8. Sylvie

Chapter eight

Sylvie

I smelled him first, then thought I was imagining it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d thought I’d scented him. Over the last few years, I’d thought I’d caught his scent more than once. Each time, my heart fluttered, my palms got sweaty, and I’d try to track down where the smell was coming from. Each time, it had all been in my imagination. So, I think I can be forgiven for thinking it would be the same today.

Except it wasn’t the same. The moment I saw him, I knew. He was really here. Even after all these years, Maxwell Bishop still carried himself with that same quiet intensity, that careful control that masked the predator beneath. He was older now, lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but everything else—the broad shoulders, the tattoos that snaked up his arms, the way he assessed a room, the small crook in his nose from an old break—was exactly as I remembered.

I’d taken one look, turned on my heel, and headed straight back to the kitchen, trying not to hyperventilate. I busied myself with the pot of mulled wine simmering on the stove, ignoring the way my hands trembled as I added another cinnamon stick. I needed to make hot chocolate for the kids. They would like that. The kitchen was my sanctuary, had been ever since Jem took me in two years ago. Here, I paid my penance for what I did; I could hide from the crowds, from the noise, from everything that reminded me of my old life. But now that life had walked right through the shitting front door.

And with it, memories of a different December. Of Grace, my older sister, before everything went wrong, baking in our tiny apartment kitchen. She would hum off-key while measuring ingredients, flour in her hair, telling me about our future bakery.

“We’ll call it Sisters’ Sweet Spot. And we’ll never have to answer to anyone but ourselves.”

But then she met Levi, a member of the local werewolf biker gang, and suddenly, her dreams of opening a bakery became dreams of quick money and power. The sister who’d taught me to bake snickerdoodles became someone who taught me to case buildings and run lookout.

“This is our family now,” she’d said. “Pack. This is where we belong.” But it hadn’t felt like belonging. It had felt like drowning.

Then Maxwell had walked into that dingy bar on the outskirts of some run-down town. Maxwell’s hands, rough but gentle, as he’d pulled me close …

No! I couldn’t think about that now.

The cocoa powder slipped from my trembling fingers, spilling across the counter. “Shit.”

“Here, let me help.”

Wally’s cheerful voice made me jump. He swept in like a whirlwind, already reaching for a cloth. “Though I have to say, if you’re going to have a kitchen crisis, cocoa powder is definitely the prettiest mess to clean up. Much better than that time Jase tried to make homemade fish sauce.”

I managed a weak smile, grateful for his help but wishing my hands would stop shaking as I tried to clean up.

“You know,” Wally said casually—too casually—as he wiped down the counter, “I couldn’t help but notice that little gasp when you saw our mysterious visitor. I know a wow-that-is-one-hot-guy reaction when I see it.”

If he only knew.

“Wally—“

“Plus,” he continued, “you’re making hot chocolate, and I know baking is your go-to stress-busting activity. Though technically, it’s called stress-baristaing, I suppose? “

I sighed. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Mmhmm.” Wally raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You know, just because you hide yourself away in this kitchen doesn’t mean we don’t see you, sweetie. And not just because you make the best damn snickerdoodles this side of the Mississippi.”

“I’m not hiding.”

I was so hiding. I had spent years trying to make myself forgettable, to blend into the background. It was safer that way. Easier. After everything that happened with Grace’s gang, I deserved to fade away, didn’t I? To be nothing more than a quiet shadow.

“Oh, please.” He put his hands on his hips. “You’re more ghost than housekeeper sometimes. But here’s the thing—you’re part of this Pack, and we love you.”

Something in my chest tightened. This Pack meant everything to me. They’d saved me when I had no one else. Jem had taken me in, given me a job, allowed me to heal, to hide because that was exactly what I needed.

But sometimes … sometimes I missed the old Sylvie. The one who used to dance in thunderstorms and race motorcycles under the full moon. The one who wasn’t afraid to take up space, to be wild and free and spontaneous. The one who’d spent a mind-blowing night with Maxwell Bishop.

“Earth to Sylvie!” Wally waved a hand in front of my face. “You’re doing that thing again where you disappear into your head. Though,” he grinned wickedly, “given the way that man in there fills out his jeans, I can’t say I blame you.”

“Wally!” I felt my cheeks flush.

“What? I’m married, not blind.” He bumped his hip against mine playfully. “And Thomas agrees with me, by the way. We will be discussing Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Brooding’s assets later, and let me tell you—“

“Oh, my Goddess, stop!” But I was laughing now, really laughing.

“There she is,” Wally said softly, his smile gentle. “You know, that laugh of yours is too pretty to keep locked away in here all the time.” Then his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Though if you’re determined to stay in the kitchen, might I suggest the pantry? It’s quite roomy, and I happen to know it locks from the inside …”

“Wally!” I swatted at him with the dish towel, my face burning.

He ducked, cackling. “Just saying! A girl’s got needs, and that man looks like he could fulfill quite a few of them.”

Oh, I knew he could. But that, that was the old Sylvie. Not who I was now.

“So,” he said, diving into the pantry to grab the bag of marshmallows from their hiding spot, “let’s make these kids the best damn hot chocolate they’ve ever had. And if a certain someone happens to want a cup, too …” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

If Maxwell wanted a cup of hot chocolate, I’d make sure Wally was the one who handed it out.