Chapter 8 Rhavor
He didn’t need another problem.
Rhavor muttered it under his breath as he scrubbed his hands beneath the old iron pump in his kitchen. Cold water ran over his skin. It did nothing for the heat sitting under his ribs.
He braced both palms on the sink and bowed his head.
Sylvie.
She looked like trouble.
She smelled like trouble.
And after last night—yeah. She tasted like it too.
He’d almost claimed her in that dark corridor.
Almost lost control.
The dragon had surged up so hard it rattled his bones. One more second and he would’ve pinned her to the wall and marked her as his in every damn way that mattered.
And for a dangerous, reckless heartbeat, he’d thought—
Do it.
Maybe if he claimed her, the pressure would ease.
Maybe the restless edge scraping inside him would finally go quiet.
But he felt this was different.
The dragon didn’t only want to take.
It wanted to guard.
To put her behind him.
To wrap around her.
To keep.
Mine.
The word slid through him, dark and possessive.
He dragged a hand down his face.
He was a grown man, and yet here he was, acting like a teenager with a crush. A very large, very dangerous teenager.
He was terrified he might scare her.
He was more terrified he might actually hurt her.
“Fuck.”
He splashed water over his face. He had never felt this kind of force—this instinct-driven need to drag someone into his life and never let go. Not even with Ronda.
And gods help him, this woman steered his dragon without even trying.
When Ronda had her first affair, he had been so blinded by her promised forevers that he had taken her back. When she had left on another “self-discovery” retreat, he had waited for her return.
But she never did.
Humans had been a mistake he had paid for in pride and bitter regret. He had sworn—sworn on his fucking hoard—he wouldn’t make it again.
Apparently, he had learned nothing.
He shut off the tap harder than necessary, breathing through his teeth, droplets dripping from his jaw.
He lifted his head, catching his reflection in the small mirror nailed beside the window.
Golden skin. Horns curving from his forehead like a threat. Amber eyes catching the dim morning light.
After Ronda, he had silenced the dragon. He had met other women. But for them it was only cardio. They wanted the adventure. The thrill of riding the dragon. The size.
That had left him colder than winter snow. He wasn’t built for temporary.
He turned from the sink and grabbed a towel, the rough fabric scraping across his face, grounding him. He forced his thoughts toward the things he could control.
The farm. Orders. Deliveries.
Whatever Sylvie was, she wasn’t his problem.
She couldn’t be.
As he was heading out, he brushed on the blue flannel shirt hung at the door. His nose twitched—Sylvie’s scent still lingering.
Sweet. Warm. Tempting.
His jaw tightened.
He was lying to himself.
He was a liar, and he knew it.
***
The truck was loaded by the time he hauled himself into the driver’s seat. Morning light stretched across the fields, but a bank of low clouds already gathered in the west, bruised and heavy.
“Perfect,” he muttered.
He slammed the truck door and started the engine.
Keep the day strictly business, he reminded himself. No distractions. No vanilla-scented problems.
He gripped the steering wheel harder and drove.
His first stop was the veterans’ home, dropping off a flat of fresh clotted cream.
“Rhavor! My boy’s here!” Mayor called. He wasn’t an actual mayor, just a title the residents had gifted him somewhere around the last century. “Come, sit down. Have some tea. We’ve got scones that’ll do that cream justice.”
Rhavor pulled out a chair, unable to say no to the old man.
“How’s life treating the handsome young dragon?
” Mayor went on, already settling in with the practiced ease of the elderly.
“At your age, I had nymphs lining up at my door. One in particular wouldn’t leave me alone.
I had to jump on the first ship out just for peace of mind.
Those creatures just wouldn’t leave you be. ”
Rhavor smiled despite himself. He had heard the story a dozen times, but he enjoyed the company of a man who had seen the world and still possessed the frantic, unspent energy of a youth who refused to let the fire go out.
The stories never lasted long, though. Mayor tended to drift mid-sentence into a sudden, unapologetic nap.
When a loud snore finally rattled the teacups, Rhavor rose quietly and slipped out.
By the time he reached the truck, the sky had turned a heavy charcoal gray.
He rounded the corner by Joe’s Grocery when movement on the pavement snagged his attention, hitting him like a physical blow.
He would know those hips anywhere.
That slow, unhurried sway that seemed to mock his need for order.
She wore a skirt that exposed her calves—and fuck—they were taut and perfect. Made to test him. Made to undo every ounce of discipline he tried to summon against the rising tide of his own instincts.
Two vampires glanced after her, their eyes openly appreciative, lingering on the curve of her waist.
His dragon didn’t just stir.
It roared.
Mine.
He wanted to jump from the truck, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her back to his home—and keep her there.
Forever.
The sky split open without warning.
Rain crashed down in sheets, a sudden, violent deluge.
He watched, frozen, as it soaked through her top, the fabric clinging shamelessly to curves it had no business advertising to the street.
She spotted his truck and waved.
Gods help him. This was already going wrong.
“Are you following me?” she breathed, a little smirk playing at her mouth as she climbed into the cab.
Her skirt hiked up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings against the warm, rain-slick flush of her thighs.
His cock hardened painfully.
“I’m not following you,” he growled.
Water dripped from her hair, tracing a slow path down the column of her neck.
Her top was plastered to her like a second skin, outlining her bra with a clarity that made his vision swim. Her nipples pressed against the soaked fabric, bold and unashamed, catching the dim light of the cab.
“Thanks for stopping,” she said lightly, wiping a droplet from her lip.
I stopped to admire the view, he almost said, the words catching in his throat.
The ride to her bakery was a blur of gritted teeth and white-knuckled steering.
He couldn’t find a single word that didn’t sound like a feral growl.
His eyes kept darting sideways, drawn helplessly to the wet outline of her body. He nearly clipped old Mr. Henry at the crosswalk and almost took out the pharmacy’s mailbox.
“I got your eggs,” he grunted when they screeched to a halt outside the shop. His voice was so deep it rattled the dashboard.
“Perfect.” She smiled, a flash of white teeth. “Come in.”
Fuck.
His dragon paced, restless and demanding, claws scraping against the back of his mind. He wanted to press her against the nearest flat surface, peel those wet clothes off with his teeth, and forget every rule, every boundary, every “strictly business” promise.
He followed her through the back entrance, forcing his attention anywhere but the way her soaked skirt clung to her ass.
“Did you see much of the town?” he asked, grasping for something neutral—something that didn’t involve his teeth on her skin.
She laughed softly, the sound like sugar and warmth.
“In this rain?”
Her hair clung to her cheeks in damp spirals. She set a rain-spotted book on the counter, and he caught the title.
101 Ways to Work the Flame.
“What’s that?” he growled, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, I found it in the local bookstore,” she said, drying her hair with a towel, her arms raised in a way that pulled her shirt even tighter.
He remembered that book from his aunt’s kitchen, back when she had been an active baker. “It’s a dragon’s baking bible,” he said, his chest tightening despite himself. He didn’t want to admit how impressed he was. This human—with rain still dripping from her chin—was daring to attempt this?
“Those recipes in this book are ancient. And dangerous. You could burn yourself.”
The thought made him restless, a protective thrum under his skin.
She smirked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
His eyes darkened, the amber turning molten gold.
“They’re not for everyone,” he said gruffly.
“Well,” she shot back, her chin lifting in that stubborn way he was beginning to crave, “I’m not everyone.”
No. She wasn’t.
That much was painfully, devastatingly obvious.
She shivered, a small tremor that went straight to his gut.
“You’re trembling,” he growled.
Without thinking, he stripped off his shirt. The heavy cotton was dry and warm, holding the heat of his skin. He wrapped it around her shoulders, then grabbed a heavy apron from the side table.
“Do you want me to bake for you?” she teased.
“Later,” he rasped, his restraint hanging by a frayed thread. “Your shirt is soaked. Take it off and put this on.”
He turned his head as she peeled off her tank top—but he still caught a glimpse of pink silk lace that did absolutely nothing to help his self-control.
His dragon stirred—a low, restless burn beneath his ribs.
He turned back just as she slid his shirt over her bare arms, the collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the pale, delicate curve of her skin.
The sight of her in his clothes—his scent marking her—almost undid him.
Then she gave him a small, reckless smirk.
“My skirt’s wet, too.”
The words landed somewhere between a complaint and a blatant invitation.
His jaw tightened until it ached.
He searched her gaze, looking for any sign of hesitation, but the heat in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
He didn’t hesitate.
His large, calloused fingers found the zipper at her hip. He fumbled with the metal for half a heartbeat before he caught it, working it slowly.
His breath hitched as the fabric gave way, the cotton apron lifting just enough to reveal a flash of pink lace beneath.
“That’s better,” he muttered, his voice low and territorial—the sound of a man who had stopped trying to fight the inevitable.
He let the wet skirt fall to the floor in a sodden heap.
He stepped into the space between her knees and pulled her closer, his hands anchoring her hips.
He had many, many plans for her.
And none of them involved baking.