Chapter 7 Sylvie
His tongue was rough—longer and thicker than a human’s—and it explored her mouth with a rhythmic demand that sent her imagination spiraling into very delicious possibilities for the rest of her body.
She gasped, nearly sliding down his front as her knees gave out, but he caught her instantly. One arm locked around her, holding her steady with a strength that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.
He tasted like mint and burnt sugar.
“I could eat you like a strawberry,” he murmured against her mouth, the heat of his breath sparking across her skin.
“You are reckless,” she breathed, though her fingers tightened in his shirt, anchoring him to her.
“You like it,” he said, low and certain.
His hands braced her back, tracing shapes through the silk of her shirt.
She couldn’t argue that—not when his heart was pounding against hers, a wild, hammering rhythm that matched the storm building under her skin.
She could feel the massive bulge pressing against the thin fabric of her shorts, a heavy, pulsing promise of what he was holding back.
When his thumb pressed firmly into the inner curve of her buttocks, a sharp ache bloomed between her thighs.
I met him yesterday. Yesterday. How is this even possible.
The bulb overhead flickered once—a dying, pathetic gasp—and then the corridor plunged into pitch-black darkness.
“Fuck,” he muttered, the word a deep, predatory rasp against her skin. “This isn’t safe.”
She didn’t care about faulty electrical circuits. She didn’t care about the dark. She wanted his mouth, his hands, the solid, terrifying weight of his body. She slid down the length of him as gravity reclaimed her, feeling his erection press hot and undeniable against his jeans.
What he has been holding back.
The heat between her legs ignited into a total bonfire.
Oh. Oh, that was—
She nearly climbed back up him on instinct alone, her body screaming for friction.
But he released her gently, setting her back on her feet. His hands remained on her waist, steadying her—or maybe steadying himself.
She opened her eyes. In the darkness, his eyes weren’t human anymore—they were glowing amber, tracking her like a predator on the edge of the woods. He looked like a man on the brink of losing a war with himself.
I wouldn’t mind if he did.
Instead, he straightened and pulled in a slow, measured breath. She found her voice—thin, breathless, and entirely too revealing.
“Do all your deliveries come with this extra?”
“No,” he growled. A beat. “Only special ones.”
“Well,” she said, lifting her chin slightly, trying to reclaim some shred of her dignity, “I suppose that makes me the special client.”
“You’ve got no idea,” he replied, and the look in his eyes made her toes curl inside the thin soles of her slippers.
He lingered as if he might kiss her again. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Then, with visible effort, he stepped back. The sudden distance felt like cold air hitting overheated skin.
“I’ll get Arla to fix this damn light first thing in the morning,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, territorial rumble. “Will you be okay tonight? I could stay. Sleep on the couch.”
Her heart gave a traitorous little leap.
The couch?
Right.
If he stays, there is not a single universe in which he ends up on that couch.
“I… I’ll be fine,” she said, mostly to convince herself.
“Lock the door,” he ordered, the command sharp and protective. “And don’t open it for anyone.”
He paused in the doorway, those massive, broad shoulders filling the frame and blocking the streetlights.
“And dim the lights upstairs,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless you want to advertise your bread the wrong way to the whole damn town.”
Sylvie blinked as heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Wait a minute! I wasn’t—and my bread does not need advertising! Just like your goat cheese!”
She folded her arms, but he only gave a short, humorless huff. One last look from those glowing amber eyes, and then he was gone, disappearing into the alley as if he hadn’t just detonated her entire nervous system.
Sylvie remained where she was, fingers curled around the door handle long after the latch clicked shut. Her knees softened, and she leaned back against the wood, pressing her palms flat against it.
What the hell just happened?
The faint scent of woodsmoke and musk still clung to her clothes. Had she just shared the most explosive kiss of her life with the most bad-tempered, impossible man she’d ever met?
Her stomach flipped.
She pushed away and padded into the kitchen.
The adrenaline was fading, leaving a sharp, hollow hunger.
She reached for the loaf she’d baked, the knife sliding through the crust with a satisfying crackle.
She sliced a piece of his goat cheese—with a mild spark of self-deprecating irritation—and added sun-dried tomatoes.
Simple. Balanced.
She took a bite. The crunch and the tang were perfect. Honest.
“Well,” she murmured to the empty kitchen.
She didn’t have to cut him off entirely. She just had to keep things strictly professional. Business. Neighborly civility.
No dragon-blooded male—no matter how magnetic, how broad his shoulders were, or how unfairly well he filled out a pair of jeans—was going to derail her plans.
She had recipes to refine. A menu to finalize.
Tomorrow, she would be perfectly fine.
She just had to get through tonight first.
***
The next morning, Arla arrived like a small domestic hurricane, blowing through the bakery door with enough momentum to rattle the windowpanes. She strode in, balancing a new ladder over one shoulder with the kind of casual ease Sylvie usually reserved for a baguette.
Behind her trudged a man who looked like he had made a series of poor life choices involving early mornings.
“When are you opening?” Arla asked, skipping any greeting entirely.
“This weekend,” Sylvie said.
Saying it out loud sent a warm, jittery spark through her chest, despite the mountain of unfinished work stacked in every corner.
Arla froze mid-step.
“It’s the Honeybloom Festival this weekend,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone people used when they were about to deliver a reality check.
Sylvie blinked.
“And?”
“And most of the town will be at the pier. You might not get much foot traffic”
Of course.
Of course there would be a town-wide festival on her opening weekend.
“Well,” Sylvie said, her brain already shifting gears, clicking into problem-solving mode, “then maybe I’ll set up a stall at the festival.”
Arla’s mouth twitched.
“If you’re lucky. Stalls are usually booked months ahead, but you can ask at Town Hall about the waiting list. I heard Joe, who usually sells candy floss, has been having… bladder issues.”
Sylvie stared.
“If he pulls out,” Arla added helpfully, “you might get a spot.”
Sylvie barked out a laugh.
“That is the most chaotic business advice I’ve ever received.”
Arla beamed, entirely unbothered, and nodded toward the “Help Wanted” sign still taped to the window.
“Have you hired anyone yet?”
Sylvie hesitated, her fingers twisting lightly in her apron strings.
“I had someone apply yesterday,” she admitted. “He had… little hooves. And a perfectly fitted vest. With matching shorts.”
“Oh! Juju!” Arla’s face lit up.
“Who?”
“Julian! Everyone calls him Juju. He’s a faun.” She waved a hand as if that explained everything. “They’re absolute experts at making lush, creamy coffees. You’d be lucky to have him. I was always telling Seth to upgrade the coffee, but he never had the business sense to follow through.”
“Well…” Sylvie shifted her weight. “I didn’t exactly hire him.”
Arla raised a brow.
“Why not?”
Sylvie didn’t want to admit she had panicked. Managing the Other felt overwhelming—especially when one particularly large, amber-eyed man had recently left her more rattled, and more turned on, than she cared to admit.
“I asked for his CV,” she said weakly.
Arla blinked slowly.
“Oh.”
“If you need references,” Arla continued briskly, “Myrtle could give you some. He’s been helping her with tonics and potions.”
“Who’s Myrtle?”
“She’s part of the local witch coven. Good with a cauldron, better with a gin and tonic.”
Of course she is.
Sylvie took a breath.
“That’s fine. I’m sure he’s excellent. I’ll… I’ll call him.”
Arla’s gaze swept the shop—the half-painted trim, the towers of boxes, Seth’s leftover belongings lurking on shelves like mildly cursed souvenirs.
“You absolutely need an extra pair of hands. Unless you want to collapse from exhaustion before the first croissant is sold.”
Sylvie glanced at the windows.
“First I need to take down these curtains and move them upstairs. Someone told me I attract werewolves.”
Arla smirked, a wicked glint in her eye.
“Marco will help with that once he fixes the corridor lighting,” she said, nodding toward the yawning man.
Marco gave a slow, resigned nod—the expression of someone who would rather be in bed than on a ladder with a screwdriver and facing a pair of dusty curtains.
Arla pointed toward the wooden unicorn statue lingering in the corner.
“I see you kept Fred.”
“Well, I haven’t found a new home for him yet,” Sylvie said, deliberately omitting the part where she was creeped out by the idea of touching anything that might be enchanted.
“He might already be doing some work,” Arla said with a knowing little smile. “I heard you went to Rhavor’s farm—and he didn’t throw you out. You must’ve done some serious convincing. Or you’re just his type.”
Sylvie flushed a very betraying shade of pink, the heat crawling up her neck.
“We discussed deliveries,” she managed, her voice a pitch higher than normal.
“Well, well,” Arla replied, in the tone of someone who did not believe that was the entire story by a long shot. “He’s territorial on a good day. Doesn’t let anyone in unless the town’s on fire.”
“It’s a beautiful place,” she said quietly.
Arla’s face softened.