His mother spent the evening crying with relief and leftover betrayal, Alaric comforting her. If they got the money back soon, they could probably get the bigger issues with the house taken care of before winter. He was just glad that his mother wouldn’t spend the rest of her life trapped beneath a mortgage she couldn’t pay, eventually losing her family home. Even with his new job, Alaric figured they had less than a year before the house went into foreclosure—but that was a dismal future miraculously averted.
He thought back to a random moment of despair, one that led to him calling a podcast he’d been listening to for a year, and a wish he spoke out loud. He didn’t even believe it would work, and he never listened to the subsequent episodes to see if his wish had been picked for broadcast. He smothered a laugh, thinking fate had for once given him a good turn and changed the course of his life.
Everything was different. The grinding weight of inevitable failure was gone, but his brain was having trouble computing it. He could return to Boston and finish his degree if he wanted or stay in Montreal. His mother still needed him, even with most of the money recovered—she was still vulnerable to predatory assholes and there was no way he was going to leave without meeting and vetting any contractors hired to finish the renovations. After Shivens conned her and took off with her money, his mother suffered a mental breakdown, and her health overall was already poor, leading to her eventual collapse. Her recovery would take a while.
The loan taken out against the property had been more than twice the amount needed for renovations, and they’d already decided to pay back a huge chunk of the loan that wasn’t needed, and then renegotiate a lower interest rate so the payments wouldn’t kill them both.
Alaric hopped out of the car and looked up at the skyscraper. The sky was clear and bright blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the wind was warm and smelled of water off the river. He adjusted the strap of his satchel on his shoulder, and biting his lip, strode with determination and some trepidation for the lobby doors. The trip to the top floor was quick, and Alaric only stopped long enough to deposit his coat and satchel on his barren desk before heading down the hall and around the corner.
He passed Cariste’s desk, the fae typing away at their computer, and they called a hello as he passed. Alaric could see Tarquin standing in his office, looking out over the city, the door open. He stepped inside, and pushed the door shut. Tarquin moved his head just a bit, tensing, aware Alaric was there.
Neither of them spoke, silence heavy between them. Heart in his throat, he swallowed and took a few steps forward. Tarquin turned and stared back at him, his storm-colored eyes peaceful, watchful.
“You…” Alaric paused and swallowed. He took a deep breath and started again. “Somehow, someway, you found the bastard who took Mom’s money, got him arrested. There’s no way that bastard didn’t spend it all, so you forked over nearly a quarter of a million dollars and saved my family. It had to be you—the police had zero leads, and I know they gave up weeks ago. I don’t know how you knew, but you did. You saved us.”
Tarquin’s lips quirked in a faint smile. He came around the desk and stopped a couple feet away. Alaric reached out, and his hand landed over Tarquin’s heart, his fingers curling into the expensive fabric of the jacket. “I merely had Cariste look into the matter. I then took a short flight to Toronto, and the police got a late-night present dropped on their laps.”
Alaric should be mad. Right? Any reasonable person would be mad at the intrusion into their personal lives by someone they just met, but after living beneath such an impossible debt and a growing feeling of helplessness for weeks, Alaric found he didn’t care. Tarquin did something selfless and kind and saved his mother. He was making a habit of saving people named Keening.
“Thank you,” Alaric breathed out, not fighting the tears of relief that fell from his lashes. “You saved my life, and then my mother’s. Thank you.”
A warm hand came up and fingers gently brushed away his tears, and he was folded into a pair of strong arms and cradled gently to a muscled chest. He cried, something he hadn’t done since his parents split when he was ten, and Tarquin held him as if he were someone precious. Hands rubbed his back, Tarquin murmuring to him softly, and a kiss landed on his temple. He shivered, lifting his head, and looked up at Tarquin, who was smiling down at him with something akin to wonder.
He pushed up on his toes slowly, watching, and the welcome he saw in those stormy eyes spurred him to close the distance. Tarquin’s lips were soft but firm, the taste of his mouth clean and the way his tongue moved over Alaric’s spoke of confidence and pure fucking power. He trembled, and the arms around his waist lifted him higher, the angle of the kiss deepening, growing languid and drugging. A growl originating from Tarquin reverberated through them both, and he clung all the tighter.
Lack of air broke them apart, Alaric panting, heart racing. “We, um,” he blushed hard. “Probably just broke every HR rule about sexual conduct in the office.”
Tarquin smiled, fangs glinting. “Does kissing your boss bother you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Can I have another?”
“My treasure may have as many kisses as he wishes,” Tarquin said, leaning down and gently nipping along Alaric’s jaw. “I can deny you nothing.”
“Your, your treasure?” The way Tarquin said it made it seem important and special, and not just a term of endearment.
“My treasure,” Tarquin declared smugly, though he hesitated for a second. “If you want to be. Your gifts call to my power, and my heart is yours already.”
Tarquin waited, hoping. Alaric was wrapped around him, breathing hard, lips wet and red from their kiss. Happiness and confusion tumbled about in his gemstone eyes, and he was afraid that his declaration was too much, too soon.
Alaric shivered in his arms, and suddenly the human’s shields were gone, dropped away. Alaric lunged and Tarquin returned the fervent kiss, and their magics swirled about the room, twining and joining. It confirmed Tarquin’s budding theory—Alaric was his treasure, a mortal meant to be cherished by a dragon, loved and adored. Tarquin was glad he was the dragon to find this particular treasure and not someone else, someone who wouldn’t be the right fit for Alaric. Any treasure could bond with any compatible dragon, but the bond was made stronger with emotions and desire, contact and the conscious choice to pursue the connection between dragon and treasure. In days long past, dragons acquired a bad reputation for stealing mortal treasures and holding them until they escaped or a bond developed. He knew of many treasures unhappily sequestered in a cave or den, an abandoned castle or tower, with a malcontent dragon sulking that the treasure they happened upon wanted nothing to do with them—and he swore to never be that type of dragon.
He wanted Alaric to want to be his, to choose to be his treasure.
Alaric drew strength from Tarquin, allowing him to better defend himself and use his gifts, and Tarquin was gifted with someone to love, satisfying and fulfilling an instinctive, powerful need ingrained in dragons to hoard. A rare occurrence older than time itself, a dragon’s treasure was a gift he never thought to receive in his very long life.
Alaric moaned into the kiss, head falling back, and Tarquin remembered where they were. He begrudgingly withdrew, helping Alaric stay on his feet, tucking him to his chest and soothing him with long strokes along his back.