“I think we have something they might want more than a simple payout.”
Julian and Arla exchanged a sharp, knowing glance.
“What?” Rhavor asked, suspicion flaring.
“A Drakoryte seed.”
“It’s already planted,” Rhavor said, thinking of his own inheritance. “In the back field.”
“Not yours, little dragon. Mine,” Vera said.
All their eyes turned to her. The air in the kitchen thickened, heavy with the weight of old magic.
“You have a Drakoryte seed?” Rhavor asked, his voice a whisper. “I thought it was only passed down the male lineage. Grandfather was specific.”
“Well, your grandfather didn’t know whether he would have any male heirs in the end, did he? He was a practical man. He left me the Drakoryte as a backup. Your seed came from your father’s side.”
“I can’t take your seed, Vera. That’s your legacy.” Rhavor shook his head.
“You can and you will,” she said firmly.
“A Drakoryte seed,” Arla breathed. Even Julian went silent.
“It’s extremely valuable on the human collectors’ market,” Arla continued, her tactical mind already spinning. “Rare. Coveted. It would buy you enough breathing room to sort out the deposit.”
Rhavor’s jaw tightened until it clicked. “I’m not trading our heritage.”
“What about the farm?” Sylvie said softly. She stepped closer, right into that radiator-heat radiating off his body. “You love this place, Rhavor. You’re attached to it. Isn’t this land part of your heritage now, too? It’s what gives you strength.”
She met his gaze with everything she had, letting him see the fierce, unwavering belief in her eyes.
“You know how collectors are,” Vera said. “They have more money than sense. The moment something truly rare appears—it becomes priceless.”
He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he understood leverage.
“I can draft a proposal,” Arla said, already reaching for a pen. “Offer an alternative settlement. Give them something to chew on while we dig in.”
“An alternative,” he repeated slowly, his gaze still locked on Sylvie.
Arla nodded once.
And for the first time that night, it felt as though the tide might be turning.
Chapter 21: Sylvie
The rest of the day was a total wash. Sylvie’s head wasn’t in the bakery; it was miles away at the farm with her dragon.
Julian, of course, was being an absolute menace.
“Should we keep a backup supply of extra-thick whipped cream on standby?” he asked, his voice dripping with that bright, insufferable cheer as he polished a display tray. “In case the big guy gets peckish again? Or did he finish the job?”
She tried to freeze him out with a look, but it was hard to be intimidating when her face burned like a forest fire every time the memory flickered—the way Rhavor’s tongue hadcleanedthe cream off her skin.
She was so distracted she performed a mental nosedive, cranking the oven to near-volcanic levels. She managed to incinerate an entire tray of apple turnovers in record time. Bobby stared at the blackened, pathetic husks of pastry as if she’d personally insulted his entire bloodline.
“That’s it,” he grumbled, physically steering her toward the door. “Time for you to go before you burn the whole street down.”
She didn’t even argue. She couldn’t wait to see Rhavor.
