moan into his mouth.
The sound seems to snap something in him.
His hands grip my hips, dragging me to the table, pressing himself against me until I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
"Lanek," I gasp, and his name on my lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
"Say it again."
"Lanek." I rock against him, desperate for friction, for relief from the aching need building inside me. "Please."
His forehead drops to mine, his breathing harsh and ragged. For a moment, we just stay like that, caught in the space between restraint and surrender. Then his hands tighten on my hips, holding me completely still.
"Tell me you're mine, Quinn." His voice is rough, almost desperate. "I need to hear it."