That was the rot under his ribs—a cold, consuming thing that made his lungs feel two sizes too small.
The other ache beneath his ribs—sharp, stinging, and deeply humiliating—came from a wooden spatula.
“Focus, you big ox! You’re scorching the edges!”
Rhavor gritted his teeth.I’m a dragon, not a sous-chef.His aunt was a blur of floral apron and culinary violence, smacking his side every time he let the heat climb too high. She was determined to teach him how to cook so he could “make something nice for that sweet girl,” which apparently involved jabbing him in the kidney whenever he let the butter burn.
As if cooking for a Michelin-star baker wasn’t stressful enough. He was a seven-foot mountain of dragon blood, not delicate flips and golden-brown perfection.
But this past week had felt dangerously, devastatingly right.
Sylvie living with him.
He could feel her in every room—a haunting presence that had turned his house into a home before he had even realized the walls were softening. Her coconut shampoo in his bathroom, rich and tropical against the scent of his own harsh soap. Her cookbooks scattered across his shelves like colorful intruders.The plush pillows she had thrown onto his battered leather sofa, making the dark hide look... welcoming.
Then there was that ridiculous pink mug—a cartoon dragon with “Hot Stuff” written on it. It sat beside his industrial coffeemaker as though it had always belonged there.
It should have irritated him. He was a man who liked his lines straight and his surfaces clear.
Instead, the sight of it quieted something that had been grinding sharp and jagged inside his chest for years.
He had spent the afternoon driving back from town after checking on the veterans’ home roof repairs. The mayor had cornered him, launching into a long-winded recounting of how storms used to roll in off the coast thirty years ago, but Rhavor hadn’t heard a word. His mind was five miles away.
He stepped through the front door, and her scent hit him immediately.
Sweet. Warm. Home.
He leaned against the kitchen doorway, the glass of whiskey he didn’t remember pouring held loosely in his hand, and just watched her.
She stood at the worktop, hands buried in dough, kneading with steady, fierce concentration that made his pulse thrum. She was wearing his favorite green dress—the one with the buttons that did absolutely nothing to hide the lush, soft curves he spent every night memorizing.
Her hips moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm as she worked the dough, a sway that did nothing to calm the territorial roar building in his blood.
The dragon shifted beneath his skin, claws digging into his psyche.
Hoard. Keep. Mine.
He couldn’t keep his hands off her. Her smile. The way her body felt as though it had been carved specifically to fit against his hard edges. It pulled at him constantly—a physical gravity he couldn’t fight.
He didn’t want to admit he was in love. The word felt too small, too flimsy for the dragon-sized weight pressing against his heart.
She glanced up, and the smile she gave him was instant, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Too tired.
He crossed the room. Seven feet of muscle, heat, and barely restrained intent.
She barely reached his chest. Small. Soft. Built to be protected.
He stepped behind her, his chest brushing the warmth of her back. His arms bracketed her, caging her against the counter.
“Are you helping or distracting?” she murmured, her voice a soft friction against his nerves.
“Which one do you prefer?”
His voice was a low growl, the kind that usually made people back away. Sylvie only leaned closer.
“I think I’m losing the battle with this dough,” she admitted, a huff of self-deprecating laughter escaping her. “I need more flour.”
