What Do You Knead for a Dragon?

Chapter 1 Sylvie

Sylvie was stretched halfway up a ladder when a thick layer of dust—and what looked like an entire extended family of cobwebs—collapsed onto her head.

“Oh, come on—”

She yelped, swiping at the pelmet with the cleaning brush, then froze. Her nose twitched.

Once.

Twice.

Sneezing while balanced on a ladder that wobbled if you looked at it wrong felt like an unnecessarily dramatic way to die, and she wasn’t ready for that kind of exit. Not over a set of velvet curtains that smelled like 1974.

She sagged in relief when the sneeze subsided, then scrubbed at her hair, sending a fine cloud of debris down over her shoulders and the front of her top. She brushed at it with an irritated huff.

Who puts heavy velvet in a bakery? Honestly.

Her moving boxes still hadn’t arrived, so her yoga set had officially become renovation workwear. The loose top she’d thrown over her cotton bralette was knotted at her waist. One foot was planted on the second-to-top rung; the other was braced awkwardly against the side rail.

Was this how ladders were meant to be used?

Absolutely not.

Did she care?

Also no.

Health and safety could wait, she told herself, stretching higher. Those curtains were coming down today, or she was going down with them.

She’d jumped at the opportunity to take over this place.

Proper kitchen, storefront on the main street, reasonable rent—it was the dream.

The town brochure had arrived in her post one morning.

She called the number on the back out of curiosity.

A woman with a deep, steady voice introduced herself as Arla and sounded way more amused than your typical estate agent.

From the photos, Honeybay looked perfect.

Lush, green wooded hills. A sandy beach stretching out beneath a winding coastline. Charming narrow streets with shop windows that looked like they belonged to actual people instead of faceless global brands. She hadn’t had time to visit the seaside yet, but the air already felt clean. Fresh.

Her estate agent was an orc, and she expected most of the locals would be the Others.

Sylvie had encountered them in the city before. She even counted some as regular customers at her old place—mostly caffeine-deprived vampires or shifters looking for a gluten-free fix—though most preferred smaller towns like this.

From her elevated perch, she could see the morning traffic passing by the glass.

A minotaur paused in front of her shop windows, peering in with open curiosity, his thick brows furrowing when he realized the display was empty.

With a thoughtful snort, he moved on. A werewolf stopped to read the “Staff Wanted” sign she’d taped to the glass, scratched the back of his head, and continued down the street.

The vision for her shop was still shaping up in her head, but one thing was for sure: she didn’t want anything like the patisserie she’d left behind in the city.

That place had been all white marble and “minimalist” vibes—which was just code for soul-sucking and cold.

It had been spotless, polished, and utterly exhausting, with brutal schedules and sleep treated like an optional extra.

And then there was Brian. Her business partner. Her ex. The man who’d treated their relationship like a corporate merger and looked at her like an underperforming asset—right up until she found out he’d acquired a new asset that was apparently “performing better” in his bed.

Deep breath, Sylvie. He’s three hundred miles away.

She shook her head, physically rattling the memory loose, and turned her frustration toward the first stubborn curtain clip.

She leaned farther out from the ladder, arm straining toward the end of the rod.

She could have climbed down and moved the ladder a few inches, but her patience was as thin as her yoga pants.

She leaned a little farther, toes curling against the metal rung for balance. The ladder creaked. Not dangerously—but enough to make her breath hitch.

Just one more inch.

That was when the bell over the front door chimed.

The bright, cheerful sound cut through the quiet shop, sharp enough to make her heart skip a beat. Her hand touched nothing but empty air. A sudden motion was all it took. Her braced foot slid a fraction of an inch. Her knee lost its pressure point against the ladder’s hinge.

Her balance vanished.

She lunged forward on instinct. The ladder stayed upright; she did not. Sylvie folded over the top rung, her chest pressed against cold metal. One foot barely hooked its step while the other dangled in empty air.

If she moved, she was going down.

Her arms locked around the ladder, shoulders trembling as she froze. Slow breath. Don’t panic. She twisted her head slightly, just enough to glance toward the door. The ladder creaked in protest.

Who would even come in? The shop isn’t open.

She’d only been here two days, just long enough to get the kitchen usable and drag down a few essentials for the apartment upstairs. Now she was stuck on a ladder in yoga pants with dust in her hair. Great. Fantastic.

All she could see at first was a large, dark shape standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light.

Then the scent hit her.

Smoke. Pine. Intense.

Her pulse didn’t just jump; it thrummed. She was suddenly, painfully aware that she was bent over the top of a ladder, her yoga pants stretched tight, her backside pointed directly at whoever had just walked in.

And the man standing there wasn’t just looking; he was absolutely devouring the sight.

He filled the doorway. Towering. Broad. Wings folded behind him. His T-shirt was stretched tight across his wide chest, and his eyes were an unmistakable, glowing amber.

Her brain stalled.

He didn’t look like someone who’d wandered in by accident.

The only explanation her mind could scramble together was that he’d come for the sign she’d taped up barely half an hour ago. She didn’t have time to fully process the situation when she heard his voice.

“I came for my buns,” he rumbled—a low, gravelly sound that vibrated right through her.

She swallowed hard. “B—buns?” she squeaked, fighting to keep her balance.

“Yes.” His voice shifted, impatience giving way to something darker as his gaze dipped again to her backside. “My round… excellent buns.”

Heat rushed to her face fast enough to bake a tray of macarons. She wasn’t sure he still meant bread.

“So… you’re not here for the job?” she blurted.

His attention lifted to her face—then flicked right back to her waist.

“I always get my buns here,” he said. “On Saturday.”

She shifted, trying to regain some shred of dignity. The ladder creaked again.

“Are you all right up there?” he asked. The question was casual, but his wings twitched, tension pulling through his shoulders like he was already halfway to catching her.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, lifting her chin even as the ladder gave another warning groan. “I’ve got it.”

His mouth curved—not quite a smile. More like disbelief.

“Doesn’t look like you’ve got much of anything.”

Heat flared in her chest. She refused to acknowledge the very reasonable urge to let someone tall and broad and infuriatingly capable take over.

“I didn’t ask,” she said, sharp enough to end the discussion.

A beat passed.

“Didn’t say you did,” he replied, voice low. “Just said I’d rather not watch you damage that luscious ass of yours.”

Oh my god.

She fumbled.

“This place has a new owner,” she said, trying to sound firm.

“Oh?” He stepped closer. The shop felt smaller. The air felt hotter. “Then I want to speak to the owner,” he said, apparently not minding that he was addressing her rear more than her face.

“I am the owner.” She lifted her chin, trying to look professional despite the dust in her hair and the ladder situation. “And you’re lucky.”

His brows drew together.

“Really?” His voice dropped. He stepped closer again, a golden gaze pinning her. “How so?”

His scent was stronger up close. Musk and charred spice. She inhaled—and immediately regretted it. Her head spun.

“I’m keeping it a bakery,” she said, trying to keep her faltering composure. “If you come back next week, you’ll get your buns.”

“I have to wait a whole week for my bloody buns?” He groaned, deep and frustrated, and stepped so close she could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. One large wing brushed the ladder.

Her foot searched for the next rung, determined to get down, just as his wing brushed her calf—a soft, leathery sweep of warmth that sent an involuntary shiver up her spine.

She missed the rung just as the unexpected touch stole what little balance she had left.

Her weight shifted wrong. The ladder wobbled.

“Oh—oh no—”

The world tipped. She squeezed her eyes shut—and never hit the floor.

Two massive hands clamped around her waist, stopping her fall with terrifying ease. He hauled her off the ladder before she could even gasp. In one smooth, powerful motion, his strong arms pulled her in, sweeping her straight into the broadest, warmest chest she had ever encountered.

Her hands instinctively fisted in his shirt. She felt his fingers digging into the soft dip of her waist, anchoring her. She was pinned to him. It felt dangerous. It felt good.

They lingered in the moment, Sylvie’s brain unable to find an exit strategy, until he broke the silence first.

“What are you doing?” he rumbled, his breath brushing the top of her head. “Did you want to get hurt?”

She felt his grip tighten briefly at her hips.

She opened her mouth to say that she hadn’t thrown herself off the ladder on purpose, thank you very much, but when their eyes met, the sensation sent a rush through her body. Facing him meant her breasts brushed against his chest.

His breath hitched.

He was holding her tighter now, warmth radiating from him in waves. The raw strength in his arms and the way his large hands anchored her hips felt dangerous, like she was being held by a landslide that had decided to be gentle just for her.

Stop enjoying this, she hissed at herself. He’s a stranger, you’re covered in dust, and your dignity is currently packing its bags.

She could feel the pounding of his heart against his chest, making her own pulse stutter. She didn’t want to admit how much she was tempted to just lean into the heat when the bell above the door chimed again.

“Hi, Sylvie!” a cheerful voice called. “Just came to double-check if you’re settling in okay—and I see you’re already making new introductions.”

Arla, the estate agent, stood in the doorway, eyebrows arched and lips curved into a wicked smirk.

The stranger immediately set Sylvie down. Or… dropped her. Mostly dropped—but he made sure she found her footing. The sudden loss of his heat left her shivering.

“You’d better keep an eye on your new tenant,” he muttered to Arla, irritation lacing his voice, though his eyes lingered on Sylvie. “She’s going to kill herself before she even gets this place off the ground. And that bloody ladder is not fit for use.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Arla said lightly, giving Sylvie an impish grin. “Looked like she got a pretty soft landing to me.”

Sylvie’s body lagged behind the moment. Her knees stayed weak, and she couldn’t tell whether it came from nearly falling—or where she had landed instead.

A cold shock slid down her spine.

It had nothing to do with the draft from the open door.

She couldn’t let him leave like that. Not with that quiet sense of triumph, like he’d just rescued a helpless new baker. She forced her voice to reboot and called after him, aiming to sound professional and controlled.

She failed.

“I hope you come back next week—for my soft and warm buns!”

The words hung in the air. They didn’t sound like an invitation to a bakery. They sounded like an offer she very much hadn’t meant to make.

Or had she?

Sylvie swallowed hard and wished the floorboards would give way.

He didn’t turn. His tail swayed in a sharp, impulsive flick as he strode outside, his powerful legs moving with fluid, predatory grace.

His scent stayed behind. In the air. On her skin.

Musk and charred spice, with something dark and wild pulsing beneath it.

It felt wrong.

In all the delicious, forbidden ways she wasn’t prepared for.