Page 2 of Kidnapped By The Messy Dragon

My dragon has been off all morning, sleepy and restless at once. I chalk it up to a mood and finish my stack.

Malachi taps his tablet dark and pushes back from the table. “I’m driving into Millbrook this morning. There’s a piece of land on the east side about to go cheap, and the seller wants to shake hands in person.”

I stop chewing.

Millbrook has a whole notebook to itself in my room. My brothers don’t know that, and they wouldn’t ask why if they did. If it can’t be traded, banked, or built on, it doesn’t exist to them.

“What time?” I ask.

Malachi looks up from his tablet. Dorian pauses with his own plate half-loaded.

“When did you get curious about day trading and real estate?” Malachi asks.

I shrug and get up from the table.

My brothers hoard money. The clan safe runs down through the heart of this mountain, and feeding it is their favorite thing on this earth. I hoard truths, sources, and the real story under the polite one. They’ve never understood my hoard, and I quit explaining it a long time ago. Answering honestly gets me the speech about wasted instincts, and I don’t feel like hearing it over breakfast.

So I say nothing. I carry my plate to the sink and run it under hot water.

Dorian finishes loading his plate and takes the chair beside Malachi. “I don’t love you going in alone,” he says to Malachi.

I dry my hands on the dish towel and lean back against the counter. “He’s right. They don’t like us in Millbrook, and shifter money buying their land will sit even worse.”

“Money speaks louder than hatred,” Malachi says with a shrug.

Dorian doesn’t argue. Neither do I. Our money keeps half of Millbrook running, and they hate us while they spend it. Go figure.

My dragon stops sulking and pays attention. Heat climbs up through my chest, and my wings itch where they lie flat under my skin.

“Then I’m coming with you.” I hang the dish towel back on its hook. “For your safety.”

Malachi turns in his chair to face me. “What are you up to?”

Doubt has a smell. On Malachi it’s vinegar, and the kitchen is thick with it.

I put on my best press-conference grin. “Brotherly love.”

Dorian doesn’t answer my grin. He pulls his phone from his shirt pocket and sets it on the table with the volume already up.

My own voice fills the kitchen with its late-show polish. “—and before y’all light up my comments, know that I stand by my reporting. Nyra, baby, the crib is already ordered. It’s cherry wood. This is Messy Jay reminding you—where there’s smoke, I’m probably the fire.”

Malachi missed the live. He drags a hand down his face.

Dorian stops the playback. “Why do you want this town to hate us so much?”

I roll my eyes. “I love what I do. The show keeps this valley informed, and half these people wouldn’t know their neighbors’ names if I didn’t say them on air. Everyone keeps to themselves and calls it respect. It’s isolating, and I think it’s stupid.”

“The quiet keeps the peace in this valley,” Malachi says. He leans forward with his elbows on the table. “Packs mind their business, clans mind ours, and no one goes to war over a rumor. Just because you hate the quiet doesn’t mean you get to pull shit like last night.”

I could recite this speech right along with him, and I know exactly how to end it.

“Now who’s the real snitch in this kitchen?” I wave at Dorian’s phone.

Dorian keeps eating. Malachi stands and tucks his tablet under his arm.

Everyone’s a critic these days.

“Make yourself presentable if you’re coming,” Malachi says to me. “We leave in an hour.”