Page 15 of Courted By the Grumpy Dragon (Monsters of Saltford Bay #2)

Chapter Ten

Kraxon

Nina fidgets in the passenger seat, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. She's wearing a navy-blue dress with a matching cardigan. She looks absolutely adorable and sexy at the same time. Her scent is tinged with anxiety, cutting through her usual honeysuckle fragrance like a knife.

I watch as Saltford Bay goes about its regular Tuesday business.

People enter and exit the courthouse, completely oblivious to what's at stake today.

The Halloween decorations adorning the town square with their pumpkins, scarecrows, and fluttering orange banners, seem inappropriately cheerful given my current mood.

The silence between us grows heavier with each passing minute until I finally break it.

"I'll do everything possible to convince Judge Morrison to delay probate," I tell her, my voice steady despite the uncertainty churning in my gut. "Even with Delilah's motion granted, there's still a chance."

Nina nods, meeting my eyes with a trust that hits me squarely in the chest.

"I know you will," she says simply.

The weight of her faith in me is both bolstering and terrifying. I've never had someone believe in me so completely, so unconditionally. Not even myself.

I reach over and take her hand. My scales are warm against her skin, my temperature rising slightly at the contact.

"Wait here. I shouldn't be long."

I lean in, kissing her soft lips passionately, but shortly. She closes her eyes as I brace my forehead against hers, and we stay like this for a few moments longer. But reality catches up, and I move away from her.

As I exit the car, briefcase in hand containing all our evidence, movement across the square catches my eye.

A sleek silver BMW pulls into a parking space near the courthouse steps, and my jaw tightens involuntarily.

Delilah Vance steps out, dressed impeccably in a burgundy skirt suit and white heels.

What is she doing here? Did Trina betray us?

It’s not impossible, given how scared and desperate the pixie assistant is. A faint smell of ashes rise around me as I ascend the courthouse steps, maintaining a measured pace despite my desire to reach Judge Morrison before Delilah does.

Inside, my footsteps echo against marble floors as I stride through the main corridor. I straighten my tie as I approach Judge Morrison's chambers, forcing my temperature to regulate. The elderly clerk seated outside, a human woman with steel-gray hair and half-moon glasses, looks up as I approach.

"Mr. Ashbane," she says, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Judge Morrison is expecting you."

She rises and knocks once on the heavy wooden door before opening it, then introduces me before retreating to her post.

Judge Morrison sits behind an imposing mahogany desk, a tall, balding human in his sixties with shrewd eyes and reading glasses perched on his nose. Behind him, law books line the walls in perfect order, their leather spines gleaming in the light from the tall windows.

"Mr. Ashbane," he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit."

I take the offered seat, placing my briefcase on the floor beside me. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Honor."

"Harold Greaves was a respected member of this community, and an old personal friend of mine," the judge says, folding his hands on the desk. "I want to ensure his final wishes are properly honored. "

I sense an opening and take it immediately. "That's precisely why I'm here, Your Honor. I have reason to believe the will submitted by Ms. Vance does not reflect Harold Greaves's true intentions."

Judge Morrison's expression remains neutral, professional, but a tick agitates the corner of his mouth as I speak.

"Do you have evidence to support this claim?"

I open my briefcase and remove the memorial plaque invoice first, passing it across the desk.

"This invoice is dated October thirteenth, just three days before the alleged new will was created," I explain. "It shows Harold commissioned a memorial plaque for the library's children's section, explicitly stating that it would be funded through his endowment."

The judge examines the document carefully, his eyes lingering on Harold's handwritten inscription. He reads the inscription aloud, emotion evident in his voice, then places the invoice back on his desk, then clears his throat before looking up at me.

I have his attention now, but I know this isn’t enough.

I continue presenting our evidence, pulling document after document taken from what Mrs. Stonemason gave me.

Donor correspondence showing Harold's long-term commitment to the library, board meeting minutes where he verbally confirmed his intent to establish the endowment, financial records indicating preliminary endowment planning.

It all adds up to an impressive amount of documents.

And it’s still not enough. I know this. Judge Morrison knows this.

"Additionally," I say, my voice carefully modulated, "I've commissioned a handwriting analysis of the signatures on both wills. But the results won’t be final for a matter of weeks. "

Judge Morrison removes his glasses, cleaning them thoughtfully with a cloth from his desk drawer.

"This paints a persuasive picture of Mr. Greaves's commitment to the library, Mr. Ashbane," he says finally, replacing his glasses. "But these remain circumstantial and prove nothing more that Harold’s previous intent. Intents can change, as you well know."

My wings twitch behind my back, frustration building in my chest. I take a measured breath before continuing.

"Your Honor, I have additional information that may be relevant." I lean forward slightly. "A witness has come forward with evidence suggesting the second will is fraudulent."

The judge's eyebrows rise. "That's a serious allegation, Mr. Ashbane."

"I understand, Your Honor. My witness says she was present during the forgery."

Judge Morrison leans forward, clearly interested. "And is your witness prepared to testify to this?"

This is the weak point in my case, and there’s no reason to tiptoe around it.

"At present, she’s unwilling to testify, fearing retaliation, but I’m working on convincing her to step forward. I just need more time."

I can see the disappointment register on the judge's face. Without direct eyewitness testimony, I have only hearsay. Inadmissible and ultimately useless.

A sharp knock interrupts us, and the door opens without waiting for a response.

Delilah Vance enters, her platinum blonde hair perfectly styled, her expression a masterclass in feigned concern.

Behind her follow her attorney, Mr. Lancaster, a sleek human in an expensive suit, and Marcus Baird, whose smug expression makes my scales fizzle with ashen scent.

"I apologize for the interruption, Your Honor," Delilah says, her voice dripping with false sincerity, "but when I learned Mr. Ashbane had requested this meeting, I felt it was imperative that I attend."

This is the worst timing possible.

The judge frowns at the intrusion but gestures to the remaining chairs. "Ms. Vance, Mr. Lancaster, Mr. Baird. Please join us."

Delilah doesn't wait for further invitation before launching into her attack. "Judge Morrison, I've recently learned that Mr. Ashbane is romantically involved with Ms. Farrington, a direct beneficiary of my uncle's estate through the library funding. This represents a clear conflict of interest."

I was wrong. This can get worse.

The scent of ash begins to rise from my pores as my temperature increases involuntarily. I maintain my professional composure despite the provocation, keeping my voice steady as I address the judge.

"My personal relationships have no bearing on my duties as executor of Harold Greaves's estate," I state firmly. "I'm presenting factual evidence regarding Harold's intentions, not personal opinions."

“Not to mention Mr. Ashbane's firm's recent... difficulties with the Bar Association.” Marcus Baird smirks, his tusks gleaming in the chamber's light. “Questionable ethics seem to follow him.”

My claws dig into my palms beneath the desk. The scandal. Always the scandal, thrown in my face at the most crucial moments.

Judge Morrison raises a hand, silencing the room.

"These accusations of misconduct are irrelevant to today's meeting.

Mr. Ashbane has presented evidence suggesting your uncle's consistent intent to fund the library through an endowment, right up until days before his death. I’m afraid that whatever romantic relationship he may or may not entertain with Ms. Farrington is irrelevant at this point. "

Delilah's attorney steps forward, his voice smooth as oil.

"Intent is meaningless against a legally executed will, Your Honor. Mr. Greaves clearly changed his mind, as was his right. The document was properly witnessed and notarized. Unless Mr. Ashbane can produce concrete evidence of fraud, the will must stand."

I watch the judge's expression closely, searching for any sign of which way he's leaning. His poker face is impressive, revealing nothing as he looks from me to Delilah's party, then back to the documents spread across his desk.

"Unless concrete evidence comes forward before November 1st," he says finally, "I'm inclined to uphold the revised will. That said, I will review everything Mr. Ashbane has presented before making my final decision."

The words hurt, though I maintain my neutral expression through sheer force of will. Delilah's triumphant smile makes my scales burn hotter. I can smell her satisfaction, the scent of expensive perfume mixed with the unmistakable odor of smug victory.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I say, gathering the documents and returning them to my briefcase. "I appreciate your consideration."

As we exit the chambers, Delilah falls into step beside me, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.

"You can't win this," she murmurs, her smile never faltering for the benefit of anyone watching. "My uncle clearly saw through that little librarian's act at the end. She's not getting a penny. "

My eyes flash golden, control slipping for just a moment as I turn to face her.

"This isn't over, Ms. Vance," I say, matching her quiet tone. "Not by any means."

She merely laughs, the sound like breaking glass, before turning away with a dismissive flick of her manicured hand.

I stride through the courthouse, my footsteps echoing my controlled fury. Every instinct in my body screams at me to fight, to defend what's mine. Not the library, but Nina's happiness, her security, our future. The dragon in me demands action, demands retribution.

But I am more than my instincts. I am a lawyer, a professional. I will find a way to win this battle within the bounds of the law.

I have to.

Nina is waiting exactly where I left her, her face turning toward me as I approach the car. Hope brightens her expression until she sees my face. Something in my eyes must betray the outcome, because her shoulders slump slightly.

"It didn't go well," she says. It's not a question.

I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine without responding, unable to meet her eyes. As we pull away from the courthouse, I finally speak.

"The judge wants to be fair, but without Trina's testimony, we don't have enough."

Nina stares out the window at the Halloween decorations that now seem to mock us with their cheerful obliviousness.

"What happens after the hearing? When Delilah wins? "

Her use of "when" rather than "if" pierces my chest like a blade. My wings press painfully against my back as I grip the steering wheel tighter.

"I don't know," I admit, the words tasting like defeat on my tongue. "The library will lose its funding. You'll have to seek alternate sources or..."

I can't finish the sentence. Can't speak aloud the possibility that the library might close, that Nina might lose everything she fought so hard for.

Nina reaches across to touch my arm, her fingers warm against my scales. Her voice is soft but determined when she speaks.

"I'm not giving up. There has to be something we're missing."

I cover her hand with mine, the heat of my scales enveloping her fingers.

"I won't give up," I promise, more to myself than to her. "If there's anything I can do, I will do it."

I glance at her profile, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the determined set of her jaw, the way the light catches in her hair. Something shifts in my chest, a decision crystallizing with sudden clarity.

I won’t let her down. Even if I have to spend every penny in my name to keep her library open, I won’t let her down.

For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be truly mated, truly bonded.

It's not just the physical connection, the pheromones, the heat.

It's this. This absolute certainty that her happiness is essential to my own, that her battles are my battles, that there is no future worth having if she's not in it.

This is not over. Not by a long shot.