Chapter 16 Rhavor
He had managed to convince Joe the candy floss maker that the festival tents would be too drafty for his health issues. A promise of a free yearly supply of apple cider might have sealed the deal. It was his first Honeybloom Festival in years.
The thing had grown. He’d forgotten how suffocating crowds could be. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of fried dough.
At some point Julian appeared, shoved two cappuccinos into his hands and vanished again like a glittering woodland menace.
Rhavor’s gaze shifted to the stall next door.
Sylvie.
She wore a soft cream blouse tucked into a deep green skirt, the fabric hugging her hips before falling in gentle, teasing folds.
An apron with Flour she knew the walls he built.
“Maybe she’s not just here for the farm, Rhavor.”
“I can handle it.”
She gave him a searching look.
“Good,” she said after a moment.”Cos there is something else I want to talk to you about”
Anything but Ronda, Rhavors thought.
“The veterans’ home got wrecked in the storm.” Arla continued “The roof’s leaking like a sieve. We need to set up the auction fast to raise funds. A private venue would save us weeks of permit paperwork.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Your farm would be ideal.”
Rhavor stiffened. He barely let his own business onto the farm, and now he was supposed to host half the damn town? He hated crowds. Hated the noise.
But he hated the thought of veterans sitting under a leaking roof even more.
“I’m pretty sure Sylvie is already planning treats for the event,” Arla added, not even pretending she wasn’t baiting him.
“Fine,” Rhavor muttered. “I’ll clear space for the tent.”
“That’s the spirit.” She clapped him hard enough to rattle his bones.
As she disappeared into the crowd, a sudden gust of wind rattled the tents. Canvas snapped overhead like a gunshot. Through the shifting fabric, Rhavor caught sight of Sylvie—framed in gold light, her hair glowing like spun copper beneath the scarf.
For a second, her gaze locked with his.
His heart stuttered. Is she watching me?
The wind roared again—a violent swirl that tore the silk scarf from her hair and sent it spiraling into the air. He moved without thinking. He chased it through stalls and shouting vendors until it vanished into a narrow alleyway.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots. He thought he caught a flicker of Myrtle disappearing behind a corner.
“So,” a familiar drawl came from behind him, “is this where you’re hiding?”
He spun around. Vera stood by the brickwork, looking entirely too smug.
“I’m not hiding,” he snapped. “I’m looking for something.”
She gave him a look that sliced straight through his bullshit.
“I think what you’re looking for is closer to the doughnuts with rose jam,” she said, arms crossed over her T-shirt that flashed DONUT BITE across her chest.
“Don’t tell me you’re just going to stare at her all weekend.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You did this, didn’t you? That ‘gust’ of wind?”
She offered a look of feigned innocence that fooled absolutely no one. “My boy, don’t talk to me about winds—you really don’t want to know. Just find the damn thing and go to her.”
He spotted the scarf tangled in a wooden crate and snatched it up. The silk was cool and soft in his hand.
Footsteps approached, and Sylvie appeared at the end of the alley, slightly breathless, her chest rising and falling in a way that made his jaw tighten.
Vera didn’t miss a beat. “Hi, Sylvie! I was just leaving to get some chilled rosé. I’ll pop by your stall for those éclairs later. Cheerio!”
She vanished, smug smile intact. The alley fell quiet, the noise of the festival fading into a distant hum.
Rhavor stepped closer, holding out the scarf.
“I’ve got something of yours,” he said, his voice lowering into a deep, territorial rumble. “I’m afraid my aunt’s impossible. She might have been the one to get it flying in the first place.”
Sylvie smiled, and the tight band around his chest loosened slightly.
“She’s actually really nice,” she said. “She gave me the best recipe for rye buns.”
“Yes. She did.”
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you for making them for me,” he said, stepping closer until he could feel her warmth. Her scent—vanilla and sugar—curled into his lungs.
“Well, what did you think? Did you like them?”
“They were… different.”
Her brows knit together, a flicker of hurt crossing her face.
“Different?”
“In a good way,” he corrected quickly, his gaze dropping to the lush curve of her mouth. “A very good way.”
He lifted the scarf and looped it gently around the back of her neck. His fingers brushed the silky skin beneath her ear, and she inhaled sharply. He used the ends of the silk to draw her closer, closing the space until her breasts brushed against his chest.
A low, ragged growl escaped him.
Her scent hit him fully now—sweet vanilla threaded with something floral and intoxicating. It went straight to his head like whiskey. Sylvie didn’t step back. She leaned in instead, brushing her lips against his in a teasing, ghost-soft kiss.
“That’s nice,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he growled. “Very.”
He caught her lower lip between his teeth and slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting sugar and heat.
He kissed her deeper this time—slow, claiming, hot enough to make his blood pound in his ears.
She melted into him, her body molding to his hard edges.
He pulled her closer, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against his chest.
His hand slipped beneath her blouse as he cupped her breast. His thumb stroked over the peaked nipple through her bra, and she gasped against his mouth. That sound—small and broken—nearly undid him.
His dragon roared inside him. God, I missed her. The softness. The way she fit against him.
She leaned into him, but there was tension there, too—a hesitation he felt in the way her fingers gripped his arms. He sensed it and he pulled his hand back.
Instead, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.
“I missed you,” he said, his voice roughened by too many things he couldn’t put into words.
She smiled, but the hesitation in her eyes almost broke him.
“I should go,” she said softly. “Julian’s on his own.”
“Yeah.” He forced his hands to fall away. “Of course.”
She stepped back, turning away and disappearing into the festival crowd. He watched her walk away, the rhythmic sway of her hips a private siren call. His dragon stirred, restless and possessive.
She was going to ruin him. And he’d never felt more alive.