“That,” she replied serenely, wiping a crumb from her lip, “is for your dry skin. You look a bit weathered, dear.”
His jaw dropped.
“That’s not what I asked for,” he growled, the vibration rattling the jars on the shelves.
“What you’re experiencing,” she said, her voice dropping to a gentle, lethal softness that cut through his frustration, “is not something I can cure, ease, or suppress. There isn’t an herb in this world that can silence a dragon’s heart once it’s found its home.”
“I thought you had a remedy for everything.”
“I do,” Myrtle said. “Just not a way out of your own destiny.”
“Can you at least try?”
He hated how desperate he sounded. He was desperate—a drowning man looking for a life raft, and she was handing him moisturizer.
She only shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes.
“Go home, Rhavor. Put some cream on your face. You’re going to want to look your best tomorrow.”
He left the shop holding a jar of face moisturizer and absolutely no idea what to do next.
The bell above the door had barely stopped ringing when he spotted his aunt waving from across the street.
“Fuck.”
She was at his side in no time, a whirlwind of floral perfume and high energy that he had no hope of outrunning.
“I was just getting—” he started, trying to shove the jar into his pocket.
“Oh, never mind that,” she said, looping her arm through his with a grip that suggested he wasn’t going anywhere. “I wanted to talk to you. I have a favor to ask.”
That never boded well. Favors from his aunt usually involved manual labor or social humiliation.
“There’s a charity auction at the pub tomorrow.”
“Myrtle might have mentioned something,” he muttered.
“Oh, good. Very good.”
His aunt looked suspiciously pleased, a glint in her eye that made his scales itch.
“I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow. A representative role. Just be there. And Rhavor?” She patted his arm. “Wear something nice. Something more presentable than a T-shirt that’s seen better days.”
“What do you mean?” he growled, feeling the walls closing in.
“Oh, you know. Something that says, ‘I’m a successful farmer,’ and not, ‘I just wrestled a cow.’”
An uneasy prickle slid down his spine—a warning of a trap he was already walking into.
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to hide in his farmhouse until the scent of vanilla was a distant memory.
“Alright,” he said at last, defeated by the one woman he couldn’t growl at.
His aunt beamed, her face lighting up like the sun.
