“Mama?” I said, half-laughing. “Did you see that?”
The kitchen didn’t answer, but I felt something settle in the room, a softness, like someone had wrapped me in honey.
I went back to the dough, rolled it out, then added the cinnamon mixture and cut it into neat strips. I rolled the spirals and loaded them onto trays. The oven was perfect—hot, steady, faithful. I tried the same trick on the coffeemaker, and when it coughed to life, I felt the same pulse in my fingertips. The industrial mixer, too. The more I spoke to them, the more they responded. Every whir and beep and hum felt like a conversation, a secret language I’d never known I spoke.
I started to wonder if all those years in Verdant Hollow, I’d been more than just a dud. Maybe the coven had bound my magic, kept it tamped down until I was alone and too far gone to matter. Maybe Mama had known, and that’s why she bought me this place; to give me a chance to grow.
By early afternoon, the bakery was full of the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and fresh bread. I stacked pastries in the window, lined cookies on cooling racks, and filled the air with the sharp, dark scent of strong coffee. I played Mama’s old playlists on my phone, singing along to country ballads and golden oldies, dancing from counter to counter like no one was watching.
I worked until my feet hurt and my arms ached, but it was a good kind of pain—a building pain, not a breaking one. For every tray of muffins I pulled from the oven, I whispered a thank you. For every loaf that rose just right, I patted the countertop and said, “Good job, sweetheart.” I wiped the sweat from my brow, looked at the full display case, and felt a surge of pride so fierce I nearly burst.
When the sun set, I turned off the lights, locked the doors, and stood outside to look at the bakery. The yellow paint glowed under the streetlamps, every window bright and inviting. For asecond, I imagined Mama standing next to me, arms crossed, a smirk on her face.
“You did it, baby,” I said, just for her. “We did it.”
I’d built something beautiful from nothing, and no one could take that from me.
As I sipped my coffee, I made a wish: that the people of Dairyville would come. That they’d smell the bread, see the light, and maybe, just maybe, give me a chance.
I’d been here for several days now, and lots of people had stopped to look in the window. Today I’d finally put some teaser items in the window. Guess I’d find out tomorrow if they’d take the bait.
Chapter 3
Big Papa
The best part about being the Iron Valor’s chaplain was never the Sunday services, and it sure as hell wasn’t handholding the half-drunk prospects through their first come-to-Jesus talk. It was these moments, right before “church” officially started, when all the club officers crowded into the conference room, each man carrying his own brand of quiet.
We met every Monday, rain or shine, in a room that was too clean to belong to a biker compound and too battered to ever pass for professional. The table had gouges and burn marks, and every chair was a different height—Wrecker had sawed an inchoff Gunner’s legs as a joke two months back, and nobody had bothered to fix it.
Of course, this was the new bunker conference room that had been built after the old compound had been blown to hell by the Greenbriar pack. Wrecker’s mate was in the building at the time. She told him she’d died. Saw her dead mother and everything. But, thing is, there’s this angel named Archon who showed up, as he does from time to time, and seems he touched Parker. Cuz she’s as alive as I am. And now, that girl is angel touched and little miracles seem to follow her. Hell, maybe she’d be a better chaplain. Then again, I recently passed away as well, and that same angel brought me back from the other side. I got no miracles to my name at this time, but the day’s still young.
This morning, the whole place smelled like burnt coffee, and the ghost of last night’s pulled pork. Sunlight cut stripes through the shades, landing square on Bronc’s knuckles where he sat at the head, frowning into his third cup of black.
Juliet, our Luna, had arrived early and put out donuts. She lingered by the window, arms folded, profile sharp as a scythe. Her mate had finally claimed her in a way that didn’t let her out of his sight, but she still liked to haunt the perimeter, like a wolf circling the herd. That woman had been to the pits of hell and came out the other side stronger than steel; a Luna we proudly would die for.
Next to me sat Gunner, slouched back so far his boots nearly propped against the table. He nursed his coffee with two hands, eyes half-lidded and chin speckled with stubble, cowboy hat low on his head. The big Texan’s voice was slow and syrupy, but the brain behind it was sharper than most gave him credit for.
Wrecker, our newly named VP, paced at the back, restless as ever. He ran a thumb along the edge of his patch, occasionally pausing to glare at his phone. There was a rumor he slept with itunder his pillow, and I’d yet to see him go five minutes without checking it.
Doc had arrived late, as always, sliding into his seat with a nod and a tired smile. The man looked like he belonged at a university, not a biker club, but he fit here better than most. He’d been up all night with a broken arm and a birth; he had the exhaustion to prove it. He adjusted his black-framed glasses when he sat.
Bronc waited until the last chair creaked before he spoke.
“Let’s get this started,” he said, voice dry as gravel. “Anyone wanna open with a prayer?”
A few snickers circled the table. I raised my hand. “Lord, grant us the patience to deal with each other, the wisdom to out-think our enemies, and the appetite to get through whatever the hell Gunner brought for breakfast.”
Gunner grinned, eyes flicking to the donut box. “Amen.”
The laughter died quick. Bronc set his cup down and steepled his fingers, the blue in his eyes gone hard and cold. “Rafe’s called a Council. It’ll happen in a few days. He’s not letting any grass grow under this one. It’s priority one.”
Juliet let out a low sigh, her gaze shifting to the floor. She hated the politics of the packs, but it was her burden now, same as Bronc’s, especially when it came to our territory king, Rafe Mayfield.
“What’s his angle?” Wrecker asked, arms crossed. “He hasn’t called one in ages.”
“To get to the bottom of the Greenbriar attempted massacre,” Doc said, tapping a finger against the table. “He wants to see if he can make Maltraz and Otero squirm. And to make sure nobody tries to come back on us for wiping out Greenbriar.”
Gunner shifted forward. “We handled Greenbriar by the old rules. They poisoned our water—killed seven of our own,including a damn child. They came at us. We mopped the floor. I assume nobody is questioning our response.”
