Chapter 6: The Bakery
Chapter 6: The Bakery
POV: Stella Morris
Location: Train → Bus → Pine Hollow
Timeline: Present
I was sitting on the train back to Pine Hollow when the memory came back, and I rolled my eyes at myself a little.
Looking back now, I should have figured it out right then.
The scent-masking technique I'd picked up at the border school was more than enough to fool an ordinary human.
But in front of a seasoned hunter?
I'd probably blown my cover the second I looked at him.
At the time, though, I was still trying to figure out how he'd noticed me.
That train of thought was eventually interrupted by his muttering.
She's not actually falling for me, is she?
God, I really am something.
I still remembered the exact moment I'd shoved myself toward the window and waved.
I worked hard to arrange my face into something that said, oh, I just happened to be walking by. This has nothing to do with how broad his shoulders are.
My mouth had pulled up at one corner before I could stop it.
I looked down at the bag in my lap now and let the corner of my mouth do it again, just once, before I put it away.
Out of the train station, I caught the bus heading toward Pine Hollow.
I leaned against the window and watched the city thin out — buildings giving way to stretches of road, road giving way to the first rows of pine trees lining the highway.
Familiar shapes. I'd been staring at those trees for a year and they still felt, in some stubborn way, like coming back to something.
I noticed, somewhere in the middle of all that, that I'd been smiling since I got on.
When the bus pulled into town, I got off and walked fast, then faster, and by the time I hit the end of the block I was basically running.
The bakery door swung open and hit me with the smell of butter and warm cream.
Grandma Dorothy was in the kitchen, bent over the prep counter, sorting through tomorrow's ingredients.
There was a dusting of flour on her apron, one white smear across the front pocket.
She looked up, and her eyes curved.
"You're back."
She was already sliding a mug of hot cocoa across the counter before she finished saying it.
I settled onto one of the bar stools and took a sip. Warm, sweet, with just enough bitterness underneath to keep it from being too much.
"Just got in," I said. "Now I wait and see if they send anything."
"Mm." She turned back to the counter, stacking flour bags, checking the refrigerator shelf. Her hands kept moving.
The kitchen was quiet for a while.
Then she spoke, and there was something careful in the way she chose the words.
"I thought you'd apply to an art school."
My hand stilled around the mug.
She turned to look at me directly, her voice dropping. "Stellie. Don't waste what you have. The federal training academy — why would you want to go there?"
I met the worry she was trying not to show too much of.
I thought about it for two seconds before I answered.
"Carving is a hobby. The academy is because I want to be able to protect people."
Grandma Dorothy didn't argue. She didn't push. She just let out a quiet breath and said, "Whatever you want, then."
That single breath landed heavier than any objection she could have made.
I didn't know what to do with it, so I went for something lighter instead. "Don't worry, Grandma. I'm not giving up the carving."
She glanced up at me. "I know you won't."
The dog woke me the next morning.
It always did.
God, why? Why did werewolves have to have such insanely good hearing?
I dragged myself out of bed, shuffled to the window in my slippers, and pushed it open.
The brown stray was down in the yard in its usual spot, barking at the street like it had a personal grudge against it.
"One more sound and I'm taking you to get fixed."
The dog did not acknowledge me. It kept barking.
I stared at it for a beat, somewhere between exasperated and almost amused.
"You listen to Wyatt's threats just fine."
That morning, a year ago, he said those words from across the street in such a casual, indifferent tone that the dog's barking immediately turned into a whimper.
"Is it because he's scarier than me?"
The dog finally turned its head. It wagged its tail at me.
I closed the window and went to wash up, then came back down and fed it anyway.
After that, I didn't go upstairs.
The morning rush came in steady — not overwhelming, but enough to keep me moving.
I worked the front counter, packing orders, making change, keeping the line moving.
Grandma Dorothy stayed in the back kitchen, poking her head out every so often to check the display case arrangement.
The rush was winding down when the bell above the door rang.
I looked up. My hands stopped.
The woman who walked in was somewhere in her mid-forties, put-together, every hair in place.
But her steps were hesitant in a way her appearance was trying to hide, and when her eyes landed on me, something shifted in them.
I knew her.
Vanessa Reed's mother.
I pulled one slow breath in and pressed everything down, all the way to the bottom. Then I stepped forward with the same expression I used for everyone.
"Hi there. What can I get for you?"
Her mouth moved like she was about to say something else first. She didn't.
She looked down at the menu board and ordered two hot cocoas and two servings of oat bread.
I bagged the order without hurrying. Kept the counter between us. Kept my voice even and my face neutral.
She took the bag. She didn't leave.
Three seconds of silence.
"I'm sorry."
She kept her eyes on the bag in her hands, not on me.
"I know I don't have any right to say that. But I wanted you to know — Vanessa's left Pine Hollow. She won't be coming back."
She hesitated.
"She won't bother you again."
