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 ofscorched earthand 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?”
