The bakery was my sanctuary.

It was the only place where the air didn't smell like fear and expensive wine. Here, it smelled of yeast, vanilla, and melting sugar. Here, I wasn't the disappointment of the Vale family; I was just the girl who made the best croissants in the city.

I wiped down the counter, humming a soft tune, trying to drown out the memory of last night’s dinner. The bruise on my heart from my mother’s betrayal was still fresh, throbbing every time I thought about going back to that house.

Cling-ling.

The bell above the door chimed, cutting through the quiet hum of the appliances.

"Be right with you!" I called out, turning around to grab a fresh tray of donuts.

When I turned back, the words died in my throat.

The bakery suddenly felt very, very small.

Standing on the other side of the counter was a man. No, man was too soft a word. He was a towering wall of muscle clad in a charcoal suit that fit him so perfectly it had to be custom-made. He was massive—easily six-foot-five—with broad shoulders that seemed to block out the sunlight streaming through the window.

But it was his face that made my breath hitch.

He was devastatingly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and hair the color of a sun's halo—a bright, striking blonde. But his eyes... they were the color of the deep sea. A clear, piercing blue that glowed with an intensity that made my knees weak.

He wasn't looking at the pastries. He was looking at me.

I swallowed hard, my hands trembling slightly as I wiped them on my apron. "H-hello. What can I get for you?"

He didn't answer immediately. He took a slow breath in, his nostrils flaring slightly. His eyes narrowed, shifting from indifference to something darker. Something predatory. Like he was viewing his prey.

"Coffee," he said. His voice was a deep rumble that vibrated in my chest. It was thick with a heavy, velvet accent. French. "Black. No sugar."

"Coming right up," I managed to squeak.

I turned to the coffee machine, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Who is he? He didn't look like he belonged in this quiet, run-down part of town. He looked like a model shaped by God himself, taking his time to ruin me.

I poured the coffee, my hands shaking so much I almost spilled it. I capped the cup and turned back.

He hadn't moved. His cerulean gaze was pinned on me, dissecting me, stripping away my layers.

"And..." He paused, his eyes drifting to the display case, then back to my neck. "Two pains au chocolat."

I grabbed the tongs and placed the pastries in a bag. I quickly punched the order into the register. The machine spit out a slip of paper.

"Anything else, sir?"

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the counter. His fingers were long, elegant, but scarred. "You are the baker?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"You are... human?"

The question was strange. Said with a trace of disdain.

"Yes?" I answered, confused. "Aren't we all?"

A dark, humorless smile curled his lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a wolf gives a lamb before tearing out its throat.

"Of course," he murmured, though he sounded like he didn't believe it. "What is your name, petite?"

"Seraphina," I said, the name slipping out before I could stop it.

He froze.

For a second, the air in the shop grew heavy, electric. The hair on my arms stood up. He stared at me, his pupils dilating until the blue was nearly swallowed by black. He looked furious. He looked hungry.

He looked like he wanted to jump over the counter and strangle me—or kiss me. Wow, where did that come from?

"Seraphina," he tested the word, his accent wrapping around the syllables like smoke. "Burning ones. How... ironic."

He grabbed the receipt I had printed. For a moment, I thought he was going to crumble it. Instead, he pulled a silver pen from his jacket, scribbled something on the back of the paper in a violent scrawl, and left it on the counter.

Then, he tossed a hundred-dollar bill next to it.

"Keep the change," he clipped out.

Before I could breathe, he grabbed his coffee and the bag, spun on his heel, and stormed out of the shop.

I watched through the window as he slid into the back of a sleek, black limousine that was idling at the curb. A driver in a suit shut the door, and the car peeled away, disappearing into traffic.

I looked down at the counter. The hundred-dollar bill... and the receipt with the scribbled numbers on the back.

I let out a breath I had been holding for two minutes, bracing my hands on the counter to keep from collapsing. My heart was racing so fast I felt dizzy.

I should have been terrified. He was rude, intense, and looked dangerous.

But as the lingering scent of him—rainfall, pine, and something uniquely masculine—faded from the air, I realized something else.

I wasn't just scared.

I was exhilarated.