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Now, it’s Monday morning, and in an hour, Lincoln will become part of the enemy Saints. He may have my snake earring as a permanent piercing but he’ll belong to another pack.
Except, that’s a mask he’s wearing.
He’ll be an undercover spy.
He swears that he knows the danger of the role, but I’ve lived in a mafia family with betrayal and death on all sides, and I know that playing two roles is one of the hardest things to do.
Lincoln is courting death.
My nose scrunches up at the the scent of the bakery’s kitchen, the familiar sweet aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and baked bread. It’s muted because of my medical patch on my scent gland. It’s only a couple of hours past dawn, so it’s working effectively still.
Unfortunately, my stomach’s still roiling with nausea.
This is what happens when I don’t normally drink, and I try to keep up with my brother’s drinking games.
Word of advice? Never play Most Likely Knot to… drinking game.
I squint through the morning light that’s flooding the room through the high windows at the back, streaming over the giant mixers, bread ovens, and bright violet walls.
The light makes the sparkles in the purple floor glitter like stars.
It’s a sweltering summer morning, and I’m sweating. The kitchen is hot, as the ovens bake the pastries and bread that I’ve been preparing since I woke up.
I’m wearing a simple black t-shirt and leather trousers with my pink BADASS BAKER apron over them.
“Still suffering?” Lincoln can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. He’s sitting on the counter. He’s loved watching me bake. “Hey, do you want my special cure?”
He leaps off the counter with a smirk.
Suddenly, I feel much better.
I straighten up. “I’m fine.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m only getting you a glass of water.”
I let out a breath of relief.
Vito’s suffering worse than me but he’s offered to work out front for the day, so that I don’t need to struggle through the noise, light, and especially, the smells of dealing with customers.
He’s getting the shop set up and opening up.
Lincoln drags a glass to the metal sink in the corner and fills it with cold water. He saunters back to me.
It’s going to take some time to get used to seeing him looking suave and sleek in a suit.
It makes me want to rip it off him.
I grip hard onto the counter.
Lincoln tilts his head, seeming to read the way that my pupils dilate. He tucks a curl that often falls over his eyes, behind his ear.
I skirt my finger over a freshly baked raspberry and blueberry muffin on the side. “It’s cool now. Would you like one for breakfast?”
He nods.
His gaze is intense.
I baked the muffins to represent our scents being united. With my gift — curse — I see the worlds through scents.
