Sean’s lip trembled, but this time when he leaned forward into me, it wasn’t out of panic. It was out of trust. Of relief.
I held him again, tighter this time, and made a silent promise to the gods and whatever forces were listening: If Orin so much as breathed wrong near Sean again, I’d tear him apart.
Chapter 16
Sean
The sun was up,warm and golden, brushing across the rooftops of Sugarpaw Springs like honey.
The air smelled like dew and distant pine. I walked the familiar path toward the bakery, the sidewalks lined with flower boxes and chalkboard signs. Everything looked normal.
But something was wrong. Terribly, unmistakably wrong.
The town was silent.
No morning chatter, no dogs barking, no kids riding bikes or couples sipping coffee outside their favorite cafes. Every storefront I passed was closed, windows dark.
A breeze drifted down the street, stirring a newspaper across the asphalt, but there was no one to read it.
The pit in my stomach grew heavier with every step.
My feet moved on their own, each one landing too hard against the pavement, like I was walking underwater.
A pressure built in my chest, something instinctive, primal. My wolf shifted uneasily beneath my skin, ears flat, tail tucked.
Leave, it warned.
But I couldn’t. I was already pushing open the bakery door. The bell above didn’t ring. I stepped inside and the scent hit me first.
Not bread. Not sugar. Not cinnamon or clove.
Blood. Metallic and thick. So strong it coated my tongue.
“No,” I whispered.
My eyes adjusted slowly to the dark interior. The curtains were drawn. Shadows pooled in the corners of the room. I took a few shaky steps forward and saw them.
Rafael. Slumped behind the counter, his eyes glassy and wide, staring at nothing.
Blood soaked his apron and shirt, a dark stain spreading beneath his body like a dying flower. His mouth hung open like he’d been mid-sentence.
Cassian lay nearby, his hand still clutching a broken coffee cup. His throat had been slashed, jagged and deep. Blood sprayed the wall behind him like some deranged painting.
I staggered back.
“No, no. What is this?” I whispered.
Dorian was facedown, his arm twisted unnaturally behind his back, his head cracked open against the tile. There was a pool of crimson under him, already drying.
Even Leo, sweet, shy Leo, was curled up near the display case, his eyes open, lips parted in a final breath he never got to finish.
Terror hollowed out my insides. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it, echoing in my skull. Then I saw Beau.
He was on the floor behind the counter, sprawled on his back. His shirt was torn, blood soaking through his chest.
His big hands, those hands that had held me, comforted me, made dough like magic, were limp at his sides.
His throat had been torn out.The wound was deep, angry, raw. His eyes were still open, but the light was gone.
