Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The front windows display the most elaborate pastries I’ve ever seen—three-tiered cakes decorated with sugar flowers in impossible colors, éclairs filled with what resembles liquid gold, croissants shaped like tiny works of art. But it’s the attention to detail that takes my breath away. Every sugar rose has individual petals, every éclair is perfectly glazed, the croissants are identical to one another, showing obsessive care. Nothing on display is flawed.
A bell above the door chimes a complex melody as we enter. Not the simple ding of most shops, but an actual composition that could be mistaken for wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze. I step into what can only be described as a curiosity shop that happens to sell pastries.
The bakery is crammed floor to ceiling with treasures that have nothing to do with baking. Mismatched chairs surround tiny tables set with delicate china tea services. Shelves line every available wall space, displaying teapots shaped like fantastical creatures, vintage books with cracked leather spines, pocket watches that tick at different rhythms, and an extensive butterfly collection in glass cases that throw rainbow patterns across the walls when sunlight hits them.
But it’s the man behind the counter who makes everything else look ordinary by comparison.
Elliott Cupp moves like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra, his hands dancing through the air as he arranges sugar flowers on a cake that defies several laws of physics. He looks about forty, but his hair is completely gray. He’s wearing a pristine white baker’s apron over a three-piece suit in blue velvet that makes Blue’s beard look subtle. His hair is Einstein-wild, and his pale green eyes have the unfocused look of someone who’s always listening to something just out of earshot.
“Elliott,” Blue calls gently. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Elliott looks up, and for a moment his eyes snap into laser focus. “Blue! Perfect timing, my dear boy,” he says, his voice carrying the faint warmth of somewhere farther south. “Been expecting you.”
A man emerges from the kitchen, and I have to work to keep my appearance unemotional. He’s tall and lean with a build that indicates an intense exercise routine—broad shoulders that fill out his cream linen shirt perfectly, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms decorated with intricate tattoos that look like botanical illustrations. Dark auburn hair catches copper highlights where flour dust has settled, and when he looks up from wiping his hands on a towel, storm-gray eyes assess me with attention that makes me think he’s cataloging everything about me in seconds.
“Ash Cupp,” he says, extending a flour-dusted hand. His voice has that same subtle warmth as Elliott’s, like honey over steel. “I knew your father, ma’am. I’m sorry for your loss. Peter was . . . I liked him.”
The words carry genuine grief, and I can see that his sympathy is real rather than polite. But there’s something else in the way he stands—perfectly positioned between Elliott and the rest of the room, like he’s protecting his brother without making it obvious. His hands are gentle when he touches Elliott’s shoulder, but I catch a glimpse of scars on his knuckles that suggest they’ve seen violence.
“Blue,” Ash continues, his attention morphing completely to business. “I was hoping to see you before the party. There’s a lot of chatter going down right now. Not good chatter. The Crow are gathering—more than usual. And they’re not just asking about Saylor anymore.”
My stomach drops. Blue’s hand on my back doesn’t move.
“They’re putting a price on your head now too,” Ash says, glancing at me apologetically. “Seems you made quite an impression.”
Blue shrugs, completely unbothered. “Good. Message received.”
The casual dismissal of what sounds like a death sentence makes me stare at him. Who reacts like that to news that people want to kill you?
Elliott continues his decorating, humming softly. “Oh, they’re all atwitter about it,” he says dreamily. “Did you know that a flock of crows is called a murder? How fitting.” He pauses in his work, those pale green eyes focusing on Blue with sudden clarity. “Off with his head, they’re saying. Quite dramatic, really.”
Blue actually smiles. “Let them come.”
“At least a dozen confirmed,” Ash continues, his jaw tight as he absently checks a silver pocket watch. “Maybe more on the way. They’re not playing games anymore, Blue. They want both of you dead, and they’re bringing enough firepower to level half of Grimlock if they have to.”
Blue nods, completely unsurprised. “Good. About time they stopped playing games.”
Ash fidgets uncomfortably, positioning himself slightly closer to Elliott. “They’re bringing heavy artillery. Military-grade weapons.”
“Like I said . . . good.” Blue grins like Ash just told him Christmas is coming early. “I’ve got plenty more messages to send.”
I stare at him, trying to process what I’m hearing. The man who puts his hand on my back to guide me through doorways and who is worried about Wren’s pastry preferences is standing here shrugging off the threat of heavy artillery. There’s something almost eager in him, like he’s been waiting for this excuse to let loose whatever he keeps carefully contained.