The bell over the bakery door rang. I glanced up, expecting more tourists, and I was right. A whole gaggle of them flooded in, cooing over the pastries and taking photos of the bakery’s rustic interior.
I spotted Beau behind the counter, his expression somewhere between polite and pained as an elderly human woman asked if she could take a selfie with him.
I bit back a laugh. His giant arms were crossed, and his brow was furrowed like he’d rather be anywhere else.
But when she fluttered her lashes and asked again, he relented with a sigh, leaning down so she could get her photo. I loved that about him. Big grumpy bear with a soft center.
Not that long ago, most of the human locals had looked at the bears like ticking time bombs. Now? They were taking selfies with them.
I turned back to my task, but my attention drifted again when I overheard Rafael speaking to someone by the register. The tone in his voice had shifted to less relaxed, more clipped.
Curious, I looked up. Rafael stood with a tall man in a sharp suit. I couldn’t see his face clearly from this angle, but everything about him screamed out-of-town food critic.
The kind who probably knew exactly how many Michelin stars were on his preferred restaurant’s last inspection.
Rafael’s body language was off, though. His posture was guarded, his arms crossed. That’s when I finally caught sight of the man’s face.
I froze.
Orin.
It was him. Older-looking, yes. His hair was shorter, styled differently. The beard trimmed. His suit screamed money and charm. But the eyes, they were the same. Cold. Calculating.
Watching everything.
It felt like the floor dropped out from under me. My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe.
Every muscle locked up as the bakery’s warmth, so cozy and so familiar, vanished, replaced by an icy pressure that gripped my chest like a vise.
The scent of caramelized sugar and cinnamon faded, replaced by cold metal and bleach, by memory.
The edges of my vision began to dim, tunneling in, and in a blink I was no longer in Bear & Bun. I was back in that kitchen.
The air sharp with the scent of raw onions and burnt garlic. The metallic sound of a knife clattering against tile.
Blood, a growing pool of it, dark and viscous, spreading like ink across the white linoleum. And Orin’s voice, his voice, a calm, venom-laced whisper in my ear:
“You saw something you shouldn’t have.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
My hands trembled violently over the station, the torn dough beneath my fingers crumpling like wet paper. I couldn’t even feel my hands anymore.
My sense of touch abandoned me, replaced by numbness. Static flooded my ears.
The gentle chatter of the customers, the soft clatter of plates, Rafael’s calm voice. All of it sounded like it was coming from underwater.
I wasn’t safe. I had never been safe. The walls were closing in. My chest screamed for air that wouldn’t come. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason past the cold, brutal instinct clawing up my spine.
Run.
“I—” My voice cracked in my throat, raw and distant. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
I didn’t wait for a response. Couldn’t.
I pushed away from the counter, stumbling past trays and coworkers and the sudden blur of movement and color. Someone called my name. Maybe Leo. Maybe Beau. I couldn’t tell.
The bell above the back door jangled as I shoved it open, and the cold air outside slammed into me like a slap.
