Page 42 of Chasing Stripes

Gloria chuckled, stirring a fragrant stew. “He’s been perfecting it since he was twelve. He once stood like that for three hours when a rabbit got too close to his cousin’s birthday cake.”

Artemis laughed, feeling the last of her tension dissolve. “I can picture that perfectly.”

“He takes everything so seriously,” Mimi sighed. “Always has. When our parents were grooming him to take over as alpha, the other kids would be playing, and there was Bartek, studying pride history or practicing formal challenges.”

“Someone had to” came Bartek’s voice from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed in an unconscious echo of Mimi’s imitation. “Uncle Ellis wasn’t going to teach you proper hunting techniques.”

“Because I was seven and more interested in tea parties than stalking prey,” Mimi retorted.

“Are they torturing you with stories already?” Bartek asked, moving instinctively to Artemis’s side.

“Absolutely,” she confirmed with a grin. “I’m learning so much.”

“Wonderful.” His tone was dry, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. He reached past her for a slice of carrot, his arm brushing hers. The brief contact sent a shower of sparks cascading from her fingertips, illuminating the salad bowl.

“Oops,” Artemis murmured, quickly extinguishing the magic.

“Pretty,” Gloria remarked, eyes twinkling. “Bartek, be a dear and get the good wine from the cellar. The one we’ve been saving.”

“For what occasion, exactly?” Bartek asked suspiciously.

“For meeting your match, of course,” Gloria replied innocently. “Now shoo. We’re having girl talk.”

Bartek rolled his eyes but complied, pausing only to brush his fingers against Artemis’s elbow in a touch so brief she might have imagined it, had the handprints not flared in response.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Gloria leaned in conspiratorially. “Now, tell us everything about yourself that my spy network hasn’t already uncovered.”

THIRTY-SIX

Artemis found herself sharing stories about her childhood in Enchanted Falls, her years in the city, and her decision to return home to help Aunt Tilly with the bakery. Gloria and Mimi listened attentively, asking questions and sharing their own anecdotes, creating an atmosphere of genuine camaraderie.

By the time they carried dishes to the dining room, Artemis felt as though she’d known them for years rather than hours.

The massive oak table had been set with obvious care—fine china, polished silver, crystal glasses that caught the light from overhead. Gloria had “accidentally” arranged seating that placed Artemis next to Bartek, their chairs noticeably closer together than the others.

A stocky, elderly man was already seated at one end, his posture ramrod straight, white hair swept back from a stern face. He studied Artemis with undisguised curiosity as she entered.

“Uncle Darius,” Bartek greeted him, a note of wariness in his voice. “This is Artemis Blu.”

“The fae baker,” Darius said, his tone neutral but his expression calculating. “Interesting choice for festival collaboration.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Bartek’s posture changed instantly—shoulders squaring, stance widening as he positioned himself slightly in front of Artemis. When he spoke, his voice carried a deeper timbre, eyes flashing amber.

“Artemis is not just any baker,” he corrected with steel in his tone. “She’s an essential partner for the festival... and perhaps beyond.”

The possessive declaration sent a thrill through Artemis. When his hand found the small of her back again, the handprints beneath her dress glowed so brightly they were visible through the fabric.

Darius’s eyes narrowed at the display, but before he could respond, the front door opened and Haavi strode in, looking harried but cheerful.

“Sorry I’m late,” he called, shrugging out of his jacket. “Supplier delivered wolf-friendly beer instead of the all-species blend. Nearly had a revolt on our hands.” He spotted Artemis and grinned. “Ah, the famous baker! Your cinnamon rolls saved my morning meeting.”

The tension broke as Gloria ushered everyone to their seats and Hudson began carving a succulent roast. Conversation flowed around mundane topics—the upcoming festival, pride business, the twins’ latest schoolyard adventures.

Throughout the meal, Bartek’s behavior shifted—the reserved, professional demeanor melting away in his family environment. He served Artemis the choicest portions, refilled her glass before she asked, and found increasingly transparent excuses to touch her—adjusting her napkin, brushing away imaginary crumbs, his fingers lingering each time.

Under the table, their knees touched. The contact sent a surge of magic through Artemis, causing the silverware to momentarily lift and dance above the plates.

“Whoops,” she whispered, blushing as she regained control.

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