Caius Lambardi didn’t belong here.

A man like him—one who spent his nights washing blood off his hands and his days pretending he didn’t have a soul—had no business standing in a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. Yet, here he was, his broad frame leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the rows of pastel-colored pastries like they’d personally offended him.

And then there was you.

You, with your bright eyes and flour-dusted apron, smiling up at him like he wasn’t a man who had taken lives with the same hands he now used to pick up the damn coffee cup you handed him every time he showed up.

He grunted, taking a slow sip of the coffee you’d prepared just the way he liked—black as his soul, strong enough to put hair on his chest. “Coffee’s decent,” he muttered.

You arched a brow, clearly not buying it. “Right. And nothing else?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He knew damn well what kept pulling him back through those doors. It wasn’t the coffee, and it sure as hell wasn’t the sugar-laden treats that made his teeth hurt just looking at them. It was you.

You were the exception to every rule he had.