Page 58 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Then at my phone again.

Ridiculous.

I’d negotiated shipping contracts with wolf packs who considered “good faith” a weakness. I’d once landed in dragon form on a private airstrip in a thunderstorm because my mother had wandered from the house and refused to come inside until someone showed her where the moon had gone.

So, I could damn well collect Quinn Bradley from her apartment.

I climbed the steps and found the row of buzzers beside the door, each label tucked behind cloudy plastic. Most had faded to illegibility. One had been corrected in pen so many times that it now appeared to belong to three different people and possibly a small business.

I found Bradley after a moment and pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

I waited, then pressed it again.

Still nothing.

I glanced back toward the car, then at the door. Texting from the sidewalk would have been easier, but I’d already committed to the archaic ritual of collecting someone properly, and I resented being thwarted by a broken buzzer in front of a building that apparently maintained the security standards of an unlocked shed.

I tried the handle, and the door opened. I stood there for a second, hand on the metal pull.

“That’s unacceptable,” I muttered.

The lobby beyond was narrow and dim, with tile worn dull in the center and a wall of mailboxes, several of them dented. Someone had taped a handwritten note above the radiator asking tenants not to leave packages unattended because three had gone missing that month. Another note, in a different hand, said MANAGEMENT HAS BEEN NOTIFIED ABOUT THE FRONT DOOR AGAIN.

I stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind me.

It didn’t latch.

I looked at it. Then at the broken buzzer. Then at the stairwell visible past the mailboxes.

I wasn’t concerned, of course. There was no reason to be concerned. Quinn Bradley was a grown woman, an intern at a highly competitive law firm, and the owner of a retired military dog who could remove an intruder’s bad intentions from their body by force. She’d lived here before I’d ever noticed her, and she would continue living here without requiring my opinion.

Still, the door should’ve fucking locked.

I rolled my eyes at myself, which did very little to make my concern less irritating. Apparently, I’d gotten close enough to the woman long enough to develop sentiments about her building’s entry system. Excellent. A perfectly normal progression.

I was considering whether to text her after all when I heard movement above me.

A door opened.

Footsteps approached the stairs, and my thoughts stopped arranging themselves properly.

I’d seen the dress in Octavia’s shop. I’d approved it. I’d watched Quinn stand in front of a spotted mirror while Octavia adjusted the sleeve and muttered about hems. I knew the color was such a deep plum it was almost black until light brought it to life. I knew the beading was restrained enough not to look cheap and distinctive enough not to vanish in a room of people trained to overlook effort.

None of that had prepared me for Quinn wearing it as if the dress had been crafted for her in a bespoke tailor shop instead of something we’d bought in a thrift store.

Her hair was up, but loose strands framed her face. Her makeup didn’t disguise her but clarified her, drawing attention to the soft green of her eyes, the clean line of her mouth, the intelligence in her expression before she even spoke. The earrings Octavia had chosen flashed even in the weak light of the lobby.

At work, Quinn smiled like someone who understood the practical value of warmth. The smile she wore now had no office polish on it, no professional guard, no careful adjustment for audience. It was simply hers, and for a moment the narrow stairwell seemed less dim because she was standing in it.

Max descended first, wearing the plum tie and looking absurdly dignified. He also looked, somehow, aware of the effect.

Quinn followed with one hand on the railing, Max’s lead around her wrist, and the other hand gathering the skirt of her dress to keep it from catching beneath her heels. “Before you say anything, yes, Max knows he looks handsome, and no, he won’t be humble about it.”

“I hadn’t planned to comment on his humility.”

“That’s because you’ve never lived with him. It’s a daily struggle.”