My hands are weapons. That’s why I bake bread. ───. “Your sourdough has opinions? ”. “My sourdough has moods. That’s worse. ”. ───. Lucia Devos is 45, divorced, living with an unmanageable ginger cat, and wearing gloves she never takes off. In Herve, on the Belgian Ardennes plateau, everyone knows her bakery. Her rice tarts are legendary. Her sugar pie cures bad days. No one asks why she wears nitrile gloves to serve bread. No one asks the right question. Lucia is a succubus... moreMy hands are weapons. That’s why I bake bread. ───. “Your sourdough has opinions? ”. “My sourdough has moods. That’s worse. ”. ───. Lucia Devos is 45, divorced, living with an unmanageable ginger cat, and wearing gloves she never takes off. In Herve, on the Belgian Ardennes plateau, everyone knows her bakery. Her rice tarts are legendary. Her sugar pie cures bad days. No one asks why she wears nitrile gloves to serve bread. No one asks the right question. Lucia is a succubus. Every touch of skin is a risk. Every kiss, a weapon. The bakery is her gilded cage. The place where she feeds instead of consumes. Until the night a revenant is found dead in his apartment. Sitting at his desk. Eyes open. No blood, no struggle. As if he simply… stopped. A revenant doesn’t die of natural causes. ───. “You know what’s fascinating…”. “Don’t say ‘fascinating. ’”. ───. Faolan. The werewolf journalist with the worn fedora and ink-stained fingers, who writes his first drafts by hand because “screens think too fast. ” Four dates at the Irish pub. Four times Lucia’s hand pulled back under the table. He doesn’t ask why. He waits. And he watches her knead dough as if the bread could tell him what she refuses to admit. ───. “It’s a bakery. I make bread. ”. “You make bread. Every day. At four in the morning. For three years. With gloves you only take off to knead. Does that make you happy? ”. “It works for me. ”. “That’s not what I asked. ”. ───. But to find out who killed Auguste Dewit, Lucia will have to remove more than her gloves. Face what she’s been avoiding. Trust a man whose smile smells of forest and danger. And accept that her succubus nature—the one she’s locked behind nitrile and flour for three years—might be the only thing capable of seeing the truth. ───. She took off the glove. The right one. Just one. Like you take off a glove when you come home. Like you take off a glove when you’re no longer afraid. ───. ✅ Cozy paranormal mystery, small Belgian town, fog, gossip, secrets✅ 40+ succubus heroine, baker, always wearing gloves✅ Werewolf journalist, slow burn, trust that must be earned✅ Impossible murder, a revenant who shouldn’t be able to die✅ Fair-play mystery, all the clues are there✅ Hidden supernatural community in the Belgian Ardennes✅ Irish pub run by a leprechaun, rice tarts, living sourdough✅ 18+ content (intimate scenes)✅ Satisfying ending, can be read as a standalone📚 Book 1 of 6: Succubus & Pastries. ───. For readers who love heroines with a past, romances where every gesture matters, mysteries you can solve before the final page, and communities where every neighbor hides something. less
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