Chapter One
Rux
“Of course I’m the dragon who has to haul the bloody groceries,” Rux muttered, hefting a ten-pound bag of flour into his cart with more force than strictly necessary. The bag landed with a satisfying thud against the metal basket.
He turned down the baking aisle, his boots squeaking against the pristine linoleum. Harrison kept the place spotless - almost aggressively so. It was probably why half the town treated it like a damn social club.
A jar of vanilla extract joined the flour. Then cinnamon. Then nutmeg, because theCrème Bruléhe’d attempted last week had been missing something, and Mabon had been too polite to say what. Urien, on the other hand, had helpfully suggested it tasted like “sweet, scrambled eggs.”
Dragon shifter and ancient protector of the realm, reduced to grocery shopping on a Tuesday afternoon.
Meanwhile, Mabon was probably curled up in his favorite chair by the library fire, reading one of those leather-bound tomes he loved so much. And Urien? Urien was definitely still in bed, the lazy bastard, claiming he needed to “conserve his energy” after last night’s patrol.
Which hadn’t really been a patrol, because they had no attackers to bother them, but when ancient dragons need a good excuse to stretch their wings, calling it “patrol” was a good enough reason. Rux had been on the same patrol. He’d gotten up at dawn anyway.
“Rux! Is that you?”
He didn’t need to turn around to recognize Mrs. Channing’s voice. The woman had a talent for appearing whenever he hoped to slip through town unnoticed.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Channing.” He grabbed a bag of brown sugar and studied the nutrition label.
“I haven’t seen you in weeks. How are Mabon and Urien?”
“Alive. Consuming my cooking. The usual.”They could make these labels more interesting.
“You’re such a dear, always taking care of them.” She patted his arm, her shopping basket bumping against his elbow. “My Harold never cooks. He won’t even boil water for tea.”
Rux grunted something noncommittal. His cart was looking good now - eggs, cream, and butter were the beginnings of something ambitious. Maybe a chocolate torte, something rich enough to make Urien groan in that particular way that meant Rux had outdone himself.
Worth the trek into town? Maybe.
Worth missing the comfortable sprawl of home, where he could’ve been doing literally anything else? Debatable.
“Are you making something special?” Mrs. Channing peered into his cart like a curious cat.
“Torte.”
“How lovely! You know, my nephew is visiting next week, and he’s single…”
“Taken. Very taken. Extremely taken.” Rux steered his cart around her, heading toward the dairy section before she could launch into her nephew’s credentials – something she’d done at least a dozen times before.
The cream selection was pathetic. Harrison’s stocked exactly two brands, and one of them was the ultra-pasteurized nonsense that barely qualified as cream. Rux grabbed four containers of the decent stuff, already calculating ratios in his head.
Two eggs per cup of cream. Dark chocolate, not milk. Maybe some espresso powder to deepen the flavor.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Rux pulled it out.
Don’t forget bread, Mabon’s text read.
Then, three seconds later:The good kind
Rux stared at the screen and then typed out a response.
Getting ingredients for torte. You want bread, too?
Please? Urien ate the last of it this morning
Of course he did
