Chapter One

- Germaine

Rock music pounds in my ears, the bass vibrating through me like a second heartbeat. My hands are wrist-deep in dough, kneading, folding, punching. It's muscle memory at this point.

Music and bread-my two constants.

I throw my head back, pretending my rolling pin is a guitar. My hips sway, my arms strum invisible chords, and before I know it, a raw "YAHOO!" bursts from my chest.

Maria, my baker, gives me that look-the one halfway between you're ridiculous and I wouldn't want to work anywhere else.

She taps my shoulder because of course, I can't hear a thing with the music blaring. I pop one earbud out.

"Orders ready in ten?" she asks.

"Always." I wink and go back to kneading, music filling the space that silence tries to claim.

Most days are like this. Wake up at five, drag myself to the bakery, prep the pastries, open by six, serve caffeine and sugar to bleary-eyed commuters. Rinse, repeat.

But not today.

Today I'm buzzing so hard I could probably knead with my elbows. I got the call yesterday-loan approved. After nearly a year of begging, bargaining, praying, and crying, the bank finally said yes.

My bakery-Mom's legacy-gets to live.

The thought makes me laugh out loud, loud enough Maria snorts. Then my phone rings. Cordelia. Perfect timing.

"Hey, Cord," I answer, grinning so wide my face hurts. "Get over here. Now. You're not gonna believe it."

Minutes later she bursts through the door, wild blond curls everywhere, her grin matching mine.

"I got it!" I squeal before she even asks. "The loan. It's official."

She shrieks, we jump like idiots, Maria groans, and the world feels weightless for the first time in forever.

For a while, it's laughter and pastries, customers flowing in, and that sense that maybe-just maybe-I can breathe again.

By the time we close, I'm sweaty, covered in flour, and half-drunk on the cheap wine Cordelia smuggled in. Beyoncé's blasting, Maria's hair is sticking up like a hedgehog, and we're dancing on tabletops. It feels good. It feels safe.

Until midnight.

The word witching hour slips out of Maria's mouth like a curse, and then-click.

Darkness.

The hum of the freezer dies. The lights flicker once, twice, and vanish. My stomach knots.

Emergency lights blink on, casting everything in a pale, ghostly glow.

And that's when I see them.

Three men.

Standing in the corner like shadows cut loose.

I choke on my scream. Cordelia stiffens beside me. Maria backs away, muttering something under her breath.

They're. . .wrong.

Out of place.

Like they stepped out of a movie set where swords are real and wolves howl on command.

Tunics, furs, blades longer than my forearm. And eyes. Gods. Their eyes.

One steps forward, tall, broad, his presence filling the room. "We mean you no harm," he says, voice clipped, strange. "Let us pass, and none of you will be hurt."

My throat dries out. He sounds like someone swallowed a medieval script and spit it back up.

"This is my bakery," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't crack completely. "I don't know how the hell you got in here, but you need to leave. Now."

They don't move.

Instead, the one in the middle tilts his head, almost amused. His hair falls to his waist, black as ink. And then I hear it.

Not with my ears-with something deeper.

It's not yet time to leave. The girl has a role to play.

Ice floods my veins. Me. They're talking about me. I can bet my left tit they are.

"How-" My voice falters. "How do you know who I am?"

The second man steps forward, and that's when I notice-his eyes burn orange, flames dancing in them like they want to devour me whole.

"Oh God." My knees nearly give. "What are you?"

He bows. Bows.

"My lady," he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I am Storm. This is Keratin." The black-haired one inclines his head, sharp and stiff. "And this is Kenki." The dwarf bows so low I hear his spine pop.

I can't move. Can't think. All I can do is stare at the fire in Storm's eyes and wonder if the world I knew just cracked open like an egg.