There will be plenty of time for that later, I’m sure.
“The fusion dishes look interesting,” she says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Though I have no idea what ‘ethically sourced dragon pepper’ means.”
“It means Mrs. Brindlewood’s garden is thriving again.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Though I should warn you, her definition of ‘mild spice’ tends to differ from human standards.”
“Noted. No dragon peppers for the fragile human.” She looks up from the menu with a grin. “Though I think I’ve proven I can handle quite a bit of heat, wouldn’t you say?”
The way she looks at me through her lashes while making that comment has my tail coiling tighter beneath the table, aching to wrap around her once more. But before I can respond with something deeply inappropriate for public dining, movement catches my eye. A small shape darts under our table, followed by a distinct tugging sensation on my tail.
I look down to find a puppy—or what appears to be a puppy until its form shifts slightly, revealing patches of almost human-like skin. A were-child, barely old enough to control its shifts, has decided that my tail makes an excellent chew toy.
Aubrey’s hand flies to her mouth, but not before I catch her delighted grin. “Oh my God, that’s adorable.”
“I’m not certain ‘adorable’ is the word I’d use,” I say dryly, though I keep my tail deliberately still to avoid startling the child. The pup’s teeth can’t penetrate my scales, but its enthusiasm is admirable.
“Harrison!” A panicked whisper comes from nearby. “Harrison, you get back here right this instant!”
A young couple hurries over—the werewolf and his human wife I noticed earlier. The woman’s face is bright red with embarrassment.
“We are so sorry,” she says, while her husband tries to coax the pup out from under the table. “He’s just started shifting, and he gets excited around other supernatural beings. Harrison, sweetie, please stop trying to eat the nice naga’s tail.”
“It’s quite all right,” I assure them, though I’m more focused on the way Aubrey’s eyes have softened as she watches the child. “I’m sure he’s never seen a tail as long as mine.”
The joke, awkward as it is, breaks the tension. The werewolf husband grins, finally managing to scoop up his squirming son. “Yeah, he’s overly curious. The last time we went out, he was enamored with a dragon’s wing. Though I have to say, you’re taking this much better than she did.”
“Dragons can be rather precious about their appendages,” I agree, remembering Mrs. Brindlewood’s lengthy rants about proper wing etiquette—which really just amounts to: Don’t touch a dragon’s wings, ever.
“We should let you get back to your dinner,” the woman says, before the two usher their child back to their table.
“That was adorable,” Aubrey says once they’re gone, her eyes still sparkling. “Though I have to say, you handled that surprisingly well for someone who rearranges entire display cases when customers touch them without permission.”
“Those displays are meticulously organized,” I protest, though I know she’s teasing. “And some of those items are dangerous.Unlike my tail, which apparently makes an adequate teething toy.”
“Adequate? That kid was living his best life down there.” She takes another sip of wine, and I find myself tracking the movement of her throat. “It’s sweet, seeing families like that.”
“It sure is,” I say, trying to keep the longing out of my voice as I focus back on the menu.
Not much later, Aubrey orders something called “Mediterranean-Djinn Fusion” that arrives wreathed in blue flames, while I try a dish that blends traditional Thai spices with ingredients specifically cultivated for supernatural palates. The food is excellent, but I’m more captivated by how animated she becomes describing a history podcast about monster artifacts she’s been enjoying.
The wine disappears slowly as we talk, conversation flowing easier with each glass. She tells me about growing up in Houston, about her dreams of maybe going back to school someday. I share stories of my centuries as a guardian, carefully edited to make her laugh rather than remind her of the vast age difference between us. When she reaches across the table to steal a bite from my plate, the casual intimacy of it catches me off guard in the best way.
By the time we finish our meal, I’ve almost forgotten to be self-conscious about being in public. The restaurant has thinned out, the lighting has grown softer, and Aubrey’s cheeks are reddened beautifully from the wine. She’s in the middle of telling me abouther grandmother’s infamous holiday cooking disasters when a shadow falls across our table.
“Aubrey?” The man’s voice is carefully neutral, but something in it makes Aubrey’s entire demeanor change. The warmth drains from her face as she looks up.
“Derek,” she says, and I instantly understand who this stranger is. “What are you doing here?”
Derek’s expensive suit and carefully styled hair speak of someone who puts great stock in appearances. But what truly draws my attention is how Aubrey seems to shrink in his presence, her earlier vibrancy nowhere to be found.
Something ancient and protective stirs in me. This man might not recognize the warning signals my body is unconsciously displaying—the slight flare of my hood, the way my pupils have shifted to slits—but his hindbrain does. He takes half a step back before catching himself.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Derek says to Aubrey, pointedly ignoring my presence. “This place seems a bit exotic for your tastes.”
The slight emphasis he places on ‘exotic’ makes my temperature drop several degrees. I haven’t felt this particular combination of rage and possessiveness since my temple guardian days.
Aubrey opens her mouth to respond, but I can sense her distress, feel how her pulse races with anxiety. And suddenly,I understand exactly why she left him, even if it left her in a desperate financial state.
I’ve spent centuries protecting precious things. Now, watching Derek’s calculated attempt to diminish her, I realize I’ve never had something quite so worth protecting.
