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

“It’s Old Draconic, then Latin, and then the usual split—English, Spanish, Mandarin... If I had to guess, I wouldn’t think you wanted to talk about linguistics.” He pulled into the long, curved driveway that led up to the Marcus house. It was a slide going down to the inevitable. He parked, but it didn’t feel like it stopped whatever was happening. His dragon was coiled and watchful, muscles tensed, eyes watchful.

Our mate is troubled.

We’ll resolve this and then move on, Theo said. Out with the old and in with the new.

Out loud, he said, “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I already made you drive here.”

“You didn’t make me drive you anywhere. I would—”

“What if I’m like my dad?”

It had gotten darker on their drive, the evening ushering in a gray and lavender twilight heavy with clouds, not dragon weather at all. The sky and the dome light of the car turned Jillian’s face into a succession of shadows.

He could say that she was nothing like her father. He believed that to be the truth. Gordon Marcus, dazzled by easily-obtained wealth, greedy for more, had never known what real treasure was; his hoard was massive but accumulated by price tag and not by taste. The finest, most impressive piece he’d owned had been the handmade lace, and from where it had wound up, Theo was sure he had gotten it by accident and hadn’t known its value. Jillian saw the real worth of things. Dragons collected what was good and fine, but it was people like his mate who made and protected that finery, people like his mate who kept the world a place where beauty could occur. He believed in her goodness absolutely.

But that same goodness was what brought her to worry about whether or not it was there, so there was no arguing with it. And Jillian was practical. She would prefer a solution to reassurance.

Theo said, “Do you remember the color of my scales?”

“No,” Jillian said. “I’ve completely forgotten what the only dragon I’ve ever seen looked like.”

“I don’t know. Maybe your mind was still fogged with lust.”

“Around you, that’s a given.”

His dragon preened—dammit, he preened too. He wasn’t adverse to pride. But there was more serious business at hand.

“Everyone in my valley has the same colors. Different patterns, different markings, but always red and gold, over and over again throughout the generations. The story is that it’s because all our wealth, all our gold, once came from blood, in one way or another, from theft or murder or war. In our shame, we were marked for it. Now we try as hard as we can to live honorably, with our colors as living reminders of what happens when you prize your hoard above your heart.”

“I can’t ever see you doing that.”

“I hope I wouldn’t. But, because I think of it sometimes, I may try harder to live well.” He cleared his throat. “I do know that people, and dragons more than other people, do terrible things for gold. And I know that I love gold.” He traced her collarbone with one finger and watched her shiver. Her skin was like warm silk. “So I remember that that could get me into trouble. Do you want something to help you remember? I don’t think you need it.”

Her smile made her face more visible, the starlight reflecting off her teeth. He even thought her teeth were cute. It was no surprise that Magda had sprayed them. “What if I want you to paint me red and gold?”

A spring seemed to tighten inside him. Yes, please. He imagined drawing his finger, the pad of it wet and the color of raspberries, of rubies, across her breasts. Imagined circling her nipples, teasing her with the warmth of his hand close but never quite touching where her flesh pebbled up. He would put gold dust in her navel. He couldn’t wait to adorn her with the best of his hoard, to gild her wrists with heavy golden bracelets and her throat with emeralds that would sparkle darkly near her lush hair.

“I’ve distracted you,” Jillian said. She didn’t sound upset about it all.

He could not take her to bed in his car in the driveway of her father’s house, and all the beds inside would have been dismantled by now. But he felt that he had to have something—and that, moreover, he had to give her something.

But she was far ahead of him. She unbuckled her seatbelt and slipped out into the cool night, whispering to him, “Inside.”

Who cared about dismantled beds? They had floors. They had walls. Any flat surface would do when they were in this kind of mood. He hurried out to join her.

Jillian gave a short, cut off scream, and Theo darted in front of her, his gun already drawn. Seeing what had made her cry out was not as reassuring as it could have been.

The nutcrackers were once again lined up in battalions, their maniacal chompy grins frozen in their knowing little laughs. Theo hated them almost as much as his dragon did.

“Gretchen,” he growled. “I’m sorry. It’s her idea of a joke. I know these were all marked to be packed up—and maybe burned.”

“I think they packed and unpacked them,” Jillian said. She nudged a torn-open cardboard box with her foot. “So I’ll say this for her, she really committed. A lot of people would have given up once they encountered that much packing tape.”

“It scared you.” And me. He pulled out of his phone. “I’ll text her. This isn’t acceptable. What if you’d been alone? What if you’d jumped back and tripped and hurt yourself?”

“I’m not in a Three Stooges sketch,” Jillian protested.