Page 74 of That Defining Moment

Cassian’s hand flew to the plate. “That’s mine.”

“Consider it a tax for emotional labour,” Lysander said, chewing.

Cassian snatched the bun off the plate and stuffed the entire rest of it into his mouth in one go. His cheeks puffed out like a hamster hoarding for winter, and a curl of cinnamon dough escaped the corner of his lips before he sucked it back in. He chewed with his mouth closed, because Lysander had taught him that, maintaining furious eye contact throughout.

Lysander laughed. He drained the last of his coffee and pushed his chair back from the table. “Right, come on. Let’s head home.” He fished in his pocket for the fold of notes and handed them once more to Cassian. “We’ll pick up some bits for the others. And yes, before you ask, you can get one more thing.”

Cassian was already on his feet and hurtling back towards the counter and the display of pastries. He pressed himself against the glass and stared, eyes going straight to the pastéis de nata.

“These are beautiful,” Cassian breathed.

The alpha baker glanced over at him. His expression didn’t shift. “Thanks. It’s a new batch. Want one?”

“I want twenty.” Cassian peeled notes from his bundle and slid the fifty-pound note across the counter.

“We’ll have ten,” Lysander said, appearing at his shoulder.

“Ten?” Cassian rounded on him. “That’s two each, Sander. Two. For five people.”

“We both know you’re going to bat your eyes at Hamish until he surrenders his, and Diwa will offer you one before you’ve even finished the first. That’s four for you, Cass.”

Cassian considered this. The maths checked out, which was annoying: Lysander was right, and four was still not enough pastéis de nata for a person who had only recently discovered they existed and felt strongly that the universe owed him compensation for the twenty-two years he’d spent without them.

He turned back to the alpha, who stood watching them.

“What’s your name?” Cassian asked, tilting his head up to meet the alpha’s gaze. He made his eyes go wide and liquid.

“Ruari.”

“Ruari.” Cassian let the name sit in his mouth for a moment. “We’ll have fourteen.”

Ruari reached for the display case without comment. Cassian caught the quick glance he threw towards Lysander, who had produced such a spectacular eye-roll that his entire head had tipped backwards with the force of it.

Ruari’s hands were enormous. Each pastry disappeared into his grip as he transferred them from the display tray into a cardboard box, his fingers deft despite him having knuckles the diameter of walnuts. Fourteen pastéis de nata, nestled into their box in two neat rows, the custard tops blistered dark gold. Then he reached back in, lifted a fifteenth, and held it out to Cassian on a square of waxed paper.

“On the house,” he said.

Cassian took it. The pastry was warm in his palm, the custard still soft. “Thank you, Ruari,” Cassian said, immediately stuffing it into his mouth.

“And six plain croissants,” Lysander added, leaning past Cassian to scan the rest of the display. “Two pain au chocolat.”

Ruari pulled a second box from beneath the counter and began filling it.

Cassian gathered both boxes against his chest, stacking the pastéis de nata on top of the croissants and clamping the whole arrangement in place with his chin. The cardboard was warm against his collarbone.

“Thank you, Ruari!” he called over his shoulder as Lysander steered him towards the door with a hand between his shoulder blades.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped onto the pavement. Portobello Road was filling up now, the early stalls trading, and the morning light hit the wet cobblestones at an angle that turned them silver.

Cassian hugged the boxes tighter and matched Lysander’s stride, already calculating which of the fourteen he would eat first.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The day of his meeting with Dane, his father sat at the head of the dining table with his dressing gown pulled tight across his chest. He hadn’t spoken a word to Lysander since the night before when dinner had gone disastrously wrong.

Lysander sat at the opposite end, six feet of polished walnut between them, and matched his father’s stony silence. His notebook was in his back pocket. He was going to see Dane today, and nothing Colin had said last night (the twenty-minute lecture about Dane’s manipulative tendencies, or his pointed reminder that Lysander was right now getting therapy to unpick the damage the alpha had caused) was going to change that.

Diwa moved between them anxiously.