He grimaced and continued his exaggerated stalk up the stairs. Tomás was standing in front of his bedroom closet, wings raised, tail lashing like a whip.
“Ohhh nooo,” Corin said, dramatically reeling back. “I’ve been found out! The powerful dragon is defending his hoard!”
“Scree!” cried Tomás, delighted. “Raar! Raar!”
“What a powerful dragon,” Maya croaked weakly. She was leaning against the doorframe. Sagging against it, if Corin ever dared use such an inelegant word to describe his mate.
“You’ve defeated me,” Corin told Tomás gravely, and sank, defeatedly, to the floor.
The energy buzzing from Tomás’s mind changed. The frenetic sense of wanting to do a thousand things at once, none of them sleep, was gone, replaced by a smugness so intense Corin felt himself smirking. As thoughhewas the one who’d just successfully defended his hoard.
Instead of the one who hadn’t even noticed when it was stolen from.
His dragon grumbled, but even that reminder couldn’t entirely puncture the overflow happiness from Tomás’s victory. Something inside him softened as he looked down at the little dragonling—then up, as Tomás flew into the cupboard to retrieve his hoard-box.
“Oh, so now you’re gonna show off everything Mr. Blackburn failed to steal from you? Is that it?” Maya asked, helping him.
“Sss!”
“Okay. At least you’re not—” She winced and shook her head. “I’m not even going to tempt fate by mentioning it.”
They sat together on the rug as Tomás prowled over his treasure. The sun was long gone, but the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the gold and jewels, making them glitter enticingly as Tomás picked through them. He held up the pieces one by one to be inspected—and to wait for Corin to compliment them, and bewail his failure to steal them away—before whisking them away safely behind him again.
Maya nudged him. “You look happier.”
“I’m pleased to have solved your problem,” he said, avoiding the truth.
“Hmph. That problem isn’t solved until he’s actually asleep,” she retorted. She searched his face. “That’s not all, is it? You were in a towering bad mood when I got off work.”
“I can’t deny that. And you’re right. I do feel better now.” The stress was still there, but it was … muted, under whatever this strange, satisfied feeling was.
“Seeing Tomás with his hoard helps you?” she asked wonderingly. He was wondering the same thing. “But—it’s notyourgold.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “My mate’s child has a hoard worthy of a great dragon. All is right with the world.”
“It worked, though.”
“Yes. Somehow, it worked.”
Play.It was such a foreign concept to him. Even as a child, he’d never roughhoused with other dragons. The rules against stealing children’s hoards didn’t count between children, but none of his cousins had ever dared touch any of his treasure. Not even in pretend.
A heavy weight dragged on his heart. Wasn’t it a good thing that they respected him even then?
He sat back, and let his uncomfortable thoughts fade to a background rumble as his dragon looked out contentedly through his eyes. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, and circlets—Tomás’s hoard was a very respectable, traditional selection for a young dragon. The watch was an excellent modern touch. The fact that the watch had once been his own … he couldn’t quite put words to the feeling. Usually, the loss of part of his hoard would leave him in a worse mood than a visit from the Dans, but the sight of Tomás with the stolen watch filled him with a pride that was different to what he felt about his own hoard. A pride that was mixed with excitement to see the little boy grow and come into his own as a dragon shifter.
Maya sighed and scootched her feet under herself. The movement brought her closer to him, until their thighs pressed together. “I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise, given you…” She shook her head, color rising on her cheeks. “Never mind.”
He cocked his head and inspected her. Was she embarrassed? Or…
He reached out, light as a greenscale trying to lift a coronet from a grand dame and just as obvious. She rolled her eyes at him and took his hand, pulling it onto her lap and tucking it between her own.
He had seen her hands a thousand times. A very few times, in their old life, he had touched them: when she passed something to him, or in the confusion of reaching for something at the same time. He knew the delicacy and quick confidence of her touch on the other side of too many layers of clothes when she brushed his jacket before a meeting or fixed his tie.
He knew the touch of her lips against his. Her fingertips exploring his face and his body, with that same quick confidence. The way her whole body tightened as she came, the curl of fingers at the nape of his neck and the shuddering gasps that followed.
But every time she reached for him felt like the first time.
He wanted to engrave the moment in gold and keep it in the very heart of his hoard.
