Chapter 19 Sylvie
Sylvie had learned exactly three things at the Honeybloom Festival.
One—never trust a faun with marketing materials.
Two—there was nothing worse than running out of ice for iced lattes on a blistering summer afternoon.
And three—the most important rule for self-preservation—she absolutely, categorically, should not be allowed anywhere near large, morally complicated dragons after sunset.
It was the first official day of Flour and Fire’s opening, but the crowds were not exactly pushing through the doors.
“How was the festival?” Vera called, sweeping into the bakery as though she owned the building—and every calorie currently resting on the cooling racks.
“No one threw any doughnuts back at me. I’m counting that as a success,” Sylvie replied.
Vera’s eyes drifted over the shop. The empty tables practically echoed, the silence heavy and mocking.
Officially open. Unofficially… painfully quiet.
It was a sharp, jagged contrast to the festival crowds that had been elbowing each other for fries and ice creams.
“We’ve got warm blueberry muffins,” Julian chirped from the counter, polishing the same cup for a second time. “I glazed them myself.”
Vera’s eyebrow arched.
“With icing,” Julian added quickly.
“Well, I’m happy to be first in line,” Vera said, her lips curving into a smirk as she leaned against the counter. “Once word spreads about your cream scones and those rye buns—your doors won’t stay quiet for long.”
Sylvie hoped so. She really hoped so. Preferably before her flour supplier started giving her those “bless-your-heart” sympathetic looks.
“Anyway,” Vera added, her tone shifting into that too-casual register that usually preceded a disaster, “the next auction is at Rhavor’s farm.”
Sylvie froze mid-motion, her fingers clutching a pastry box.
Julian rested his chin in his hands, leaning over the counter with predatory interest. “That’s new. He barely lets delivery drivers past the front gate without a background check and a blood sacrifice. How did half the town get an invite?”
“The veterans’ home roof caught it during the last storm,” Vera explained softly. “Rhavor actually gives a damn about those people. He’s always dropping off clotted cream. They adore him. He’s a softie under all those scales and grunting.”
Something warm and inconvenient shifted in Sylvie’s chest.
“Oh,” she managed, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.
“And,” Vera added—the trap snapping shut—“I told him you were coming.”
Sylvie stopped folding the box with the scones. Her heart started a frantic, self-deprecating rhythm against her ribs.
“No pressure, then,” she said, smiling.
Julian clapped his hands, looking entirely too delighted. “Another social event! One must love living here!”
She did love it. That was the problem.
***
On the morning of the auction, Sylvie was up before the sun had even thought about rising.
She decided to make something special. Trays filled the bakery—lemon tarts, honey cakes, and glazed buns.
She firmly reminded herself not to do anything reckless. Like bidding on a date with a certain infuriatingly large dragon. She absolutely would not think about how enormous he was. Or the heat.
Gods.
She felt her cheeks flush.
“Ovens too hot?” Julian asked mildly from the doorway, his eyes far too knowing.
She cleared her throat, adjusting her apron with a snap. “Extremely.”
“Good,” he replied. “Vera’s out front. We can start loading.”
He peeked into one of the trays and inhaled deeply. “These look sinful. Coffee machines are ready as well.”
Arla arrived moments later, already lifting baskets as though they weighed nothing. “Let’s go before Julian eats the profits.”
“I would never,” Julian said, his mouth already full of chocolate.
By the time they reached Rhavor’s farm, the place was already buzzing.
Lanterns hung between the fence posts like grounded stars. Long tables stretched across the yard, and the air was thick with the scent of mown grass and the fresh breeze.
She slowed as they approached. This wasn’t some cold fortress. It was… homely.
She spotted him near the barn, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms. He was speaking quietly with one of the elderly residents, leaning down to listen with a focus that made Sylvie’s pulse jump.
When he looked up and caught her eye, he turned to her and smiled. Sylvie’s heart skipped a beat.
They had barely finished unloading when a long black limousine rolled up the gravel drive, the sound of the tires crunching like breaking bone. The chatter died instantly.
Two broad-shouldered suits stepped out, followed by a thin, sharp-faced man and a smaller, plump one.
And then—Ronda.
She emerged in pale, immaculate elegance, the kind of woman who had clearly never tripped over a blade of grass, let alone mud.
“This gathering is illegal,” a bald man announced with the unearned confidence of someone who had never been told to shut the hell up.
Rhavor appeared at Sylvie’s side in a blur of motion. He didn’t touch her, but his wing brushed lightly against her back—a heavy, protective shadow scented faintly of scorched earth and mountain air.
“Why is that?” he growled. The sound wasn’t just a voice; it was a primal vibration that rattled Sylvie’s teeth.
“You are occupying this property without my permission,” the man snapped.
“It’s my farm,” Rhavor said, stepping forward. He loomed over the man, his eyes turning a dangerous, molten amber. “And I grant permission to whomever I choose. I don’t recall inviting you.”
The bodyguards shifted, their hands twitching toward their jackets.
“Nice to see you too, Rhavor,” the smaller man said with a smile that could curdle fresh milk. “Now be reasonable. You acquired this farm using Ronda’s money. You didn’t put down the deposit. It’s unfortunate, but there’s no reason to be… difficult.”
Sylvie saw Rhavor’s jaw tighten until the bone looked ready to snap. The air around him began to shimmer with sudden, violent heat.
“The deposit was Ronda’s,” Arla stepped forward, her voice like ice. “But Rhavor covered the livestock, the equipment, and every hour of sweat equity.”
“Which he can take with him when he leaves,” the man countered. “It’s in the deed. Black and white.”
Arla held out a hand. “May I see the papers?”
The thin man handed them over, his fingers trembling. Arla began to read, her face focused and calm.
“Rhavor has maintained the farm for the past year,” Vera added coolly. “Increased the value. Paid the mortgage while your daughter was off ‘finding herself.’”
“He’d better have,” the smaller man snapped. “Otherwise, he would have been tossed out months ago.”
Ronda’s father stepped into the light. “There are two conditions. Either he repays the deposit immediately—every cent—or Ronda resumes residence. Tonight.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“We’ve given him leeway for too long. We are executing this tonight. I have a solicitor present.”
“So my daughter will be staying here from now on,” he added, his eyes landing on Rhavor with a sneer.
“That’s particularly nasty,” Julian muttered, his voice sharp with disgust.
Was this the play? To force her way back into his bed through legal maneuvering?
Fury coiled cold and tight in Sylvie’s stomach.
“If she wants to stay,” Rhavor said stiffly, a jagged edge of pain in his voice that made Sylvie want to hit someone, “I’ll make space. There’s room in the barn large enough—”
“No, dear,” Ronda said sweetly, her voice dripping with artificial honey. “I’m staying with you. In the house. In the bedroom.”
Sylvie’s stomach dropped through the floor.
“Find another backyard for your toys,” Julian snapped.
“I’m not speaking to livestock,” Ronda snarled. “You belong in a pasture.”
Julian adjusted his vest, unfazed. “Better on a pasture than in those tragic shoes, dear. They’re so last season.”
“The only person out of place here is you,” Vera said. “It’s a shame your ego won’t let you see it.”
Throughout the bickering, Arla had been silent, her eyes scanning the documents with unnerving precision.
“Before you continue,” Arla said, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade, “there is a clause.”
All heads turned.
“Rhavor may remain on the farm as long as he resides here with a human.”
“Well, that obviously means me,” Ronda snapped, stepping forward.
“I see no specific name,” Arla replied evenly, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. “It says a human. Indefinite article. As long as a human lives here with him, the ownership is protected.”
Ronda’s face twisted. “Daddy! Do something!”
Her father glared at the solicitor, who snatched the papers back and reread the paragraph.
“How did you notice that so quickly?” he asked Arla, his voice shaking.
“Because I wrote it,” she replied, her eyes flashing. “We had concerns at the time. It was the only way to protect him when he was being blind.”
Rhavor went very still. His eyes drifted to Sylvie.
“Well,” the solicitor said slowly, sweating now, “that is indeed the literal interpretation. However, if no human resides here tonight, ownership reverts.”
“You—,” Myrtle hissed. “You know I could turn you into a big slimy—”
“I doubt it, ma’am,” the solicitor said coolly. “There are laws punishing the use of magic against humans.”
“You better start packing, dear,” Ronda hissed at Rhavor. “Or accept me.”
Sylvie saw Ronda’s bodyguards pulling suitcases from the limo.
“Ehm,” she said softly. “You forgot something, dear.”
Ronda turned sharply.
“You are not the only female human on this farm.”
“Mrs. Rye Bun,” Ronda sneered. “Better keep an eye on your yeast.”
“Her yeast has more class than you, dear,” Julian shot back.
This woman has already used herself to get what she wanted. She’s not doing it again.
“Shove your suitcases back into your limo,” Sylvie said. “I’m staying with Rhavor.”
He turned to her, stunned.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
“I want to,” she admitted, smiling softly.
“Well, dear,” Julian added theatrically, “shove your skinny ass back into your limo. This town can’t handle your brand of trouble.”
The lawyer coughed. “I must remind you, regardless of who is staying here, the deposit deadline still stands. One week from today for the full repayment.”
Rhavor’s shoulders sagged—“I don’t have that kind of money on hand.” He clenched his fists.
“It’s not about the farm, is it?” Sylvie stepped toward Ronda. “You don’t even want the dirt. You just want to take everything he has because he doesn’t want you.”
Ronda’s smile turned jagged. “I hope your bakery is large enough for a dragon, honey. You might have to sell your ovens. Maybe two.”
“And once we reclaim the land,” the father added, “we develop. It’s an excellent location for a mall.”
Rhavor’s jaw hardened. The scent of ozone and scorched cedar intensified.
“You’ve said enough,” he growled, the sound a warning shot. “You’ve trespassed on my land and insulted my guests. Leave—before my goodwill expires. And believe me, it’s currently at zero.”
The bodyguards didn’t wait for a second invitation. They scrambled back toward the limo.
“I’d hurry!” Julian called cheerfully. “Unless you’re eager to witness a dragon’s full temper! It’s a bit messy!”
The limo doors slammed, gravel spraying like buckshot as it retreated down the drive. Only then did Sylvie finally exhale.
Everything had shifted. The fairy lights were still glowing, the music was returning, and the auction was resuming, but the world felt different.
She was living with a dragon. She was sharing his house.
And she was absolutely, categorically, not thinking about the bed.
Fuck.
She was definitely thinking about the bed.