Chapter 15 Sylvie #2
She flipped the switch on the machine. The familiar hiss and rich aroma filled the space, grounding her.
She set out a plate of the matcha croissants and rose-jam doughnuts.
The two women exchanged a look—the kind of look that said they’d already decided Sylvie was “The One” and were prepared to fight about it.
Sylvie sat down, wrapping her hands around her cup like a lifeline.
“So,” she said flatly “I guess you’re here to tell me about a spoiled brat who likes breaking hearts?”
“Well…” Arla began, her voice losing its playful edge. “Rhavor was serious about her. They met young, and Ronda was… wild. I suspect that’s what drew him in. She was beautiful. Still is, in that cold ‘I-only-drink-almond-milk’ kind of way.”
A stab of jealousy cut through Sylvie so sharply it made her stomach ache.
“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this,” she murmured, staring into the dark depths of her coffee.
Vera reached across the table, her dragon grip hot, steady, and surprisingly grounding. “Because he never would. And we think you deserve the full receipts before you let her presence chase you out of his life.”
Sylvie exhaled a long, shaky breath. “I saw her at his farm. She looked… settled.”
The two women exchanged a sharp, knowing look.
“If he took her back, he’d be a certified fool,” Vera said firmly.
“And we’d slap him,” Arla added with a wicked grin. “Her wealthy parents funded her every whim. After her first affair, she and Rhavor bought that farm together. For a while, it worked. But then she grew bored—of the dirt, of the chores, and eventually of Rhavor himself.”
Sylvie clenched her jaw. She thought of the sculpted expanse of his chest. The raw, carved power of him. The way his hands felt like a controlled fire. How did anyone grow bored of a man like that?
Vera smirked, looking like she’d just read Sylvie’s entire internal monologue.
“She ran off with a ‘life coach’ without so much as a sticky note,” Arla snorted.
“And that,” Vera said, brushing sugar from her fingers, “was that. We never thought she was right for him. Pretty, yes—but a complete mismatch of souls.”
She sobered. “But there’s more. When they bought the farm, Rhavor planted a special seed.”
“A seed?” Sylvie echoed.
“Call us old-school,” Vera replied. “He inherited it from his father, and his father before him. It marks a dragon’s territory. It’s primal.”
“It’s part of that whole ‘dragon-hoard’ DNA,” Arla added with a vague wave of her hand.
“He planted it on the farm back when he thought Ronda was his forever. Foolish boy. I didn’t know he’d done it until it was too late. The seed is bound to the dragon, and the dragon to the seed. It feeds his strength, his health, his literal vitality.”
Sylvie swallowed hard. Images of Rhavor—pure heat, muscle, and leashed power—flashed unbidden through her mind.
“Well,” Arla added dryly, giving Sylvie a pointed look, “let’s just say he definitely doesn’t need any of Myrtle’s special tonics to make a girl happy. He’s got plenty of ‘vitality’ to go around.”
Sylvie’s ears turned bright red under Vera’s knowing gaze.
“We didn’t come here to advertise his performance in the bedroom,” Vera scolded lightly, though her eyes were dancing.
“Anyway, like all ancient bargains, there’s massive fine print.
A dragon cannot be abruptly uprooted from the land where he planted his seed.
The magic that strengthens him will literally drain him if he’s torn away from it. ”
“That’s what happened to Rhavor’s father,” Arla added bluntly. “It wouldn’t be a long or healthy life—not by dragon standards.”
Sylvie’s fingers tightened around her cup. She didn’t fully grasp the magical physics, but she understood the stakes.
“Can’t he just… take the seed with him? Dig it up?”
“And go where?” Vera countered. “This is his home. The seed is rooted, and there are very specific, very difficult conditions required to move something like that. Conditions that won’t be met anytime soon.”
Arla leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Rhavor has unfinished business. With Ronda. With that farm. And perhaps more than that.”
Vera nodded. “Those seeds are highly collectible on the human black market. One is buried on that land, and you know how rich people are—always hunting for power they don’t understand and can’t handle.”
“He’s already been through enough. We didn’t want to worry him,” Vera said more softly. “But look at him. He’s come out of his shell since you arrived. He went to the pub. He’s actually participating in the festival. You’d need a kingdom’s army to drag Rhavor into public otherwise.”
She winked.
“Rough on the outside,” Vera added, “soft and warm on the inside. Dragons say the harder the scales, the softer the heart.”
Despite the weight of everything they’d just said, Sylvie couldn’t help it. She laughed.
“So he’s basically a giant, grumpy toasted marshmallow?”
Vera grinned. “Exactly, dear. And he’s all yours—if you’re brave enough to handle the fire.”
***
Sylvie showed up to her assigned stall early the next morning—and her heart straight-up sank. Rhavor was her neighbor.
Of course he was.
He was currently unloading heavy wooden crates of goat cheese and amber bottles of cider, his muscles doing that effortless shifting thing beneath his shirt that made it very hard to focus on inventory.
Arla had told her a fishmonger named Sam would be at the stall next door. Honestly, Sylvie wasn’t sure which was worse: the smell of salt-crusted cod for the next forty-eight hours, or being trapped in the intoxicating radius of woodsmoke and pure male heat that radiated off Rhavor.
Last night’s conversation with the aunties was still looping in her brain. What it meant for him. What it meant for them. One thing was nonnegotiable—she wouldn’t let anything happen to him. The mere thought of his “vitality” draining away made her chest tighten.
“Mamma mia!” Julian screeched, breaking her trance. “I forgot my stamps!”
That snapped her back to reality. To the festival. To the business she actually had to run.
They spent the next hour setting up the “Flour it looked like a cry for help.
“Julian,” she whispered, nodding toward the disaster zone.
Julian followed her gaze and winced like he’d been physically struck. “He just ordered a latte. I’ll pop over there and sort that mess out. It bothers me personally, as an artist. A dragon’s sense of aesthetics is known for not existing.”
Sylvie turned back to her own counter, feeling a surge of genuine pride as she looked at her sign. Flour & Fire. It fit the town. It fit her.
She was leaning over a crate of almond croissants, carefully transferring them into a wicker basket, when a low, vibrating growl sounded right against her ear.
“Mmm. Those are my absolute favorite.”
Sylvie straightened so fast she nearly clocked her head against Rhavor’s chest. He was standing inches away, a small, wicked smirk playing on his lips.
“In your dreams, big guy,” she shot back, though her pulse was doing triple-time.
“I was talking about the croissants,” he rumbled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, playful register.
“These are for paying customers only.”
“Who said I’m not buying?”
“Then get in line like everyone else.”
He glanced at the completely empty space in front of her counter. “So I’m being forced to run on empty?” he teased, stepping closer. The heat coming off him in waves. The scent—addictive.
“I don’t care what you run on,” she lied. Her heart was thundering loud enough that he had to feel the vibrations. She was running on empty, too—starved for the way he touched her.
“Can I at least get a baguette?” he asked, his gaze dropping to her mouth with zero subtlety. “Julian wouldn’t let me sample the jam unless I had a ‘vessel’ to put it on.”
Sylvie reached for a long, crusty loaf. Her hand slid slowly down the length of it, her fingers grazing the surface with slow, deliberate care. Her eyes locked onto his for one electric second.
Rhavor let out a sharp, ragged breath. His eyes flashed a predatory amber.
She shoved the bread into a paper bag and thrust it into his hands, stepping back abruptly. The look on his face was pure, unadulterated frustration.
She spent the rest of the morning trying—and failing—not to watch him. But every time she looked up, he was there. Charming the locals. Joking with the city tourists. His thick hair kept falling into his eyes with roguish ease, his golden skin literally glowing in the sun.
Arla and Myrtle were right. He looked… happy.
And Sylvie knew she was exactly one more smirk away from letting him drag her behind those cider crates.
And judging by the way he kept tracking her every move, he was one more smirk away from doing exactly that.