I watched him go, then returned to Sean’s side. He gave me a questioning look. I didn’t say anything, just took his hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back.
The crowd roared as the timer started. The competition had begun.
But I wasn’t thinking about dough, or flavor pairings, or presentation.
My focus was split, fractured between the task at hand and the darker undercurrent I felt thrumming just beneath the surface of this day.
It was the noise that masked the danger. The festival that made everyone lower their guard.
Except me. My eyes flicked to every movement in the crowd. Every tall man. Every shift of shadow. Every flash of something metallic.
Behind me, my grizzly stirred, restless and hungry.
Find him. End it.
If Orin showed his face today and if he laid a single hand on Sean, there wouldn’t be anywhere in this town he could hide.
Chapter 18
Sean
The crew worked togetherlike a dream.
If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be standing at a festival cooking station with a group of bear shifters, competing in a town-wide baking competition, I would’ve laughed.
But here I was, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting my forearms, and heart pounding, not from fear, for once, but excitement.
Leo was piping cream like a pro, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Cassian and Dorian worked in seamless sync, handing off ingredients and utensils without a word, like they could read each other’s minds.
Rafael manned the oven, his timing impeccable, barking out when something was five seconds from golden perfection.
I blinked. A memory flashed. My first day teaching the crew. Chaos. Leo had mistaken salt for sugar and nearly ruined the dough.
Cassian and Rafael argued over whose turn it was to sift flour, and Dorian had stood in the corner looking like he’d rather face a rabid cougar than touch a spatula.
And now…look at them.
I swallowed back the emotion pressing at my throat. I wanted to tell them how proud I was, how grateful, but not yet. We were still on the clock.
“All right,” I called out. “One down, two to go. Let’s keep that tempo up!”
The town square buzzed around us, a flurry of voices and music and the sizzle of cooking from the other stations. We had to prepare three pastries in the span of an hour.
One was in the bag. Our summer berry honey tart. Next up: maple pecan croissants, and our showstopper, our savory-sweet peach pie.”
We moved fast. Flour flew, ovens clicked, timers beeped. The announcer’s voice echoed in the background, barely audible through the haze of focus.
“Thirty minutes remaining!”
I glanced over at Beau. He was spreading the glaze over the croissants, methodical, but his jaw was tight.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You gonna burn a hole in that tray with your glare, or…?”
He startled slightly, then gave me a strained smile. “I’m good.”
I didn’t push. I understood. We both had the same fear gnawing at the back of our minds. That Orin might strike today, during all the noise and celebration.
