I let out a sound, part sob, part scream, and stumbled toward him, falling to my knees beside his body.
“Beau…no. Please—” My hands shook as I reached for him, already knowing it was too late. “Please, wake up!”
A chuckle cut through the silence. Low. Cruel. I looked up.
Orin stood over Beau’s corpse, a bloody knife dangling from his fingers. He was dressed in black now. None of the chef’s whites he used to wear.
Just a sleek, predatory shadow with blood spattered across his shirt and sleeves. His grin widened when he saw me.
“Morning, Sean,” he said, voice dripping sweet venom. “You're just in time.”
My breath caught in my throat. I scrambled backward, palms slick with blood.
Orin stepped over Beau’s body casually, like he was stepping over a log in the woods. The blade in his hand glinted red and wet.
“What did you do?” I choked out.
“What I had to do,” he said, crouching down so we were eye-level. “They got in the way. They tried to protect you.”
He smiled again. That same calm, patient smile I remembered from that night in the kitchen. The one that said he enjoyed this. That the blood on his hands meant nothing to him.
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
The whole bakery felt like it was tilting sideways. The walls were closing in, suffocating me with the stench of death and cinnamon and copper.
“This isn’t real,” I whispered.
Orin leaned closer, the knife resting against my cheek. “You sure?”
I screamed, but no sound came out.
Just the knife, pressing in, just enough to draw blood. Just enough to make sure I knew this wasn’t over.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he whispered. “Before I come for you and your new friends.”
Then he drove the blade into Beau’s chest again. I lunged forward, but the room shattered.
Everything around me split apart like glass. Blood, bodies, walls, floor, it all came crashing down into blackness.
I woke with a gasp, heart thundering, lungs dragging in air like I’d just surfaced from drowning.
Everything was dark. For a second, I couldn’t tell if I was still in the nightmare.
I didn’t know where I was, only that my chest hurt and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Then I felt the weight behind me. Solid. Steady.
Warm.
Beau.
I was curled up against him, his arm heavy and secure around my waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of my neck.
My body was tucked tight into his, the way it always did when we shared a bed, as if my subconscious knew, even in sleep, where safety lived.
Relief hit so hard, it knocked a choked breath out of me.
He’s alive.
I didn’t need to check the bakery floor to know it hadn’t happened. I didn’t need to feel the cold, slick blood or see the lifeless eyes of my friends.
