Page 25 of Chasing Stripes (Enchanted Falls #3)

TWENTY-FIVE

D awn painted Enchanted Falls in hues of amber and gold as Bartek arranged bottles behind the bar at Tooth & Claw. The methodical task should have soothed his restless mind, but today the familiar ritual provided no comfort. His gaze drifted toward the windows facing Honeycrisp Bakery for the fourth time in as many minutes.

The bakery remained dark, its “Closed” sign hanging crookedly in the window. No movement yet.

Bartek set down a bottle of aged whiskey and checked his watch. 6:27 AM. Still too early for her to arrive.

He flexed his fingers, scowling at the faint golden shimmer that traced his palms like an accusation. The mark had appeared the moment he’d touched Artemis Blu—catching her as she stumbled in a cloud of magical flour. Now the prints pulsed with gentle light whenever she entered his thoughts, which occurred with infuriating frequency.

A memory flickered unbidden: the softness of her waist beneath his hands, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon rising from her skin, the startled widening of those hazel eyes that shifted between earthy brown and vibrant green.

His claws slid free, leaving shallow grooves in the polished mahogany bar top.

“Sloppy,” he muttered, sheathing the betraying appendages. He grabbed a cloth to buff out the marks—the third set since opening.

His gaze swept the room, noting with dismay that overnight he’d rearranged the tables—again. The central seating area now provided perfect sightlines to the bakery entrance. Even the potted ferns flanking the windows had migrated to maximize his view of Honeycrisp’s doorway.

Movement across the street caught his eye.

Artemis walked up to the front window of her shop and raised the blind, golden hair catching morning light like fire dancing on honey. Today she wore a pale blue sweater that complemented the delicate points of her ears, her hair piled in an artful mess atop her head. She moved with unconscious grace.

The tumbler in Bartek’s grip shattered.

Glass shards scattered across the counter as he stared at his traitorous fingers. Heat rushed through his chest—his tiger side rumbling with satisfaction at merely glimpsing her through a window. A dangerous reaction for an alpha who couldn’t afford distractions.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had developed a drinking problem.”

Bartek stiffened at the voice behind him. He hadn’t heard the door open—a testament to how thoroughly the fae baker had compromised his usually razor-sharp senses.

Haavi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His dark hair stood at odd angles as if he’d rolled directly out of bed and into his clothes.

“We’re closed,” Bartek growled, brushing glass into a trash bin.

“Family privilege.” Haavi pushed away from the door and sauntered into the bar, setting a white paper bag on the counter with exaggerated care. The Honeycrisp Bakery logo—a stylized apple ringed with tiny magical sparks—adorned the side.

The scent hit Bartek instantly: cinnamon rolls infused with strawberry and a hint of fae magic. His nostrils flared, the tiger inside him surging closer to the surface. Bottles on the back shelves rattled ominously.

“Fascinating reaction,” a smooth voice observed.

Rust Leonid glided into the bar, the morning light catching in his golden-blond hair. Every movement bespoke leonine grace, from the measured steps to the subtle roll of his powerful shoulders. As mayor of Enchanted Falls, he carried authority with effortless confidence.

“The breakfast pastries that powerful?” rumbled a third voice. Artair Maxen ducked through the doorway, his bear-shifter bulk making the standard entrance seem almost comically small. Despite his imposing size, he moved with surprising gentleness, easing onto a barstool that creaked in protest beneath him.

Bartek ignored them all, focusing on disposing of the broken glass with meticulous precision.

“Interesting timing with your tallying of inventory,” Rust observed, sliding onto a stool beside Artair. He tapped long fingers against the polished wood, the gesture almost musical in its rhythm. “Third consecutive dawn shift since a certain bakery reopened. Remarkable coincidence.”

“This bar won’t run itself,” Bartek replied, keeping his voice neutral.