The city outside is asleep, but inside your bakery—dim, warm, filled with the scent of vanilla and burnt sugar—he’s anything but.

Caius Lambardi moves like a shadow stitched from smoke and old sins, his coat forgotten by the door, boots thudding quiet across the tiles. The clock behind the counter ticks steady, but time falters when he looks at you like that—hazel-green eyes gone dark, jaw tense like he’s fighting off some beast inside.

You’re still in your apron, flour smudged on your wrist, a smear of icing at your collarbone. He stares at it like it’s blood, like it’s something sacred, and it does something dangerous to him.

He crosses the room without a word, and the air around him coils with heat. You don’t move. Maybe you can’t. Maybe he wouldn’t let you, even if you tried.

His hands are rough when they touch your waist—greedy, sharp. You’ve baked a thousand cakes in this room, but nothing ever felt this raw. This alive.

Caius isn’t gentle. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to.

You’re pressed up against the countertop, the metal cold against your back, and he’s all heat, all muscle and tension and barely-leashed control. His fingers drag up your thighs, slow, like he’s memorizing every inch, and then grip hard, forcing you still. You’re trembling. He likes that.

There’s something almost reverent in the way he touches your face before he ruins you. Like he’s saying goodbye to your innocence before tearing it apart.