Chapter 3 Sylvie
When Rhavor stepped out of the bakery, he struggled to gather his thoughts.
Sunlight hit him full in the face, sharp and unforgiving, and he stood there on the pavement far longer than was reasonable, blinking like a fool and trying—failing—to remember why he’d come outside at all. One intrusive, relentless image in his head.
Her.
Specifically, the lush curve of her hips and ass, wrapped in yoga pants so unforgiving he’d been able to tell—unmistakably—that her underwear was lace.
Red lace.
The memory hit him low and hard, dragging his attention straight down to the ache straining against his jeans. He swore under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face, but it did nothing to dislodge the rest of it. If anything, it made it worse.
She fit into his arms so perfectly it was dangerous.
The softness of her belly, the fullness of her hips pressed tight against him—her breasts against his chest, full and yielding, leaving behind a phantom warmth that still burned through the fabric of his shirt.
She was so soft. And warm.
It had been like his body had known her long before his mind had caught up.
Her face with that mixed expression of disbelief and embarrassment looked so sweet when he held her in his grasp.
Her scent was still on him.
Vanilla. Caramel. Something faintly floral beneath it all.
A scent that made him want to bend his head and breathe her in until nothing else existed.
By the time he reached his truck, his cock was still half-hard, throbbing with an insistence that made him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles bleached white.
He dragged in a breath that scraped out of him half-growl, half-curse.
If Arla hadn’t shown up, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have let the baker go at all.
“Bloody humans,” he muttered as he hauled himself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. “Always causing trouble.”
Only this time, it wasn’t just under his skin.
One particular human had wedged herself somewhere far more dangerous.
And the worst of it?
He didn’t want to wait an entire damn week to see her again.
***
“Is anything the matter?” his aunt asked while Rhavor unloaded the groceries into her kitchen.
His movements were stiff and off-beat, like his body moved half a step behind his thoughts. Or several steps. Or miles.
“It’s nothing,” he grunted.
She watched him for a long moment, green eyes narrowing.
“You look strange,” she said calmly. Then added dryly, “And you just put the soap in the fridge. Right next to the milk. And the sugar.”
He froze.
She crossed her arms over a black T-shirt with a large smiley-face print splashed across the front—a ridiculous contrast to her deep pink skin, a legacy of her succubus mother, his grandfather’s first and shortest-lived marriage.
That union hadn’t survived once monogamy entered the conversation, but it had left their family with a woman who missed very little.
“So,” she said lightly. “Something happened.”
“Everything is fine,” he said quickly.
She didn’t believe him for a second. She raised him after his parents died; she read him more easily than the spines of her ancient recipe books.
She tapped her foot against the wooden floorboards.
“Well? Either you fell off a roof, or you ended up in the middle of a witch convention.”
He cleared his throat and avoided her gaze.
“I… didn’t get the buns this morning.”
He couldn't think of anything else that didn’t sound like an obvious lie.
Her eyebrows shot up.
"Is that so?" she teased. “Must’ve been some very special buns, if you forgot the whole world.”
“I was just at Seth’s place,” he continued, “and it was closed.”
“Those stone-hard buns Seth could barely sell?” She snorted. “Honestly, no one would mourn them. He never quite mastered that recipe I gave him.”
“They were proper rye buns,” Rhavor muttered. “Traditional. Yeast. None of that modern nonsense humans like.”
“He wasn’t much of a baker anyway,” his aunt said, waving a dismissive hand. “His place looked more like a curiosity shop that happened to display some doughy bread and hard buns.”
She huffed.
“He should’ve opened a salad bar instead. Elves never mastered the art of dough making.”
“I didn’t mind his bread,” Rhavor said, a little defensively.
“You didn’t mind because you got used to it,” she shot back with a smirk. “You don’t need hard buns. You need warm, soft ones.”
Then, casually, like she wasn’t detonating his thoughts, she added, “Arla told me the place has a new owner now. Sylvie. And she’s nice.”
Rhavor felt a strange, low tug in his gut at the sound of her name. It was a heavy, possessive pulse that had his inner hoard sparking with a need to go back and claim her.
“She didn’t look like someone who would understand our ways,” he only said, though he couldn’t dislodge the image of her pretty face—or that embarrassed smile—from his mind.
“We should give her some credit,” his aunt said. “Arla says she’s working hard to get the place up and running.”
“She nearly killed herself this morning,” he said flatly.
His aunt’s lips curved slowly.
“So you’ve already met her.”
“If a meeting counted as saving a city girl from a suicide mission on a rickety ladder,” he said, aiming for a dry tone.
“Well, good thing you were there,” she said, clearly enjoying herself.
He knew that look. His aunt’s unnervingly sharp instincts—courtesy of her succubus mother—were already peeling him open. It was deeply uncomfortable, especially since every mental page was currently filled with red lace and a baker’s sweet smile.
“What happened with Seth?” Rhavor asked, trying to change the subject—and desperately trying to swap out the images in his head, even if Seth wasn’t his top pick for mental real estate.
“I think it had something to do with that travel vlogger he met recently,” she said. “Surely an elf in his prime—five hundred years young—didn’t want to stay tied to one place forever. He finally wandered off. It was rather sudden, though.”
Then she added, “Did you see his recent posts?”
She grabbed her tablet and tapped the screen. She swiped through a couple of profiles, then turned the screen toward Rhavor.
“Look at him. Dancing on a beach. Drinking something neon-orange. Absolutely ridiculous—but happy as a clam.”
He eyed her warily.
“I hope you’re not planning something similarly stupid.”
“Like what?”
She sighed dramatically.
“Running off because a handsome stranger sweeps me off my feet—well, you can count on that.” She smirked, her eyes gleaming. “Or someone falling into your arms and suddenly you can’t think straight?”
Rhavor went still.
“Oh, you need buns, all right,” she purred, her smirk widening. “But not those hard, stone buns. You need something soft. Tender. Warm…”
“Oh, stop it, will you?” He groaned.
“You need to grab the chances life throws at you,” she said, her voice firming, though the mischief never left her eyes.
“Some chances even fall—right into your arms.”
She gave him a slow, deliberate wink.
And Rhavor, for once in his life, didn’t have a single argument left.
Chapter 3: Sylvie
She knew this place was going to be a project—that it would take sweat and late nights to get it up to scratch, and the added challenge of winning over a small town. But no one had warned her that the property came with a side of obnoxious, demanding, and utterly hot regular.
Seriously, the man should’ve come with a warning label. Or a fire extinguisher.
“Well,” Arla said dryly, breaking the silence as she leaned against a display case. “Looks like you’re making quick acquaintances.”
She smirked, dark eyes sparkling with entirely too much amusement.
Sylvie waved a hand helplessly, her face still burning. “It was a total accident.”
She quickly spun on her feet and began fussing with a stack of linen napkins on the counter—straightening, aligning, re-folding them far more precisely than necessary—anything to avoid Arla’s knowing look and give herself a second to gather her thoughts.
Her skin still buzzed where he had touched her.
“Good thing this place isn’t going to stay closed for long,” Arla said, looking around and glancing at the eclectic décor. “Seth left so suddenly it barely gave anyone time to blink.”
Sylvie nodded, but her mind was still hopelessly stuck on the stranger’s arms that had lifted her like she weighed nothing at all.
“Why did he leave so… promptly?” she asked, trying to sound like she cared about local gossip rather than the amber-eyed man who had just manhandled her.
Arla snorted. “Who? Seth? Apparently, he met some travel vlogger online and decided the world was calling louder than the sourdough. Next thing we knew, Seth had sold what he could, packed a bag, and vanished with his camera-toting dream girl.”
She gestured vaguely at the mismatched couches, the overstuffed armchairs, and the tall bookcase crammed with dog-eared novels and inexplicable oddities. “And you inherited all of this.”
Sylvie followed her gaze. The space looked less like a professional front-of-house and more like the living room of an eccentric hermit who’d lost a fight with a thrift store.
“The couches have seen better days,” Sylvie muttered. “And the curtains—” she sighed.
“—definitely not helping,” Arla finished with a grin.
Sylvie let out a small, breathy laugh. “They’re coming down. I was in the middle of that when—” she paused, then cleared her throat. “—I was distracted.”
Arla’s eyes flicked past the furniture, scanning the room as if taking inventory—then she smiled.
“And,” Arla continued, “he left you Fred.”
Sylvie frowned. “Fred?”
Arla pointed toward the far end of the room.
Standing proudly beside a low side table was a wooden unicorn statue, a little smaller than life-size.
It was painted in a questionable shade of dusty lavender that had no business being in a bakery, slightly scuffed, and wore a hand-crocheted green bandana tied neatly around its neck, a peace sign stitched into the fabric.
“Oh,” Sylvie said faintly. “That Fred.”
“I’m getting rid of it,” she added immediately.
Arla hummed, tilting her head. “I’d think twice about that. Apparently, it’s got some sort of charm on it. Elvish sorcery. Nothing dramatic, but you wouldn’t want to mess with that without knowing what you’re undoing.”
Sylvie stared at the unicorn. For a second, she wondered if Fred had something to do with the ladder incident. She shook the thought away and lowered her voice.
“The man who was in here,” she started, trying to sound casual. “He didn’t… introduce himself.”
Arla laughed softly and nudged Sylvie’s elbow. “Oh, that’s Rhavor.”
Sylvie’s stomach gave a small, traitorous flip at the name.
“Typically him,” Arla went on. “A little rough around the edges. Dragon, but harmless, if you ask me.”
“Harmless?” Sylvie echoed, her brow furrowing.
Arla shrugged, her expression turning thoughtful. “Life didn’t exactly go his way. He’s very particular—about, well, everything. Once he sets his mind on something, you’d need a kingdom to get it off him.” She smiled. “That includes the buns.”
Sylvie glanced at her. “You seem to know him very well.”
“Small town,” Arla said with a smirk. “We grew up on the same street. I’ve seen him eat dirt, and he’s seen me fall off my bike more times than I can count.”
Sylvie’s lips twitched.
Arla caught the look and added,
“He’s got a small farm outside of town. Supplies produce to the locals.”
Sylvie wanted to ask more—but she didn’t want to sound desperate. Instead, she adjusted a rolling rack of trays and said, almost to herself, “I’m going to need fresh eggs. Nothing lifts a pastry better than fresh eggs.”
Arla’s eyes lit with an impish glint. “And maybe some… other ingredients?”
Sylvie nodded, ignoring the look and failing to suppress a smile. “Maybe.”
“Well,” Arla said, “I’ll give you Rhavor’s address. You can go straight to the farm. But don’t expect him to open the door for you. He doesn’t like visitors.”
Sylvie straightened, squaring her shoulders. The warning only made him more intriguing—and more of a challenge.
“That’s fine,” she murmured under her breath, her pulse ticking a little faster.
“I can handle a little danger.”