Page 30 of Chasing Stripes

“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.

TWENTY-SIX

Artair’s gaze traveled around the room, taking in the subtle changes with quiet perception. “The claw marks have multiplied since yesterday.” He gestured toward various surfaces—the bar top, a table edge, even the frame of the window that faced the bakery. “Particularly those with direct sightlines to Honeycrisp’s windows.”

Before Bartek could respond, Haavi lunged across the bar, snagging his wrist with unexpected speed. He turned Bartek’s palm upward, examining the golden shimmer with the exaggerated scrutiny of a jeweler inspecting a rare gem.

“Would you look at that?” Haavi whistled, eyes dancing with mischief. “Matching marks that refuse to fade after what—thirty-six hours? And you haven’t even taken her to dinner.”

Bartek snatched his hand back, the low growl in his chest a clear warning. “It’s magical residue. Nothing more.”

“Magical residue that brightens when you look at her bakery?” Rust’s golden eyes gleamed with amusement. “How convenient.”

“Kalyna mentioned something similar,” he continued, examining his immaculate nails with feigned casualness. “Apparently Ms. Blu’s magic goes haywire at the mere mention of a certain tiger. Three mixing bowls spontaneously shattered yesterday when Tilly said your name.”

Bartek’s pulse quickened, though he kept his expression impassive. The idea that Artemis might be equally affected by their strange connection sent a surge of satisfaction through him.

“That’s nothing,” Artair added, his normally stoic demeanor softening with amusement. “Thora sensed the magical disturbance from three blocks away when you two first touched. She described it as ‘stars colliding in a closed room’—and sabertooth instincts are rarely wrong about such things.”

Bartek slammed the clipboard down harder than intended, cracking the plastic. “We touched. She’s fae. Unusual magical properties. End of story.”

His friends exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from teasing to something more earnest.

“Which explains why you’ve spent every night this week circling her bakery like a jungle cat marking territory,” Haavi drawled. “And why you interrogated the linen supplier about napkin colors that would ‘complement the bakery’s pastry aesthetic.’ And let’s not forget?—”

“Enough.” Bartek’s eyes flashed amber, voice dropping to a register that made the glasses behind the bar vibrate.

Rust leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished surface. “There’s nothing wrong with being interested, you know. Cross-species relationships happen all the time. Me and Kalyna.”

“Me and Thora,” Artair added.

“I’m not interested.” Bartek reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a measure despite the early hour. The amber liquid caught the morning light, reminding him of Artemis’s eyes when she laughed. “I have responsibilities. The pride comes first.”

His words hung in the air, triggering an unwelcome memory from fourteen years ago.

“The pride must always come first,” his father Hudson had told him the night before his alpha ceremony. They stood on the cliffside overlooking their mountain territory, the setting sun painting the valley in fiery hues.

“What if I’m not ready?” Bartek had asked, barely twenty-two and uncertain of his ability to lead.

Hudson’s hand on his shoulder had been steady, his eyes—so like Bartek’s own—filled with complete confidence. “You were born for this, son. Just remember that your strength belongs to them now. Every decision must serve the pride’s interests, not your own.”

The weight of that responsibility still pressed on his shoulders, heavier with each passing year.

“Bartek.”

Artair’s deep voice pulled him back to the present. The bear shifter regarded him with unusual directness.

“Having your own happiness doesn’t betray your pride,” he said quietly. “Trust me on this.”

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