The world tilted.
The relief shattered.
Something surged beneath his skin, sharp and crawling, like a thousand tiny sparks racing beneath the surface. His pulse stuttered, then slammed hard against his ribs, too fast, too loud.
“Dominic—”
The word broke on a gasp.
Lights stuttered overhead, the chandelier flickering as a low, thrumming pressure filled the room. The air felt wrong. Too thick, too charged, pressing in on him from all sides.
Sammy’s hands trembled, and his vision blurred, dimmed. He dragged in a breath, trying to steady himself, but it didn’t help. The sensation only intensified, spreading outward like pure energy that slithered through his veins.
“Something’s—” He swallowed hard, fingers curling. “Something’s wrong.”
“Easy,” Dominic soothed, holding Sammy’s face between his hands. “Deep breath,colibrí.You’re okay.”
The lights flickered again, and bulbs in the chandelier exploded one by one like party poppers. Glass rained down from the ceiling, only to dissolve into sand before reaching the floor.
“Sammy!” His mate barked his name, forcing his attention. “That’s it. Look at me. Breathe.” He stroked his thumbs over Sammy’s cheeks in long, sweeping lines. “You have to calm down.”
Sammy arched an eyebrow at him. “Youcalm down.”
Dominic chuckled. Bastard.
“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice dropping back into that steady, grounding cadence. “Tell me how you make cinnamon rolls.”
Sammy blinked at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” Dominic repeated, thumbs still brushing over his cheeks. “Walk me through it. Start with the dough.”
Another light popped overhead. Sammy flinched, but Dominic didn’t let him look away.
“Flour,” Sammy said automatically, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “You start with flour.”
“Good,” Dominic praised softly. “How much?”
“Three cups. More if it’s humid, which it always is in Louisiana.” His brow furrowed as his mind snagged on the detail. “You have to adjust it, or the dough gets too sticky.”
“There you go,” Dominic said, voice calm, even as another fixture flickered violently behind him. “What next?”
“Yeast,” he said, a little more firmly this time. “Warm milk. Not hot. You’ll kill it if it’s too hot.”
The pressure in his chest eased a fraction.
“How warm?” Dominic prompted.
“About a hundred and ten degrees. You let it bloom first. It gets…foamy.”
His mate continued to trace slow, steady lines along his cheekbones. “Keep going.”
“Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Salt.” His breath hitched, but steadied quickly. “You mix it together with the yeast, then add the flour slowly. Don’t dump it all in at once.”
A glass globe over the fireplace shattered, dissolving into drifting grains that floated to the floor.
Sammy noticed, but he didn’t flinch this time.
“You knead it.” He spoke slower now, quieter. “Until it’s smooth. Elastic. It shouldn’t stick to your hands.”