Page 17 of The Baker’s Shadow

“So how exactly are you going to protect me when you’re running on empty?”

I take a step closer. Close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, can smell the vanilla and burnt sugar mixing with fear and anger and something else. Something that makes the bond flare hot in my chest.

The hunger claws at my insides again. Demanding. Insistent. My body wants to close the distance, wants to taste her skin, wants to feed on whatever mix of fear and arousal is pouring off her in waves.

I lock my muscles. Don’t move. Don’t touch.

Because underneath the hunger is something worse. Something that terrifies me more than the void ever has.

The need to protect her. To keep her safe. To shield the fragile thing growing inside her even if it costs me everything.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say.

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s all I have.”

We stand there in the dying light, the alley stinking of ozone and fear and spilled yarrow root. My glamour is gone. She can see me fully now. The horns. The obsidian skin. The claws that could tear her apart without effort.

She should be running.

Instead, she’s glaring at me like I’m a particularly stubborn stain on her kitchen counter.

“Fine,” she says. “You want to protect me? Then we do this my way.”

“Your way?”

“You need to recharge. I need protection from Preston and whoever else comes crawling out of the woodwork now that I’m apparently carrying god-magic.” She crosses her arms. “So you stay close. But we need a cover story. Something that explains why you’re suddenly living in my house and why I’m pregnant.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You’re my cousin,” she says. “From out of town. Came to help with the bakery after my husband died. We’ll say the baby is his. A last gift before the cancer took him.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. But it’s practical. Smart. The kind of cover story that will keep the humans from asking too many questions.

“And if someone recognizes what I am?” I ask.

“Then we deal with it.” She bends down, starts gathering the spilled yarrow root. “But for now, we play it human. You keep me alive. I keep you fed. And maybe, just maybe, we figure out what the hell this thing inside me actually is before it decides to make an appearance.”

She straightens. Holds out the torn bag of yarrow root like an offering.

“Deal?” she asks.

I should say no. Should walk away before this gets worse. Before the bond digs any deeper, before I lose what little autonomy I have left.

But the thing inside her beats like thunder, and every instinct I have is screaming mine, and I’m already reaching for the bag before I can stop myself.

“Deal,” I say.

Our fingers brush. The contact sends sparks racing up my arm, hot and sharp and undeniable. The hunger surges, demanding more, demanding I grab her wrist and pull her close and taste the fear-sweat on her skin.

I pull back instead. Clench my fist around the bag.

She feels it too. I watch her pupils blow wide, watch her breath catch, watch the way her body sways toward me before she catches herself.

Then she steps back. Clutches her arms around herself like armor.

“Come on,” she says. “We should get back before someone else decides to cause trouble.”