Page 10

CHAPTER 9

MAGGIE

T he sabotage has gone quiet.

No midnight tampering with the ovens. No swapped invoices or phantom deliveries. No broken shipments. No taunting messages buried in bags of sugar. No unexpected disappearances of staff or unsettling confrontations in the alley. It’s like someone has pulled the plug on the chaos. Just silence, and that calm should bring relief, but it doesn't. Instead, it crawls under my skin.

Silence, I’m learning, can be its own kind of threat—insidious in its quiet, stretching long and thin like a wire drawn taut, ready to snap. It doesn’t shout or slam. It doesn’t rattle doors or break glass. It just lingers. Waiting. And the longer it stays, the more it feels like a promise of something worse to come.

It feels like a breath held too long—an unnatural stillness that makes me wonder if the storm has truly passed or if it’s simply crouched, coiled like a snake in tall grass, waiting for me to relax my grip. Every day without an incident doesn’t soothe me; it sharpens my nerves. Deliveries that arrive on time feel too neat, too rehearsed. Every signature matches too perfectly. Each night I scroll through hours of clean security footage, my eyes flicking across the screen, desperate to catch even the slightest twitch in the shadows. The quiet isn’t a comfort. It’s a countdown.

Because silence like this doesn’t mean safety. It means planning, recalibrating, circling the target with a predator’s patience. It means someone out there is watching, waiting, and I hate not knowing what comes next—hate the way it forces me to live with my fists clenched and my breath held, dreading the next blow I can’t see coming.

I try to keep things normal. Try to pretend I’m not falling apart—one glance, one breath, one brush of his arm at a time. Every time Gideon enters the room, my pulse gives a traitorous kick, like my body recognizes something I refuse to recognize, much less name. His eyes follow me—not possessive, not invasive, just always... aware. And it unravels me. My chest tightens when I feel the weight of his gaze, my skin humming with awareness long after he looks away.

He shadows vendors, handles deliveries, and fixes things I didn’t even know were broken. He’s reorganized the damn dry goods shelf again, and instead of being annoyed, I’m almost grateful. Almost. Because he’s helpful. Steady. Unshakable. And I hate how much I’m starting to rely on that.

And I’m coming undone—quietly, messily, from the inside out. It isn’t a scream or a sob or a meltdown I can point to. It’s smaller than that. The way my hands tremble just slightly when I grip a measuring spoon. The way I double-check the locks on my bedroom windows before getting into bed. The way I catch myself searching for Gideon’s presence before I take a full breath. Every moment feels like a thread pulled loose, another layer of my calm coming undone, and I’m running out of stitches to hold it all together.

I find myself staring at the broad stretch of his back as he hauls sacks of flour, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt in a way that makes my mouth go dry. The low rumble of his voice across the kitchen sends shivers down my spine, making me drop my train of thought like a cracked egg. Everything about him—his presence, his control, his damn quiet confidence—grates at me in the worst and most irresistible ways.

He moves with a lethal kind of grace, powerful and contained, and it makes my skin buzz, my nipples tighten, and my thighs clench when I catch myself imagining those hands—so sure and strong—on my body instead of the countertops. It’s maddening. Erotic. Infuriating. And getting harder to ignore by the hour.

So when he corners a delivery driver just before closing—one I’ve already flagged as suspicious—and looms in that quiet, dangerous way of his, his voice low and coiled with warning, I react on instinct. The surrounding air has gone charged, the way it always does before a storm, and I don’t need a forecast to know trouble is about to break loose.

“Gideon,” I snap, storming outside after him. "Back off. Not everyone is a suspect."

“They are in my book... at least until evidence proves otherwise.”

The driver mutters something and scurries off, avoiding Gideon's eyes like a man who’s just realized he’s prey and not a predator. Gideon doesn’t even flinch. He stands there, calm as ever, like the whole encounter hasn’t raised his pulse a single beat—like he hasn’t just exhaled restraint in the shape of a warning.

I grab his arm, fingers digging in harder than I mean to. "You don’t get to charge into every delivery like you're the last line of defense. This isn’t a war zone—it’s my business. You could’ve gotten into a fight. Or worse, escalated things in a way I can't control." My voice wavers at the end, frustration tangling with something sharper, something too close to fear.

His gaze drops to my hand on his arm. "You worried about me, cupcake?"

"Don't call me cupcake."

Gideon grins. "Why? It seems appropriate."

I glare. “You can't intimidate every delivery person who comes here. I will lose my suppliers.”

"One of those suppliers put glass in your sugar... maybe you need new suppliers."

"One bag of sugar, and we don't even know that the supplier knew anything about it. It could be one rogue employee."

"Maybe, but maybe not."

“Gideon, I’m serious. I need you to back off.”

His expression turns serious and his jaw ticks. "So am I."

That tension doesn’t break. It follows us all the way home, settling around us like the charged air before a lightning strike. Even as we walk side by side from the bakery to the loft, the space between us vibrates with things unsaid—anger not fully burned off, fear still flickering under the surface, attraction pulled so tight it hums. Every brush of our arms, every sideways glance, only stokes the pressure building between us, until I’m sure if one of us so much as exhales wrong, the whole thing will ignite.

* * *

Later that night, we make a pizza from scratch. I put together the basic ingredients in a bowl. Our hands brush more often than not, the tension between us simmering beneath every touch. The flour dusts my forearms and streaks across the front of his shirt, but neither of us seems to care.

Gideon opens the fridge, finds the bottle of chianti he picked up with quiet intention that afternoon—like some part of him had known we’d need it. He twists the cap and pours the wine slowly, watching the deep red swirl in the glass like something rich and waiting. He hands one to me, our fingers brushing as I take it, the contact light but loaded. Then he lifts his own glass, clinks it softly against mine, and takes a slow sip—eyes never leaving mine.

When I roll up my sleeves and begin to work the flour into the mixture with practiced precision, Gideon moves behind me. His arms reach around me, his hands covering mine as if adding his strength and skill to my own. I can’t ignore the way his warm hands move in perfect synchronicity with mine, steady and capable. When his fingers linger on my wrists as we begin to roll out the dough, it feels electric—harmless and intimate and anything but accidental.

I can feel the strength in his fingers as he works the dough beside me, his knuckles brushing mine, the heat radiating off him in waves. When I lean forward to stretch the dough, his body moves with mine so close that the warmth of it wraps around me like a blanket.

My breath catches when his hand slides beside mine on the counter, steadying the dough, but it feels like he’s steadying me too. Every press of palm to flour, every indistinct murmur about texture or heat, layers with something unspoken—something thick with wanting. And when I glance over my shoulder, our eyes meet and I’m not sure if it’s dough or desire I’m shaping in my hands.

We bicker lightly over toppings, and I laugh when he claims anchovies are a sin, while passionately defending pineapple as the only acceptable 'controversial' topping. I counter that pineapple is only acceptable on pizza if paired with Canadian bacon, and even then, it depends on my mood. He looks personally offended, joking that I’ve just confessed to culinary heresy. The banter sparks heat that has nothing to do with the oven. When I finally stretch the dough and slide the pizza into the oven, I’m breathless—and not just from the heat of the kitchen.

Later, we eat cross-legged on the floor of my loft, our knees bumping now and then, the pizza pan balanced between us on a dish towel. The scent of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and charred crust hangs thick in the warm air, wrapping around us like a memory.

We’re too tired to pretend the day hasn’t frayed us both—too wrung out to keep up our usual snark or sarcasm. Half-empty wine glasses stand like forgotten sentinels on the coffee table, and flour streaks through my hair in places I’ve stopped trying to fix.

The silence has changed. It’s thick with the weight of a hundred unsaid things, but no longer sharp-edged or brittle. It has mellowed into something softer, slower. It’s intimate now, like a shared breath in the dark or fingers brushing beneath a table. Not tense, but charged. Comfortable in a way that makes my chest ache—heavy, not with pressure, but with possibility. It wraps around us like warmth from the oven, a quiet understanding that neither of us needs to name to feel.

Once we’ve finished eating, Gideon stands to clear the plates, and I follow him into the kitchen, drawn by more than just the need to tidy up. I watch the way his muscles flex under his shirt with every movement—slow, precise, effortless. He rinses a dish and sets it aside, the veins in his forearms catching the low light as he reaches for the next one. Something about the domesticity of it—his big body moving so calmly in my space, his strength turned toward something so ordinary—makes my stomach twist. He turns, about to speak—probably something safe, probably polite, the kind of words meant to put distance back between us. But I’m not in the mood for safe anymore.

"Thank you," I say, my voice softer than I mean, but completely honest. No deflection. No shield. Just truth, raw and quiet, and finally said out loud.

He stills.

"For everything," I add. "For not letting me drown."

His throat works. "You’re not a woman who drowns easy."

"Doesn’t mean I don’t get tired."

A pull I’ve stopped resisting draws me forward into his space before I can talk myself out of it. He starts to retreat, but I reach out, halting him with my touch. My hand slides along the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, my fingertips brushing over the fine dusting of hair and the corded strength beneath his skin. I pause at his bicep, feeling the flex beneath my palm. Warm. Solid. Real. My thumb traces a slow arc along the curve of muscle, and when his breath catches just slightly, it makes mine do the same.

His eyes darken. "Don’t push me, cupcake."

"Or what?" I challenge with a small smile, liking the way he seems just the tiniest bit off kilter.

He growls—not a sound of anger, but something deeper, rawer, a sound pulled from the depths of restraint giving way. It vibrates against my skin, rolls through my chest like a warning and a promise all at once. Then he kisses me—fierce and consuming, like the only way to silence everything between us is with the press of his mouth against mine.

It isn’t gentle.

His mouth takes mine with a force that steals my breath and scatters my thoughts, every movement demanding, every brush of tongue a tease and a claim. He kisses me like a man who’s waited too long and doesn’t trust time to give him another chance. My body responds instantly, hunger blooming low and hot, my hands flying to his shoulders, then sliding into his hair, dragging him closer like I can pour myself into the spaces between our mouths.

My pulse thunders as heat sparks under my skin, curling in places that have ached for this exact touch. I feel his weight, his strength, the hard press of his body lined up perfectly against mine, and it makes me dizzy with wanting. His taste—earth and heat and something uniquely him—fills my mouth, and my knees nearly buckle from the rush of it. There’s no hesitance, no soft exploration—just need and tension breaking all at once, raw and consuming... and it’s glorious.

His hands lock around my hips, dragging me against him like he’s been starving and I’m the first taste of salvation. The press of his body against mine sends a bolt of heat straight through me, my nipples pebbling instantly under my shirt, the ache between my thighs sharpening with a needy pulse. My fingers fist in his shirt, yanking it up with a growl of frustration, craving the heat of his bare skin, the feel of his muscles beneath my hands. The kiss deepens, all tongue and heat, a messy tangle of lips and teeth and breath as he walks me backward with quiet dominance. My back hits the edge of the kitchen counter with a thud, but I barely notice—too focused on the delicious friction where our bodies meet, the way my body melts and clenches under his touch, every nerve ending blazing awake. I feel wild and grounded all at once—like I’m burning alive and don’t want the fire to stop.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my mouth.

"Don’t you dare. I’m clean and on birth control."

His wolfish grin is all I need. We never reach the bedroom; the frenzy of our desire leaves shirts strewn carelessly aside and jeans yanked down in a frantic pulse of need. With a gasp that tears free from my very soul, my head flings back as his mouth discovers the delicate, trembling curve of my breast—a searing heat both commanding and achingly tender. His tongue dances in deliberate, relentless circles around my nipple until my knees buckle, teetering on the edge of surrender. His hands, grounded on my hips, do more than steady me—they claim me as if I’m the sole anchor in a tempest of want. Every subtle scrape of his teeth and fervent suction of his mouth sends blazing currents surging through my veins.

My fingers, tangled in his hair, drive me to arch into him, every nerve ignited by a long-dormant, primal hunger. When he plunges into my depths, I moan his name with raw intensity against the soft expanse of his neck, my breath ragged as if each throbbing beat of need compels me to reach ever farther for him—thick, primal, and wholly alive. Each slow, grinding thrust erodes my resistance, dissolving the fragile line where I end and he begins, until our bodies merge into a fervent tapestry of raw, unyielding passion.

It’s wild; it’s desperate—my legs coiling tightly around his waist, anchoring him as though our entwined bodies are vines caught in an inferno of shared rhythm. His whispered adoration cascades over me like cryptic incantations in a hallowed, fevered sanctuary, while my responses become a symphony of gasps, moans, and fervent invocations—a litany of his name straddling the line between sacred prayer and untamed profanity.

He thrusts up into me, thick and hard, and my breath catches in my throat. The stretch is perfect—deep, delicious, almost overwhelming. I gasp, my hips rising to meet him, needing more, needing all of him. He growls low in my ear, trying to hold back, trying not to lose control. I can feel it in the way his muscles tremble, how tightly he grips my thighs.

But I don’t want restraint.

“Don’t hold back,” I whisper, dragging my nails down his back. “I can take it. I want it.”

His mouth crushes against mine as he pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, making me cry out. He fucks me harder this time—rough, hungry, like he’s starving for me—and it makes me moan, makes me wrap my legs around him tighter, pulling him in even deeper.

The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, along with the wet, obscene noises of him driving into me over and over again. My body welcomes it, slick and eager, clenching around him with every deep thrust. I arch into him, breasts pressed to his chest, my clit grinding against his pelvis with each movement. Every stroke hits that spot that makes me see stars. My moans turn breathless, then ragged.

Every motion unleashes surges of fiery bliss through me, sending my toes curling and my spine arching until every inch of my skin pulses with the incandescent essence of our union. I claw at his shoulders, a silent, desperate plea for more, as the sound of his ragged breath in my ear edges me closer to the precipice until, when I finally shatter, it is not merely pleasure I experience but a surrender so complete it dissolves into a mingling of relief and delirious ecstasy—a deep, soul-stirring connection that defies all my wildest imaginings.

He kisses me as if each press of his lips is a lifeline, an indispensable act in the very fight for existence, every fleeting brush against my mouth a vicious grasp at meaning. My hands roam his body with an almost desperate reverence, mapping each scar and contour like a sacred script written in the language of raw passion and yearning confession. And when I whisper his name once more, it is not just a sound but an invocation of need—a declaration of surrender to something profound that leaves his breath hitching and his rhythm faltering. In that sacred, fevered moment, his whispered reply resounds with every promise sealed in the mingling of skin, breath, and sweat—a vow as intimate as it is ferocious.

His kisses continue throughout it—his mouth never stops moving—rough, desperate, and I kiss him back just as fiercely. I can feel the edge coming, fast and hot, my whole body winding tighter.

Then he adjusts his angle, grabs my hips and slams into me even harder, deeper. I shatter. My orgasm rips through me, sharp and blinding, and I scream his name as my body locks around his cock, milking him. That’s all it takes. He curses against my neck, grips me so tight it almost hurts, and comes deep inside me, thick spurts filling me, his body jerking with every pulse.

He collapses on top of me, still inside, both of us shaking, breathless, slick with sweat. My arms wrap around him, holding him close, not ready to let go. Not ready to come down from what we’ve just claimed.

Afterward, he lifts me into his arms with reverence, my body still trembling against his. His touch remains gentle but possessive, like he’s not ready to let me go—not even for a second. As he carries me through the loft, the air is thick with heat and the scent of us, my cheek pressed to the curve of his neck, my lips brushing the pulse that still thunders beneath his skin. He lays me down with a care that feels like devotion, not duty—his eyes lingering on my flushed face, swollen lips, and the dazed look that mirrors everything in him. No words pass between us. No words are necessary. The silence is full of everything we’ve said with our bodies.

I fall asleep curled against his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the weight of his arm draped protectively over my waist. His warmth cocoons me, anchoring me to something that feels impossibly real in a world that has gone sideways.

But when I wake, the room feels too quiet. The sheets are still warm beside me, a ghost of his body lingering in the indentation where he’s been. The space he occupied so completely now stretches wide and empty. My hand reaches out instinctively, but finds nothing. Just tangled linen and the fading scent of his skin on my pillow.

And Gideon is gone.