This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this. For weeks, eyes have tracked me. While I’m unloading the delivery truck. While I’m walking to the bank. A heavy, silent weight pressing against my skin. I chalked it up to a broken instinct, the phantom itch of a survivor. But looking at the silhouette framed in my glass door, I know. The weight on my skin wasn't a ghost of my past; it was the heavy, living presence of the man in the glass.
He raises a hand. I brace myself, feet planted, refusing to flinch. He doesn't hit the door. He rests his palm against the glass, high up, flat and open. A massive hand. Even through the barrier, the gesture feels intimate. Possessive.
Then, just as silently as he arrived, he turns and melts into the shadows of the alleyway next to the hardware store. I let out a breath, lowering the rolling pin but not letting go. My hearthammers against my ribs, but it’s not just fear. It’s adrenaline. It’s a challenge.
"Creep," I mutter, wiping damp hands on my apron.
But my body betrays my terror with a violent, animalistic hunger. My nipples are agonizingly tight, chafing raw against the lace of my bra with every ragged breath. Lower down, my pussy pulses, a sudden, heavy ache blooming in my depths. I’m already soaked, the heat dripping between my thighs in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the raw, primal pheromones of the predator on the other side of the glass. I’m being hunted, and my body is begging to be caught.
I hate myself for it. I hate that my body reacts to danger with arousal. I force myself back to the dough. Work is the cure. Work is the distraction.
Thump.
But now, the rhythm is broken. Every shadow in the corner of the room looks like him. Every creak of the building settling sounds like a footstep.
By six a.m., the display case is full. Glazed croissants, blueberry scones, cinnamon twists, and the signature bear claws—massive, flaky, and drizzled with almond icing. The smell is intoxicating, a siren song for the morning commuters.
I flip the sign to OPEN and unlock the door, my heart still doing that nervous flutter in my throat. Routine helps. Mrs. Gable comes in at 6:05 for her bran muffin. The construction crew working on the new library wing comes in at 6:15 for coffee and donuts. The noise of the espresso grinder drowns out the quiet terror in my head.
The bell above the door jingles at 6:45. A time usually reserved for the quiet rush before the school run. The air changes instantly. The oxygen thins, turning cold and sharp. The chatter of the two tourists in the corner booth dies out.
I look up from the register, and the air in my lungs turns to stone. He’s here. The shadow.
He has to duck to get through the doorway. He is... terrifying. Absolutely, brutally magnificent. He wears worn denim and heavy boots that thud ominously against the hardwood floor. A black t-shirt strains across a chest carved from granite, hugging biceps thick enough to crush a human skull. Over the shirt, a leather vest—a "cut," I think they call it. I’ve seen them around town. Broken Halos MC. The patch on his heart says PROSPECT, but nothing about this man suggests subservience.
He is chaos and order wrapped in skin. His face is harsh, all sharp angles and rough stubble, a permanent, dangerous scowl etched into his features. His hair is dark, shorn close on the sides, longer on top, messy as if he’s been riding through a storm.
But his eyes paralyze me. Dark, almost black, burning with an intensity that strips me naked right here behind the counter. He doesn’t look around the shop. He doesn’t look at the menu board. He doesn’t look at the tourists shrinking into their booth. He looks at me. A physical impact. A collision.
My hands, reaching for a to-go cup, pause. I force them to move steadily. He walks to the counter. Every step deliberate. He moves like he owns the floorboards beneath his feet. He owns the air I’m trying to breathe. He owns the silence that has fallen over the room.
He stops directly in front of me. The counter is high, meant to create a barrier between me and the customers, but he towers over it. He’s so close I can smell him. He smells like hot iron, ozone, leather, and something uniquely, muskily him. A scent that bypasses my logic centers and hits my limbic system like a drug.
"Hi," I manage. My voice is tighter than I like, but clear. I clear my throat, summoning the professional baker mask I’ve perfected. "Can I help you?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He leans forward, placing those massive hands on the glass countertop. I see grease stains deep in the whorls of his fingerprints, calluses thick and rough. These are hands that build. Hands that destroy.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then slowly, agonizingly, drags down my throat, over the pulse jumping frantically in my neck, down to where my apron strains over my breasts. I feel the heat of his stare like a physical touch, scorching my skin. My nipples peak instantly, painfully hard, betraying me.
His eyes snap back up to mine. He knows.
"You were scared this morning," he says. His voice is a low baritone, a grinding of gravel and bass that vibrates in the floor, traveling up my legs and settling deep in my womb. Not a question. A statement.
I freeze. "I... what?"
"Four a.m.," he says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You saw me. You grabbed a weapon."
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. How did he know I grabbed the rolling pin? He was outside. It was dark.
"I didn't mean to spook you," he continues, though he doesn't look sorry. His gaze remains heavy. Focused. "But you shouldn't be here alone that early. The back door lock is shit. A swift kick would snap the deadbolt."
I blink, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"I can reinforce it," he says, as if we’re discussing the weather. "I have the steel. I’ll come by later."
"I didn't ask for your help," I say, stepping back but keeping my chin up. This is too much. He’s too big, too intense. "Who are you?"
He watches me retreat, and a muscle feathers in his jaw. He doesn't like the distance. I see the irritation flash in his eyes—a predator denied its proximity.
