She and Hers

9 - Treasure

Cort

My mouth holds a very particular taste. It makes my throat itch and swell as if I'm having an allergic reaction. My dragon is pissed at the familiar tang of blood on my tongue.

Our sweet, darling wife's blood.

Fuck.

Our bonded mating and my dragon magic make it very difficult for my tricky little wife to spell me successfully. Blood magic, specifically made with her blood, is the only way to ensure even a modicum of success. To my chagrin, it only takes her one drop to... get the drop on me.

My single laugh is a rasping, rusty sound. I cut it off as soon as my throat starts to ache. Nude and unsteady, I climb to my feet, looking around our playroom blearily. Fuck. Sex was the perfect distraction to get me to let down my guard. My wife knows me well.

With the first step away from the long, low bench I was sleeping on, I almost fall down. I grab the wall, digging my toes into the wood floor to try and find some purchase. My dragon lurches inside me, urging me on as I stumble toward the door. His fire burns the last remnants of the spell away, and my legs grow steadier.

I find Holden asleep on the couch. He's tucked under the cashmere throw with a small pillow under his head. On the coffee table, there are two beers and two plates of food.

The scene reeks of wolf.

I head toward the kitchen first, drinking two glasses of water before I bring one to Holden and leave it on the coffee table. With the other glass in my hand, I head to the bedroom to make sure Sam is weathering Chiara's magic well.

I stare at the pristine bed blankly in the last bedroom I search. Something stings my palm. I finally tear my eyes away from the empty space to look at the glass shards and the dripping blood in my hand.

An hour later, I stare up at my fancy, coffered ceiling. There are three distinct burn marks. I need to have it repainted. I should think about colors instead of desperately trying to swallow down the fear that I'm about to lose everything.

I can't go back to having nothing. I watched Chiara scorn me, hate me, for nearly a decade. Then, she thawed, but only the slightest bit. I deserved it all, but I can't go back to that.

A knock on the door pulls me out of my funk enough to call out, "enter." I hope it's Chiara, but then the door swings open and the worst possible creature enters. Muscles, sex, and wolf struts inside my space as if he owns it.

"Sam," I say flatly. "It's Saturday. Working overtime cleaning those trashcans?" I mock his low position as I pick up my pen made of gold and twirl it in my hand.

"Taking out the trash is my job," he drawls slowly. The pen wilts in my hand as molten gold drips onto the desk. Sam takes a step into my office, across the room, twenty feet away, and shuts the door behind him with a decisive click.

His body is tense, muscles bulging under a very familiar-looking jacket. Pretty sure the fucker is wearing my clothes. He looks good in the black leather, too, the fuck. His fingers are flexing in and out, flashing blackened fingernails sharpening into points.

I stand up, slowly, the melted pen dropping to the carpet at my feet, forgotten. "You seem upset, Sammie," I bare my teeth in a mocking smile.

He bares his canines right back. Bigger ones. Fucker. "Why are you down here, instead of up in the penthouse?"

"Where you left me, safe and sound?" I mock.

"Holden is upset," he says to me. "You left him alone up there." He strips off my jacket and tosses it on my thirty-thousand-dollar couch. My Henley looks more than good on him, clinging to his muscles like a glove.