Baker and the Beast

​The air inside the Valiente estate didn’t just smell of aging mahogany and expensive cigars; it smelled of transition, which, in their world, was often a synonym for blood. ​Deep in the heart of Andalusia, the grand villa stood as a fortress. Inside the "Salón de Oro," the atmosphere was suffocating. Don Maximilian Valiente, a man whose name was whispered with a mix of reverence and terror from Madrid to the coast of Marbella, sat at the head of a table carved from ancient oak. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s despite his sixty years, scanned the room. ​Around him sat the "Council of Sovereigns"—the heads of the secondary families who managed the ports, the distribution, and the political bribes that kept the Valiente empire breathing. ​"The time has come," Maximilian’s voice resonated, a low gravelly rumble. "I have held the scepter of the Spanish underworld for three decades. My shadows have grown long, and it is time for a new sun to rise. I am stepping down." ​A ripple of uneasy murmurs broke the silence. To their right, the heavy double doors swung open. Two figures emerged from the dim hallway, their silhouettes framed by the moonlight spilling through the corridor windows. ​The first was Balthazar Valiente. At thirty, he was the embodiment of controlled lethality. He moved with a predatory grace, his tailored midnight-blue suit clinging to a frame hardened by years of "enforcement" in the field. His face was a masterpiece of stern angles, his eyes a piercing, icy grey that seemed to see through flesh and bone. ​Behind him followed his younger brother, Caspian. While Balthazar was the blade, Caspian was the fire—younger, more impulsive, with a smirk that suggested he found the grim gravity of the room amusing. ​"You’re late," Maximilian noted, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of fatherly pride. ​"Business at the docks required a personal touch," Balthazar replied, his voice a cool blade. He took his seat at his father’s right hand, while Caspian leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. ​"I am naming Balthazar as the next Rey," Maximilian announced, slamming a heavy gold ring onto the table. ​The silence that followed was brittle. Finally, Don Faustus, a man whose family controlled the northern borders, cleared his throat. "With all respect, Maximilian, Balthazar is a warrior, yes. But he is thirty. He is... untethered." ​Balthazar’s eyes shifted to Faustus, narrowing. "Untethered?" ​"The Code of the Crown is absolute, boy," Faustus continued, emboldened by the nods of the others. "A King of the Valiente line must be a man of foundation. You are not married. In our world, a wife is not just a companion; she is the anchor of loyalty. A man who has no one to be loyal to at home cannot be trusted to be loyal to a nation of thieves. It is the law. No crown for a bachelor." ​"He is young," another Don added. "Give the position to your brother, or wait five years. Balthazar is too cold. He needs a Queen to prove he can value something other than a gun." ​Suggestions began to fly like shrapnel. Names of daughters from powerful Italian syndicates were tossed around. Alliances were proposed. Political marriages that would turn Balthazar into a puppet for the other families. ​Balthazar’s grip tightened on the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. He looked at his father, who remained silent, watching to see how his cub would handle the wolves. ​Suddenly, Balthazar stood up. The chair scraped against the marble floor like a scream. The room went dead silent. ​"You speak of loyalty as if it is a commodity to be traded in a boardroom," Balthazar said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating register. "You want an anchor? You want proof that I can commit to a single soul?" ​He looked around the room, his gaze so intense that Faustus actually flinched. ​"The search is unnecessary," Balthazar declared. "I have already chosen. There is a woman. She is the only one who will ever wear the Valiente crown. The wedding will happen within the month. Prepare your tributes, or prepare your graves." ​Maximilian raised an eyebrow. Caspian choked back a laugh of surprise. Balthazar didn't wait for a rebuttal. He turned on his heel and walked out, the heavy doors thudding shut behind him like a final judgment. **** ​The city of Granada was a labyrinth of history, and in one of its most charming, tucked-away corners sat La Luna de Azúcar—The Sugar Moon. ​Inside, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of fresh yeast, powdered sugar, and Madagascar vanilla. Isadora was in her element. At nineteen, she possessed a beauty that was ethereal yet grounded—eyes the color of amber honey and dark, wavy hair that she currently had pinned back with a dusted flour-covered clip. ​"Thank you, Elena. Give my best to your mother!" Isadora called out, handing a box of ensaimadas to her last customer of the day. ​As the bell chimed and the shop finally emptied, Isadora sighed, leaning against the counter. She loved the bakery—it was her sanctuary, the only thing left of the life her parents had built before the accident. But lately, the air felt... thin. She had the persistent, itchy feeling of being watched. ​She spent the next hour scrubbing the flour off the stainless steel tables and locking the industrial ovens. By the time she pulled the heavy iron shutters down over the front windows, the sun had long since dipped behind the Sierra Nevada mountains. ​The walk home was usually a comfort, but tonight, the shadows in the narrow cobblestone alleys seemed to stretch further than usual. ​Click. Click. Click. ​The sound of her own boots echoed off the stone walls. She stopped. The echo didn't. ​Click. One extra footfall. ​Isadora’s heart leaped into her throat. She quickened her pace, her breath hitching in the cool night air. She turned a sharp corner, her eyes darting to the reflective glass of a darkened storefront. For a split second, she saw a tall, dark silhouette melt back into a doorway. ​She didn't look back again. She ran. ​Her lungs burned as she reached her small apartment building. She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so violently they rattled like wind chimes. She slipped inside the main door, slammed it shut, and bolted it. ​She lived on the second floor. She climbed the stairs two at a time, her mind racing. It’s just your imagination, Isadora. You’ve been working too hard. The coffee, the sugar... it’s just nerves. ​She reached her door. To her horror, it was slightly ajar. ​The wood didn't show signs of a forced entry; it was simply unlatched, as if inviting her in. A cold dread, heavier than any bag of flour she had ever carried, settled in her stomach. ​"Hello?" she whispered. No answer. ​She pushed the door open. Her small living room was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window. Everything looked in place—her books, her knitted throw, her small dining table. ​She moved toward her bedroom, driven by a terrifying need to know. She reached for the light switch, but her hand stopped in mid-air. ​There, sprawled across her white duvet, was a man. ​He was dressed in dark, expensive clothes that seemed to swallow the light. But it was his face that made her blood turn to ice. He was wearing a mask—a sleek, terrifying tactical mask that covered everything but his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, frozen grey, watching her with the predatory patience of a mountain lion. ​Isadora’s mouth opened, and a piercing scream tore from her throat. "Help! Someone—" ​In a blur of motion that her eyes could barely track, the man was off the bed. He was across the room in a heartbeat. ​"Silence," he commanded. It wasn't a request; it was an ultimatum. ​Before she could scream again, his large, gloved hand clamped firmly over her mouth. He was immensely strong, his body like a wall of heated iron pressing her back against the doorframe. She struggled, her small fists thumping against his chest, but it was like hitting a statue. ​"Shh," he hissed, his face inches from hers. The mask was cold against her skin. "I told them you were the one. Don't make me a liar, Isadora." ​How did he know her name? ​She tried to bite his hand, her eyes wide with terror. He didn't flinch. Instead, he shifted his weight, his other hand coming up to the side of her neck. She felt a sharp, stinging prick—a needle? ​"Sleep now, mi Reina," the voice murmured, strangely gentle despite the violence of the moment. "The world is changing tonight." ​Isadora’s limbs suddenly felt like lead. The room began to spin, the amber light of the streetlamp dissolving into a kaleidoscope of grey and black. Her knees buckled, but he caught her, pulling her small frame into his massive chest. ​Her last sight was the glint of the moon on the black material of his mask. Then, the darkness of the baker's oven swallowed her whole, and everything went silent.