Page 89 of Knotted By my Pack
They’re blocking the sidewalk in front of the bakery. From half a block away, I can hear someone shouting. And underneath that, the sharper sound of a woman crying.
My stomach drops.
I pull the truck up to the curb, tires grinding against the edge of the pavement. Then I climb out and start moving fast, my shoes hitting the street harder than they should. People part for me as I push through. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s not this.
The front of Whisked is a disaster.
The exterior is splattered with black tar. It drips thick down the white trim, staining the pastel pink paint beneath it. Eggs, smashed all along the front steps.
Flour dumped in heaps over the entryway like a mockery of her craft. Broken lightbulbs, twisted wiring from the outdoor sign.
Someone tried to rip the Whisked nameplate right off the awning. The letters dangle crookedly, like they barely survived the night.
Inside is worse.
I see through the window that they threw baking pans everywhere. Overturned trays. Sacks of flour sliced open and emptied all over the tile floor.
The display case is cracked. There’s glass everywhere. Chairs upended. Frosting smeared like blood across the counters.
And she’s standing there in the middle of it.
Cora.
Wearing jeans, a gray shirt with flour still clinging to the hem, and her apron twisted around her waist.
Elias is standing beside her, arms out like he wants to shield her from the wreckage. Noah has a hand on her shoulder. Neither of them is talking.
Cora’s crying, shoulders shaking. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing soot and tears across her cheek.
She looks up—and sees me.
For one second, the crowd doesn’t exist. Just her.
And then she storms across broken glass, straight at me.
“You sick bastard!” she screams, voice cracking. “You did this?”
I don’t move. I let her yell.
“Say it!” she’s pointing now. Her hand is trembling with rage. “Tell me this was your idea!”
I stare at her, mouth dry. “I didn’t do this.”
Her face twists. “Bullshit. You wanted me out of the way.”
Noah’s behind her, pulling her back gently. “Cora, stop. This... this isn’t something he can get away with. We’ll fix it, okay?”
She shakes her head violently, but she doesn’t fight him.
Elias comes up beside them, looking between me and the bakery. His eyes flicker to the smashed window, the letters still dangling above the awning. “We’ll help,” he says quietly. “Whatever it takes.”
Some of the townspeople murmur in agreement. An older woman offers her cleaning supplies.
A couple of guys from the hardware store are already pulling out plywood to board up the windows.
One of the firemen on the scene walks over, clipboard in hand.
“Looks like they came through sometime between midnight and four a.m.,” he says. “Vandals used a combination of tar and spray paint. Didn’t light anything, but they broke in and caused some interior damage. Nothing structural. Equipment is almost intact. It’s fixable. Ugly, but fixable.”
