Chapter 10 Rhavor
The rain had eased by the time he reached the truck, leaving the air thick with the scent of damp pavement and the lingering, taunting ghost of vanilla.
Fuck.
He slammed the door, and the metal shuddered under the impact.
He rested his forehead against the cold steering wheel and closed his eyes, but it did nothing to dampen the fire. His cock was still hard. Heavy. Aching where it strained against his zipper.
All because of a baker in lace stockings.
Inside his chest, the dragon shifted.
Not satisfied.
Hungry.
Go back.
The urge rolled through him—raw and immediate. Drag her into the back room. Finish it. Mark her. Make sure every male in this town knew exactly who she belonged to.
His grip tightened on the wheel.
She had gotten under his skin in days. Days.
Every time she stepped close, something in him locked on. He wanted to close the distance. Wanted her in his arms. In his space. In his house.
In his life.
That was the problem.
His dragon wanted to stand in front of her. Between her and anything that could hurt her. It wanted to keep and protect.
That was new.
Mine. Keep. Hold.
The words pulsed through him, dark and certain. He didn’t want part of her. He wanted all of her—the sharp tongue, the stubborn chin, the way she looked at him like she wasn’t afraid of the horns or the size or the fire in his eyes.
And that scared the hell out of him.
What if she woke up one day and decided Honeybay was too small?
Too quiet.
Too boring.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He’d lived that ending once before. But this time he knew—bone-deep and certain—that he wouldn’t survive this round. The fall.
His jaw tightened.
If he couldn’t shut this down on his own, he needed something to take the edge off.
There was only one place in town that might offer some help.
He hated that he knew exactly where it was.
***
Tonics & Potions—Myrtle’s Shop sat tucked away in a quiet side alley, colorful fairy lights blinking in the window like trapped stars. The wooden sign creaked overhead as he pushed the door open.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of powdery floral and ancient dust. Shelves crowded with tiny glass bottles held liquids that looked capable of either easing a headache or creating an entirely new species.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the beams like inverted bouquets, their scents mingling into a spicy, medicinal haze.
He hadn’t set foot in here in years.
“Rhavor!” Myrtle called from behind the counter, her voice sharp as a tack. “Well, that’s a surprise.”
She leaned back, studying him with eyes that saw far too much.
“How are you? How’s the farm? How’s your aunt?”
“Good. Thanks.” He clipped the words.
He was internally combusting, his blood still running too hot, and he did not have the patience for polite social updates.
“I’m seeing your aunt tomorrow at the Hearth & Hollow,” she said casually. “It’s the monthly good-cause auction. You should come.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“In the evening?” Her brow arched.
“There’s always work at the farm.”
She hummed, her gaze sliding over him slowly, like she was diagnosing a terminal illness.
“Well, the new businesses in town got invitations,” she added lightly, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr. “The new bakery got one, too. Good chance to mingle. See what Honeybay has to offer.”
The image of Sylvie mingling—laughing, leaning toward some smooth-talking idiot who didn’t have claws barely under control—flashed through his mind.
Something sharp twisted in his chest.
Mine.
That was exactly the goddamn problem.
He straightened, filling the small shop with muscle and restrained irritation.
“I need something.”
Myrtle’s brows rose.
“What kind of something?”
He cleared his throat. “Something that makes a person… less intense.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the counter with an unblinking stare, her curiosity piqued.
He hesitated. He could not exactly say, I am one conversation away from dragging the new baker onto every flat surface she owns and claiming her until neither of us can remember our names.
He cleared his throat again.
“Let’s say someone reacts strongly to another person.”
“Strongly how?”
He stared at the empty space behind her, his pulse thudding in his neck.
“Distracting. Disruptive. It’s interfering with routine.”
“And is this reaction unpleasant?”
“No.” The memory of Sylvie’s mouth flashed through him, nearly buckling his knees. “Quite the opposite.”
“Ah.”
Myrtle’s smile turned knowing.
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
“You have something?” he asked quickly, desperate for a way out of the conversation.
“I think I know what you need,” she said, disappearing into the back room behind a curtain of clinking crystals.
Thank the gods.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
This could be fixed. He would get her out of his system before this turned into something he couldn’t undo.
The crystals swished again.
Myrtle returned.
With a knife.
He blinked, his hand twitching toward the door.
“Are you planning to draw my blood? Because if this is some blood-oath ritual, I’m out.”
She snorted.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
She set the knife down and calmly sliced a piece of fruitcake from a plate resting on the counter. She popped the slice into her mouth with unhurried delight while he stood there simmering like a tea kettle on a high flame.
Then she handed him a small jar filled with something sleek and faintly oily.
He stared at it.
It’s not what he thought this was. Or was it?
“What is that?” he asked warily.
“That,” she replied serenely, wiping a crumb from her lip, “is for your dry skin. You look a bit weathered, dear.”
His jaw dropped.
“That’s not what I asked for,” he growled, the vibration rattling the jars on the shelves.
“What you’re experiencing,” she said, her voice dropping to a gentle, lethal softness that cut through his frustration, “is not something I can cure, ease, or suppress. There isn’t an herb in this world that can silence a dragon’s heart once it’s found its home.”
“I thought you had a remedy for everything.”
“I do,” Myrtle said. “Just not a way out of your own destiny.”
“Can you at least try?”
He hated how desperate he sounded. He was desperate—a drowning man looking for a life raft, and she was handing him moisturizer.
She only shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“Go home, Rhavor. Put some cream on your face. You’re going to want to look your best tomorrow.”
He left the shop holding a jar of face moisturizer and absolutely no idea what to do next.
The bell above the door had barely stopped ringing when he spotted his aunt waving from across the street.
“Fuck.”
She was at his side in no time, a whirlwind of floral perfume and high energy that he had no hope of outrunning.
“I was just getting—” he started, trying to shove the jar into his pocket.
“Oh, never mind that,” she said, looping her arm through his with a grip that suggested he wasn’t going anywhere. “I wanted to talk to you. I have a favor to ask.”
That never boded well. Favors from his aunt usually involved manual labor or social humiliation.
“There’s a charity auction at the pub tomorrow.”
“Myrtle might have mentioned something,” he muttered.
“Oh, good. Very good.”
His aunt looked suspiciously pleased, a glint in her eye that made his scales itch.
“I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow. A representative role. Just be there. And Rhavor?” She patted his arm. “Wear something nice. Something more presentable than a T-shirt that’s seen better days.”
“What do you mean?” he growled, feeling the walls closing in.
“Oh, you know. Something that says, ‘I’m a successful farmer,’ and not, ‘I just wrestled a cow.’”
An uneasy prickle slid down his spine—a warning of a trap he was already walking into.
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to hide in his farmhouse until the scent of vanilla was a distant memory.
“Alright,” he said at last, defeated by the one woman he couldn’t growl at.
His aunt beamed, her face lighting up like the sun.
“Wonderful. It’s for a good cause.”
And no, he did not agree to this just because Sylvie would be there.
But his dragon knew better.
It was already counting the minutes.