“‘Age’ implies decline,” he says, his voice taking on an unexpectedly gentle tone. “I’ve lived long enough to know that time means nothing without purpose. Without connection.” He pauses, and I see him reach for another gummy worm—his fifteenth, and yes, I’m counting. “What use are centuries if they’re spent merely observing life rather than living it?”
My heart thunders against my ribs. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
The way he’s looking at me, all intense golden eyes and careful vulnerability, makes me think he is.
That maybe all this tension between us isn’t just about the present—it’s about a future. A shared one.
I open my mouth to respond, but what do you even say to something like that? ‘Hey, thanks for considering giving up centuries of life for me of all people’?
Instead, I focus on driving while stealing glances at him, watching as he discovers his newfound addiction to gummy worms. Every thirty seconds, his hand dips into the bag with careful precision, like he’s trying to maintain his dignity while absolutely demolishing gas station candy. It’s adorable and surreal and somehow makes my heart squeeze even tighter.
The countryside continues to roll past as I try to process everything, but before I really can, the private road to the estate appears exactly where Sundar’s directions indicated, marked by ancient oak trees creating a natural archway.
As I turn down the road, the house reveals itself slowly—first a glimpse of copper-green roof through the leaves, then weathered stone walls, until finally the full sprawling estate spreads before us, beautiful in that slightly intimidating way that old money tends to be.
Pulling into the curved driveway, I feel a flutter of uncertainty. The moment I cut the engine, the quiet seems to press in aroundus, broken only by the rustle of Sundar fishing out what must be his thirtieth gummy worm.
“Nervous?” he asks, and I notice he’s unconsciously shifted closer.
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “I’ve never helped appraise a legendary collection before.”
“You’ll do wonderfully,” he says with a conviction that makes something warm bloom in my chest. He leans closer, and for a moment I think he might kiss me. Instead, his tail gives my leg the gentlest squeeze—a promise for later—before he straightens up and hands me the last remaining gummy worm with such solemn ceremony that I can’t help but laugh.
Right. Focus on the task at hand. Even if my skin is tingling where his scales brushed against me, and even if I can’t stop thinking about how he basically just admitted he’d consider sharing a mortal lifespan for the right person, and even if that last gummy worm somehow feels like the most romantic gesture I’ve ever received.
Oh man. This is going to be a very long day.
Chapter 10
What Magic Knows
Sundar
Gloria Blackhorn ushers usinto her study, grief over the loss of her brother still evident in the stoop of her massive shoulders. But before I can step in, Aubrey takes charge with surprising grace.
Within minutes of our arrival, she’s transformed from nervous energy to warm professionalism, asking thoughtful questions about Marcus’s collection while helping the elderly woman sort through her grief. Even Gloria’s impressive horns and imposing minotaur stature doesn’t faze her.
It fills me with pride.
“Marcus always said the best artifacts tell love stories,” Gloria explains, leading us through corridors lined with display cases. Her hooves click against ancient hardwood floors as she moves with the careful grace of someone carrying both physical and emotional weight. “He spent decades tracking down proof that monsters and humans work best together, even when the world told them it was impossible.”
Aubrey shoots me a quick glance, and this morning’s conversation briefly flashes through my mind.
“Here,” Gloria says, stopping before a locked door. “This was his private study. Everything significant is cataloged in the journals on his desk, but…” She hesitates, grief flickering across her features. “Well, Marcus had his own system. Sometimes love defies organization.”
The door swings open to reveal organized chaos. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflow with artifacts, each seemingly placed with careful intent despite the apparent disorder. Display cases line the walls, their contents ranging from ancient scrolls to delicate jewelry. The air thrums with old magic—the kind that builds up naturally around objects filled with powerful emotions.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Gloria says. “The room is yours for as long as you need. Just handle everything with care. These pieces meant the world to him.”
As her hoofsteps fade down the hallway, Aubrey moves to examine the nearest shelf. “Wow,” she breathes, studying a collection of love letters written in an ancient script I haven’t seen in centuries. “Look at how the ink still shimmers. Is that magic?”
“Dragon’s tears,” I explain, moving closer. “The magic helped preserve the writing.”
She turns, and suddenly we’re standing very close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her blue eyes, count each freckle scattered across her nose. My tail wants to wrap around her waist, to pull her even closer. Instead, I force myself to move back and clear my throat.
“We should start with the journals,” I say, moving toward the massive oak desk. “Get an overview of what we’re dealing with.”
“Right. Yes.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as a hint of a blush grows on her cheeks.
