Page 17 of Can't Bite This Feeling
Rapha orders aHearthspell Croissantfor me, and something dark and sticky for himself called aSin Bun.
I bite into the golden, flaky croissant, which is still warm, and the moment it touches my tongue, time seems toslow. The bakery fades, the chatter softens. Flavors bloom in my mouth—butter and vanilla and some nameless warmth that tastes like a forgotten childhood dream.
Tears sting my eyes.
It’s not just food. It’s memory. Safety.Joy.
Gods, it’s been so long since I had anything this simple… or this perfect.
“You’re crying,” Rapha says, concerned.
I laugh through the tears. “It’s just…so good.”
He brushes my cheek with one knuckle, looking relieved. “Then have as many as you want.”
We take our pastries outside, sitting on a low stone wall in the sunlight that feels somehow less bright, less punishing than the sun I remember.
While we’re finishing up, two women approach. The first is tall and lean, her arms covered in tattoos that shimmer and shift under her skin, enchanted and alive. She wears ripped jeans and a tank top, hair tied up in a messy bun with beads woven into the strands.
“New faces!” she calls, bright and bold. “I’m Wren, of Ink and Intent.” She offers her hand. I hesitate before taking it. Her grip is strong but warm.
Next to her stands a softer figure, round and serene, with gentle hazel eyes and a cascade of curly hair that looks like spun honey. A faint herbal fragrance clings to her, comforting and earthy.
“And I’m Mags,” she says, smiling like sunshine. “I own Hearth & Hollow, the apothecary. If you ever need tea to calm your nerves or something a bit… stronger, you come and find me.”
“More bloody tourists,” a gravelly voice grumbles before I can answer.
I turn to see an older man in a long, moth-eaten coat, his cane carved to resemble the snarl of a wolf. A wide-brimmed hat shadows his sharp eyes, which are the exact color of ancient parchment.
“Mr. Penumbra,” Wren teases, “these aren’t tourists. They’re new to town.”
I’m not sure how Wren has concluded that we’re not tourists, but I’m quickly learning that the people in Screaming Woods seem to know things—perhaps it’s magical intuition.
He snorts. “That’s even worse.” His gaze pins me, and it’s so sharp that it makes my breath catch. “Don’t break anything,” he orders before stomping toward a narrow shop crammed with maps and globes.
“Don’t mind him,” Mags whispers conspiratorially. “He’s a sweetheart deep down. Way, way down.”
Wren laughs, her tattoos rippling like water. “If you ever want ink, come and see me. I’ll give you a proper welcome-to-town design.” She purses her lips thoughtfully, a knowing gleam in her eye. “Maybe a stake through a heart, or something softer if you like.”
Rapha bristles a little at the mention of a stake, and Wren notices, smirking. “Relax, demon boy. Just a joke. Some of us see beneath the façade.”
My lips twitch despite myself. “Thank you,” I manage, still absorbing the strangeness of it all as Wren and Mags wave and head on their way.
I savor the last buttery flakes of my croissant, letting it linger on my tongue. Everything feels so bright, so loud, soalive, but Rapha is here, steady and strong, grounding me in this impossible new world.
He watches me with that hungry gleam, crimson eyes soft and dangerous all at once. The sun catches on his horns, making them look like polished onyx. I shiver, but it’s not from fear.
“Was it good?” he murmurs, brushing a crumb from the corner of my mouth with a talon-tipped finger.
My heart flips, the intimacy of the gesture undoing me.
“It was perfect,” I breathe. “But…”
“But?”
My breath hitches as I meet his gaze. The world seems to fade around us—the strange shifting street, the flickering lights, the scent of cinnamon.
“I wantmore,” I confess, my voice barely more than a whisper. “But…not food.”
