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I let a dangerous man into my bakery.
I should’ve asked what he did for a living.
I run my bakery alone—ovens on at three, flour to my elbows, making my dead father’s dream of running a business come true. I don’t let anyone past the counter. Or my walls. Love, in my experience, comes with a leash.
Then he starts turning up before dawn. A perfect smile. Insatiable appetite for my bread. Hands that toss a fifty-pound sack like a pillow—and could pin me to the counter just as easy.
The way he looks at me. Like he’s starving, and I’m what’s for breakfast.
So I cave. I hand him an apron. I let him crowd my kitchen, brush past me in the dark, get under my skin—and every dawn the air goes hotter, thicker, harder to breathe.
Then I find out what he really is.
Not a baker’s hand. A made man—from the same outfit bleeding my street dry, putting bricks through my neighbors’ windows, squeezing everyone I love. And more. A Daddy.
I let a wolf into my kitchen.
And God help me, I want him to eat me.
He says I’m his now. Says he’ll burn this city to the ground before he lets a soul lay a hand on me.
Am I really falling for the devil who lied his way through my door—and straight into my bed?
