The Dragon Marshal's Treasure (U.S. Marshal Shifters 1)

“You’re not in my hair,” Theo said. He snapped his mouth shut and hesitated, like he had to translate what he was about to say before he said it. “But yes. Thank you. A tour would be lovely.”

Lovely? She decided she liked that. Maybe the same parents who had banned their son from waterparks had taught him Old World courtesy, too.

She did wonder about his childhood—that was a hazard of her job, trying to see everyone’s younger self in their eyes. He had said his family was strict and her work had taught her how many sins could hide under the cover of that particular word. Some of the worst parents she had ever known, ones who would make her own look like Pa and Ma Ingalls, had been the kind to pride themselves on their “tough love” and their ability to teach their kids “how to have manners and show the proper respect.”

She felt a hot, sharp flash of anger at the thought of anyone mistreating Theo. But he was obviously grown up now and he’d just as obviously done well for himself. Even if he had once needed her outrage, he didn’t need her to come to his defense now. Why did she want to?

She could feel her face heating up, so she turned to walk back out into the foyer. Nothing like a good, brisk real estate tour to hide how much you were blushing.

And nothing like the embarrassment of an entryway filled with the rainbow-colored army of your dad’s unnerving collection to hide why you were blushing. It looked like they were besieged by tiny, angry old men eager to chomp on things.

“These,” she said, “as you can see, are the nutcrackers.”

“Trust me, I noticed. We noticed—I don’t know if you ran into my partner, Gretchen. She went out to check the perimeter.”

She observed with interest that they actually did say things like “check the perimeter.” She also liked the sound of this Gretchen who had ditched the tea party to prowl around the yard with the gun: it wasn’t anything Jillian herself would have done, but it was very much like the detective heroines she’d idolized when she was younger.

“She’ll tell you herself when she comes back,” Theo said, “but I think she almost gave one two shots in the chest. They’re terrifying.”

“To be fair, most of them are carrying swords. Anyone would be nervous facing that many armed men.”

“Marshals never back down in the face of superior numbers,” Theo said gravely. “Even when we have no hope of victory, we go down fighting.” He nudged the nearest nutcracker with the toe of his shoe. “I cannot unleash these on an innocent public without knowing more about them. Are they possessed? Will they come to life?”

“That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

“Maybe I’ll burn them,” Theo said.

He sounded earnest. She wouldn’t mind seeing the official government torching of her dad’s nutcracker collection, come to think of it. She couldn’t seem to uproot the last bit of love for her dad that she had in her heart, despite everything he’d done, but that didn’t change her anger. She wouldn’t mind seeing his treasured, creepy collection go up in a fiery inferno. Especially if Theo were the one dropping the match.

She tugged her shirt col

lar away from her neck, suddenly aware of every little prickle of sweat on her body. Did she smell? What if she smelled? She’d put perfume on this morning but had then spent hours moving boxes around. She must look like a total mess. She could already feel that this morning’s neat ponytail was a thing of the past.

It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t care. He wasn’t here to flirt with her.

Which is a shame.

She gave that thought the acknowledgment it deserved and then did her best to move on.

“Why nutcrackers?” Theo said.

“They’re my dad’s. Were my dad’s.”

“Tiffani mentioned that. But he was rich enough to collect Rolls-Royces if he wanted to. Why nutcrackers?”

“There are a few Rolls-Royces out in the old stables, actually. No ponies, no matter how much I begged, but he converted the space into a garage. Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, Porsches.” But she knew that wasn’t really what Theo had meant, and it was a question worth answering, even if thinking about it made a lump rise in her throat. It was easier to talk about the luxury cars that he had bought and loved only as status symbols. It was easier to talk about what she didn’t like about him than to talk about what she did.

Except she didn’t like the nutcrackers, either, did she? She never had.

Even the better parts of him aren’t parts I like.

Instead of giving her some distance, that just made her sadder and more frustrated at what little of him she had to hold onto.

She gestured to the only one of the nutcrackers she had ever had any interest in. It was more clumsily made than the others, its jacket slightly bumpy where the paint had been slathered on unevenly and too thickly. That nutcracker wore a sky blue coat with glittery gold trim—though most of the glitter had worn off by now—and he carried not a sword but a bouquet of pink roses.

“See that one? My grandmother made it. She used to make toys for him and his sister. This isn’t part of some heartwarming rags-to-riches story, by the way, my grandparents had yachts, too. She was just good at crafts and she liked the idea of giving her children something they couldn’t get with money alone. She was nice. I’m glad—I’m glad she didn’t live to see what he did.”

Her voice had wobbled there for a moment, but she was, she thought with a little bit of pride, holding it together.