Chapter 7

Three days passed.

Evelyn kept her head down, her hands in flour, her thoughts buried beneath kneading dough and humming ovens. The dream hadn’t come back. Neither had the scent. Not directly.

But she still felt him.

Like a shadow always on the edge of the village. Like a thought that refused to stay buried.

Her wolf had grown strangely quiet—not still, not sullen. Just… focused. Waiting. Coiled tight beneath Evelyn’s skin like a held breath.

She didn’t ask why. She didn’t want to know.

Not yet.

On the fourth morning, a young boy ran into the bakery with cheeks flushed and a note clutched in his hand. Aleta read it silently, then passed it over.

“Large order. Needs delivering by sunset. You’ll want to start now.”

Evelyn blinked. “That’s more than double what I normally do.”

Aleta gave her a look. “It’s paid in advance. Full amount.”

She hesitated. “Who’s it for?”

“No name. Just a location.” The older woman shrugged. “West of the river. Edge of the forest.”

Evelyn stilled.

That edge of the forest.

Her fingers curled slightly around the paper. Her wolf lifted its head.

The location tugged something low in her spine. An unease. A pulse. Her instincts didn’t scream danger—they whispered something far worse: recognition.

She spent the afternoon rolling, mixing, layering, brushing egg wash over crusts. She didn’t stop moving, didn’t think too long. Let her body lead. Let muscle memory override emotion.

But as the sun dipped lower, tension built in her chest.

By the time she loaded the crates into the cart with Tomas’s help and set off through the narrow forest path, her heart was beating harder than it should have. Every pine branch she passed, every bend in the road felt familiar now. As if she were walking toward something she’d already seen.

Halfway there, her wolf stirred.

Not with fear.

Not with rage.

With a soft hum of anticipation.

It startled Evelyn so much she nearly tripped over a root in the path.

“What is wrong with you?” she muttered aloud.

No answer came.

Just that quiet, rising pressure.

And then she saw it.

A tall iron gate. Wrought with vines. Open.

Beyond it, the trees parted into a wide, shadowed lawn. A stone house stood near the ridge, all dark stone and sharp angles, windows that gleamed gold in the fading light.

Her breath caught.

This can’t be…

But it was.

She hadn’t been told a name.

But now she knew.

This wasn’t just any home.

It was his.

Damon’s.

Her hands were sweating as she approached the door. Her wolf felt it too now—stronger, clearer.

Nerves. Excitement. Something just below the surface, clawing gently, not to hurt—but to be seen.

Evelyn knocked.

No response.

Her chest tightened.

Then the door creaked open.

Not Damon.

A girl. Maybe seventeen. Wide green eyes and mousy brown hair, tied in a frizzy knot at the base of her neck.

“You’re from the bakery?”

Evelyn nodded.

The girl smiled, ushering her inside. “Come in. Kitchen’s this way. You can set everything down in there.”

The house was colder than she expected, despite the gold light. Clean, elegant, but sparse. She caught hints of cedar and spice under the usual scents of hearth and stone. The hallways echoed faintly as they walked.

She stepped into the kitchen and began unloading the crates carefully.

One by one.

Focus.

Her hands worked in rhythm again. Place, unwrap, adjust.

And then—

She felt him.

The air shifted. The temperature didn’t change, but her spine tingled, her wolf snapped to attention, and her heart began to race.

She turned.

Slowly.

And there he was.

Damon stood in the doorway. Silent, still and just watching her. No big boots. No scary weapons. Just a soft, long-sleeved black shirt and the same unnerving stillness she remembered from the square.

Her hands froze mid-motion.

She swallowed. Hard.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just stared.

Her wolf pressed against her ribs, desperate to reach out—desperate to be closer. But Evelyn stayed rooted.

This was the man the world feared.

The destroyer.

The ghost.

But his presence didn’t feel like violence.

It felt like gravity.

Heavy. Constant. Unyielding.

Like she’d stepped into a room with a thunderstorm and couldn’t decide whether to flinch—or breathe it in.

“You bake,” he said finally.

His voice wasn’t what she expected.

Low, yes. Rough around the edges. But calm. Measured. A voice that listened more than it spoke.

She nodded once, throat dry. “I do.”

Silence stretched.

Then he stepped closer.

Her wolf surged.

She fought it.

He moved to the table and looked at the pies, the loaves, the intricate plaits of cinnamon braid cooling on the trays.

“You made all of this.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

He reached out and picked up a roll, tearing off a small piece and tasting it without ceremony.

She watched his throat move as he swallowed.

His eyes flicked back to her.

“You’re not from here. I can taste your hometown baked into these goods.”

She straightened slightly. “I am now. I have no plans to go back.”

Damon nodded, as if that was acceptable.

Her wolf whimpered—not out loud, but inside her mind. A soft, aching sound that made Evelyn clench her jaw.

He was close now. Not enough to touch. But enough that she could smell him.

Ash. Pine. Earth. And something darker, something ancient and magnetic.

She stepped back. Only a half step.

Damon noticed.

His gaze dropped briefly to her boots, then back to her face.

“You dream of me. I can sense your wolf.”

Evelyn’s stomach dropped.

“What?”

He tilted his head.

“I feel it.”

He said it so plainly.

Not like a man bragging. Not like someone trying to seduce her.

Just the truth.

“I don’t…” she faltered. “I don’t even know you.”

“No,” he said. “But you will.”

Her wolf was trembling now.

Not with fear.

With recognition.

She knew. Deep down, she knew.

This wasn’t obsession. This wasn’t infatuation. This wasn’t a repeat of Adrian’s empty promises or chosen mate comfort.

This was something else.

Older.

Truer.

Fated.

Her wolf wanted him.

Her body wasn’t ready. Her heart wasn’t ready.

But her soul was pulling toward him like it already belonged there.

“I should go,” she said quickly.

Damon didn’t stop her.

But he did say, as she turned:

“You’re not actually running.”

She froze in the doorway.

“You’re just not done grieving yet.”

The words hit harder than anything else he could’ve said.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t speak.

She walked out the front door, fists clenched, vision blurred—and her wolf, ever stubborn, didn’t howl.

A distant sound, even more gentle when a whisper spoke. Evelyn strained against the sounds around her to listen.

Just once.

“He is ours.”