I’d spent a lifetime preparing for war. But this—this quiet joy—was the fight I’d been born to win.
And I was never letting it go. We were ready for whatever came next.
Even if it burned us to the ground.
Chapter 18
Aspen
I’d always heard that the day after you bonded with a mate, the whole world changed. Parker described it like being plugged into a high-voltage line: colors seemed brighter, food tasted richer, and every glance from your partner carried the electric promise of sin and safety both. I’d assumed she was exaggerating. After all, I’d lived my life outside the fairy tale—hated by my coven, and lately hiding from ghosts and green-jacketed men.
But she hadn’t lied. By noon, I was so tuned into Papa that when he stubbed his toe in the next room over, my own foot ached in sympathy. When he sneezed, I felt a tickle in my ownnose. When he looked at me from across the bakery, something in my chest just…warmed.
The day was bright and dry as a breadstick. By 11:30, a line of regulars snaked out the door, all wanting their usual: kolaches, cinnamon rolls, maybe a danish if the world hadn’t gone off its axis. But today, something strange was afoot. Every other customer asked if we had sandwich bread.
“Not today, but maybe soon,” I found myself saying over and over. “Should I set some aside for you next week?”
By the third hour, I’d written “Sourdough Friday Coming Soon!” on the chalkboard in my best curly handwriting. Oscar, hidden in the prep area decked out in a tiny navy vest, watched the crowd with a patience I’d never seen in another living being.
“Is this common?” he whispered as a man in muddy overalls asked about rye. “The sudden demand for loaves?”
“Sandwich bread isn’t glamorous, but people want fresh baked, no preservatives these days,” I whispered back, “and if it pays the bills, I’ll bake my body weight in it.”
He snorted, but his little black eyes gleamed. “You underestimate the power of bread, Miss. Empires have risen and fallen on less.”
The bakery hummed. I lost myself in the ritual: scoop, knead, proof, shape, bake. Each doughball was a little prayer for a day when the world might let me feed it. By two, the rush had died down. Only the real die-hards remained—the kind who nursed a single sticky bun for three hours, “just for the atmosphere,” while using our Wi-Fi to get a little work done.
Papa showed up at 11:30 on the dot. He knew Maddie had brought lunch. I was happy he decided to stay and get a little work done himself.
The bakery was mine, but his presence filled the room. He wore a black t-shirt, blue jeans, and his Iron Valor jacket, the leather faded to near-gray at the elbows. He looked tired buthappy, his eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. I wanted to drag him behind the counter and devour him in the walk-in, but I had some standards.
He took in the mess, the crumbs, the empty racks, and let out a low whistle. “Lemon bar riots, huh?”
“Don’t mock my struggles,” I said, leaning over the counter to kiss his cheek.
He grinned, rubbing the spot I’d kissed like he meant to keep it there all day. “Never.”
Oscar hopped over to the espresso machine and set about making two shots, muttering, “At last, a man who appreciates strong brew.”
Papa put the “CLOSED” sign on the door then squeezed behind the counter, grabbed a rag, and started wiping down tables like he’d worked here all his life. I stared at him for a moment, then shook my head and started on the next batch of dough for tomorrow. I hoped this would become our routine. We worked in tandem, no words needed, every motion smooth and easy.
Halfway through mopping the floor, he looked up and said, “So, was your mom a professional baker too? Is that how you learned to do all of this?”
“Not exactly.” I snorted. “She owned an herb shop for about ten years. Mostly soaps, shampoos, and herbal remedies. The bakery was her side hustle. I worked with her after school and on the weekends. She claimed it kept me out of trouble, but mostly it kept the bullies in the coven from eating me whole.”
He leaned against the mop handle, arms crossed. “That’s your mother in those pictures, right? The ones by the register?”
I looked at the little frame with the faded photo of Mama and me, arms around each other, flour on our faces and smiles so big you could park a truck in them. “Yeah. She was the realdeal. Not some Instagram witch. She could do things I still can’t believe.”
Oscar interjected, “Miss Waters’s mother once brewed a tea that cured a high priestess’s gallstones. She did not even use a cauldron.”
Papa barked a laugh. “I believe it. Your magic’s getting stronger every day.”
I hesitated, kneading dough with more force than necessary. “I think she started that shop because she knew I’d never fit in with the others. Not really. She was getting me ready for another path.”
He came over, took my floury hands in his, and brushed a stray hair from my cheek. “She did a damn good job.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Speaking as your familiar, Miss, I must say you are more powerful than you give yourself credit for.”
