Page 63 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Instead, I looked down at Max, who had placed his head on his paws and appeared to be listening with professional discretion.

“I enjoy flying,” I said.

Quinn’s expression softened at once, and that made the answer feel less casual than I’d intended. “In dragon form?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

There was no greed in the question. No hunger for spectacle. I’d fielded a thousand variations of it from people who wanted to be close to rarity, who wanted a story, who wanted to say they had spoken to a dragon and been told something impressive. Quinn asked as if she understood there was a difference between admission and a performance.

I swirled the whiskey in the glass, watching the city lights bend through the glass.

“Some days it feels like relief,” I said. “My human body is not a poor fit, exactly, but it is an incomplete one. My dragon form is larger, obviously. Stronger. But it is also simpler. Every sensation is different in that form. Wind, weather, altitude. Scent. Heat. Distance. My body knows what to do before my mind begins making arguments.”

Quinn had gone still beside me.

I felt the silence and realized I’d said more than I meant to.

“That sounds beautiful,” she said.

“It is.” The admission sat between us, quiet and bare.

She looked down at Max. “He’s flown more than I have. Not on dragons, obviously. Unless the military has a division I don’t know about, which honestly, with Olden Folk, wouldn’t surprise me.”

“They do not.”

“You answered that very quickly.”

“I would know.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes cut to mine, curious but careful. “Because of your family?”

“In part.”

I looked out the window again as we passed a row of restaurants, their windows bright with people leaning over tables, hands moving as they spoke. It was easier to talk to glass and reflection than to Quinn’s direct attention. “My father’s side has business with many American wolf packs. The business deals with logistics. Olden Folk communities often prefer to keep certain supply chains within trusted networks.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “If you’re moving magical goods, you probably don’t want some random guy named Chad from a freight company asking why the crate is growling.”

I glanced at her.

She lifted one shoulder. “I assume at least one crate has growled.”

“Probably.”

“I knew it.” Her mouth curved, and I felt the answering pull in my own before I stopped it.

“My father is Italian, and a wolf shifter. His family built the business over generations.”

“And your mother?”

The question was gentle. Still, my hand tightened around the tumbler before I made it release.

“My mother is Aoi Fujimori-Virelli,” I said. “Her mother was Irish American and her father Japanese American. Dragon.”