Chapter 2 - The Bakery SanctuaryThree weeks had passed since that rainy night at Orion Towers, but the phantom chill of Marcus Stone’s presence still lingered in the back of Chloe’s mind. She had kept her promise to the paramedics—she told them Mrs. Patterson had tripped over the antique rug. Mrs. Patterson had recovered, but she had moved out of the city entirely three days later, leaving no forwarding address.
And Chloe had tried desperately to return to her normal life: shaping sourdough at 4:00 AM, managing the bakery accounts, and keeping her head down.
Until tonight.
The bell above the bakery door jingled sharply, cutting through the heavy scent of toasted vanilla and yeast. It was past closing time. The storm outside was howling again, throwing sheets of freezing November rain against the large front windows.
Chloe looked up from the stainless-steel counter where she was wiping down flour dust.
A man stood just inside the doorway. He was drenched, his dark overcoat shining with rainwater, his hair plastered against his forehead. But it wasn't a casual customer. It was Marcus Stone.
Before Chloe could step back, Marcus crossed the bakery floor with long, silent strides. He didn't speak. He simply closed the distance between them, planting one large hand braced beside her head against the flour-dusted shelf, trapping her against the counter.
“Marcus,” she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “You can’t just walk in here. We’re closed.”
“Lock the front door,” he said, his voice flat, controlled, and intensely dangerous.
“No.”
His gaze locked onto hers. “Chloe. Look around you. There are men watching this block right now. Men who don’t work for me. Lock the door.”
Panic flared in her chest. She pushed past his arm, hurried to the front glass door, flipped the deadbolt, and pulled the heavy iron privacy shade down. When she turned back around, Marcus was standing right behind her, his proximity robbing her of oxygen.
That was when the conversation happened.
The quiet bakery. The flickering oven lights.
“Please... don’t unbutton my coat.”
And Marcus, ignoring her plea, had slipped the second button free to reveal the dark bruises blooming along her collarbone—the undeniable shape of a man’s hand.
“Who did this?” Marcus asked again, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the hair on her arms stand up.
“No one,” Chloe whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
May you like
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, his fingers gently—almost reverently—hovering an inch above the bruised skin of her neck, careful not to cause her pain. “Who touched you?”
Before Chloe could pull away, the front glass window of the bakery exploded inward with a deafening crash of shattering glass.
