“What happened?” he rasped, his voice sounding like he’d been screaming for hours.
“It’s okay,” Sylvie whispered, rushing to his side. She pressed her hands against his back, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart through his shirt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
He looked down at the empty space on the cooling stone. “Where is it? Where’s the stone?”
“It didn’t work,” Vera said, her voice hollow and defeated. “The instructions... It doesn’t matter. We’ll find another way, Rhavor. I promise.”
But looking at the ash on the floor, Sylvie wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 22: Rhavor
Dragons didn’t share.
They guarded their hoards with ruthless devotion. They protected what they decided was theirs. It wasn’t a choice—it was instinct written into bone, blood, and ancient scale.
The second Rhavor saw that man lean in—too close, his hand lifting as though he actually had the right to touch Sylvie—the dragon in his veins didn’t merely stir; it rose and bared its teeth. His ancestors would have bitten the man’s head off before he’d finished his sentence.
But Rhavor was more civilized. Mostly. Besides, Sylvie had spent weeks perfecting the aesthetic of this little bakery. He didn’t want to ruin the décor with a shade of arterial crimson that wouldn’t wash out of the floorboards.
Still, claiming his mate was the ultimate declaration. The final word.
He’d waited long enough, pretending patience while his blood simmered. He’d watched. He’d guarded. He’d let her choose him freely. But the dragon inside him was done with “freely.” It wanted completely.
He crossed the room in three long, predatory strides and scooped her up without a word of warning.
Sylvie squealed as he hoisted her, throwing her over his shoulder with a suddenness that sent her laughter bubbling out—a bright, silver sound that made his chest ache.
“Rhavor!” she chirped, her small fists wiggling against the expanse of his back. “People will see!”
“Let them,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through her rib cage. He wanted the whole damn world to smell his scent on her skin.
“Rhavor, put me down,” she protested, though her voice carried more delight than demand.
“Not a chance,” he growled. His tail flicked behind him, wings twitching.
“What special recipe, exactly, did you want to discuss?” she asked, her voice trailing off into a gasp as he gave her a firm, possessive smack on her delectable ass.
“A very private one,” he rumbled. “I tried to be a gentleman. I’m done.”
“Good,” she whispered into the small of his back, “because your ‘gentleman’ routine was starting to make me want to throw a rolling pin at your head.”
“Careful, little berry. You’ve finally got my attention. Now you have to deal with the consequences.”
On his way past the prep station, he snagged a piping bag filled with whipped vanilla cream. A good start, he thought. He climbed the narrow stairs to her flat two at a time, the piping bag dangling from his hand like a trophy. He kicked the door open—gently, for a dragon—and strode inside, nudging it shut with a final, echoing thud.
“Bed,” he ordered.
He lowered her onto the mattress, and she didn’t hesitate. She flung her apron aside and tugged her top off with a frantic energy that made his pupils slit into thin, black lines. Her bra and skirt were gone in seconds.
“Now your turn,” she breathed.
Rhavor climbed over her, flinging his shirt into the corner. He took in the sight of her—flushed, panting, and entirely his.
“Beautiful,” he breathed. He leaned down to nuzzle one breast, his forked tongue flicking out to taste the salt and sugar on her skin. “Fuck, you’re so pretty. Let me take care of you.”
He reached for the piping bag.
“Let’s do this properly.”
