Page 12 of Chasing Stripes

Almost against his will, Bartek approached the front windows, his gaze drawn inevitably across the street. Honeycrisp Bakery stood in stark contrast to his sleek establishment—quaint and somewhat weathered with faded teal paint and a sign that hung slightly askew. The display windows needed cleaning, and one front step sagged noticeably.

Still, even from here, he could detect the faint magical energy surrounding the place. Enchantments clung to the building’s bones, a testament to years of fae magic worked within its walls. Welcoming spells, protection wards, minor happiness charms—an intricate tapestry of benevolent magic that spoke of care and tradition.

And her scent lingered, a ghost presence that continued to tug at his senses. Cinnamon and vanilla, yes, but underlying those conventional notes lay something wild and green, something that called to his tiger with irresistible potency.

His inner beast, relatively calm since his retreat to the office, stirred anew. Images flashed through his mind unbidden—golden hair sliding through his fingers, soft skin beneath his palms, hazel eyes darkening with desire as he claimed what his tiger already consideredhis.

The vivid fantasy shocked him with its intensity. Bartek stepped back from the window, his heart hammering against his ribs. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought to suppress the primal urges surging through his blood.

This had to stop. Whatever this pull toward the baker might be—simple attraction or something deeper—he refused to let it interfere with his priorities. He’d built his reputation on unshakable control, on putting the pride’s needs above his own desires.

One glimpse of a fae across the street wouldn’t change that.

As evening approached, Bartek stepped outside, locking Tooth & Claw’s front door behind him. The street lay bathed in soft orange light, transforming the ordinary scene into something from a painting. Despite his best intentions, his eyes drifted once more to Honeycrisp Bakery.

Through the bakery window, he caught a fleeting glimpse of movement—a flash of golden hair, the silhouette of a slender figure moving with unconscious grace. His tiger surged forward so suddenly that Bartek had to brace himself against his car, knuckles whitening as he gripped the door handle.

A low, rumbling sound emerged from his chest—part growl, part something suspiciously like a whimper. The dichotomy perfectly encapsulated his conflicted state: his alpha pride demanding control while his tiger yearned to claim what it considered its mate.

With monumental effort, Bartek tore his gaze away and slid into his car. Tomorrow would bring new challenges: the bar’s opening, supply deliveries, staff orientation. He needed to focus on those practicalities, not on golden hair and intoxicating scents.

The pride came first. It always had.

But as he drove away into the gathering twilight, even his iron will couldn’t fully silence the tiger’s insistent whisper that had awakened in his blood:

Mine. Soon.

ELEVEN

Dawn painted Enchanted Falls in watercolor hues as Artemis descended the stairs of Honeycrisp Bakery. Morning mist clung to the ancient trees surrounding the town, their silhouettes dark against the brightening sky. A chorus of birdsong greeted her as she raised the blinds over the front window.

The worn floorboards creaked beneath her feet, greeting her like an old friend. Three days into her return, this space already contained more warmth than her sleek, modern city bakery ever had. There, everything had been stainless steel and efficiency. Here, the sturdy oak cabinets and marble countertops bore the marks of decades of magical baking—tiny scorch marks from enchantment mishaps, faint sparkles embedded in the grout, and the almost imperceptible hum of residual magic.

Artemis tied her golden hair into a messy bun and reached for her favorite apron—pale blue with tiny embroidered honeybees dancing along the hem. Her fingers traced the delicate stitching, remembering how Tilly had presented it to her on her sixteenth birthday, right before Artemis had attempted her first solo magical recipe.

“Time for take two,” she murmured to the empty kitchen. “Let’s see if we can make some magic happen.”

She opened the recipe journal that had belonged to her mother, running her fingers reverently over the pages. The handwriting flowed across the yellowed paper in elegant loops—notes about magical infusions carefully documented alongside more conventional baking instructions. In the margins, little sketches of herbs and symbols provided additional guidance.

Inspiration had struck Artemis in the middle of the night—a new take on her mother’s signature cinnamon-spice muffins, enhanced with fae magic to bring joy to whoever ate them. Not emotional manipulation, exactly. More like... a nudge toward happiness, something to help the townsfolk start their day on a positive note.

Artemis hummed softly as she gathered her ingredients, lining them up with professional precision: organic flour from a local mill, cinnamon imported from a special grove tended by spice nymphs, rich brown sugar infused with honey from hives kept by bear shifters in the mountains. Each ingredient contained its own subtle magic waiting to be awakened and combined.

Her secret weapon sat in a tiny crystal vial: shimmering fae pollen she’d collected from the forest yesterday at dawn. The iridescent dust caught the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, throwing rainbow reflections across the wall. Unlike the city-grown pollen she’d used in her urban bakery, this wild variety pulsed with vibrant energy—pure, untamed, and far more potent.

Artemis uncorked the vial, hesitating briefly as the pollen seemed to reach toward her, eager to be used. “Whoa, there,” she whispered. “You’re a lively batch, aren’t you?”

The pollen sparkled in response as if laughing.

“A pinch for well-being,” she recited her mother’s teaching while measuring dry ingredients into a large ceramic bowl. “A sprinkle for joy, but never too much of either.”

The memory of her mother standing in this very kitchen, golden hair dusted with flour and eyes twinkling with mischief, surfaced with unexpected clarity. Her voice seemed to echo in the quiet morning:“Magic responds to intention, Artemis. Be clear about what you want your baking to accomplish.”

Artemis closed her eyes briefly, centering herself.Joy, she thought.Comfort. A moment of delight in an ordinary day.

She tipped the vial with careful precision, aiming for half her usual amount. The iridescent dust floated down, mingling with the flour mixture. As it made contact, tiny sparks danced across the surface—azure, violet, and emerald pinpricks of light that fizzled and popped like miniature fireworks.

“Perfect,” Artemis smiled, satisfaction warming her chest.

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