Page 188 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

The moment ended, but it didn’t vanish.

It stayed in my hands. In my mouth. In the place beneath my ribs where fear had been and something larger now stood beside it.

Quinn looked toward the hall.

Max had already turned, body low and ready.

I released her only because I had to.

“We finish this,” I said.

She nodded, then wiped dust from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Together?”

There were several responsible answers.

I chose the only true one.

“Together.”

Then we ran toward the heart of the house.

26

QUINN

BURN DIMITRIS!

Running toward the heart of a phoenix’s mansion after kissing a dragon in a room full of thieves was not, strictly speaking, part of my career plan.

Then again, neither was “intern accidentally locates missing war relic on rich-person television,” so at some point a woman had to accept that her five-year plan needed to be more flexible.

Rafe moved ahead of me through the hall, all hard focus and barely leashed heat. The kiss had changed something. It was a ridiculous thought to have while following a retired military dog past shattered glass and disabled security panels, but my brain had chosen a terrible time to become a scrapbook.

His hands on my face. His mouth on mine. The instant he had stopped holding himself back.

I tripped over a fallen frame and caught myself on the wall.

Rafe whirled around. “Quinn.”

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly fell.”

“Gravity has been hostile toward me since childhood.”

His eyes moved over me, fast and assessing, before he faced forward again. “Stay close.”

Max pulled us toward the back of the house, nose low, body tight and purposeful. The mansion had gone wrong around us. A few minutes ago, it had been all polished stone and smugly arranged history. Now the emergency lights painted the halls in red, turning marble floors slick-looking and strange. Smoke curled faintly along the ceiling, thin enough to see through but sharp enough to taste. Somewhere nearby, water dripped in a steady, nervous rhythm, and broken glass crunched beneath Rafe’s shoes as we passed a display case that had been emptied so quickly one velvet stand still rocked in place.

The fire hadn’t spread far. Whatever blast had opened the east gallery had been meant to breach, not burn. Someone had planned this carefully. They had known where the cameras were, where the alarms fed, which rooms mattered and which priceless things could be shoved aside like clutter.

We passed a bronze mask lying face-down on the floor, its placard still neatly upright beside it. A carved screen had been knocked crooked against the wall. One of Dimitris’s flame fountains sputtered behind a glass door, throwing orange light over the smoke.

Then Max stopped short.

We found Dimitris at the entrance to the lower gallery. Young, beautiful, furious, and holding what looked like a bronze spear pulled from one of his own displays.

Two masked thieves were unconscious at his feet.