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

Chapter Two

Kraxon

The scent of cedar and citrus polish fills Harold Greaves's study, a fragrance I've come to associate with old money and secrets.

I stand at the window, phone pressed to my ear, watching a pair of finches squabble over territory in the garden below.

My reflection in the glass is fractured by the morning light: tall, rigid posture, wings folded tight against my back.

I’m the very picture of control. Of what a dragon should be. Of what a lawyer should be.

"The Thornwood account is threatening to cancel their retainer entirely." Vexley's voice crackles through the line, tense with barely contained frustration. "They're saying the scandal has made them 'uncomfortable' with our representation."

I adjust my cufflinks as I take in the news. My firm has lost half its clientele in the six months since my now ex-partner decided to line his pocket with elven royalty money. Ill-acquired elven royalty money. The kind of money any good lawyer knows to keep his distance from.

Guess this was the problem all along. Erroll Hornblood was never a good lawyer to begin with.

"The remaining partners and employees of the firm were cleared of all wrongdoing three months ago. The Bar Association's report was unequivocal. What Erroll did was unacceptable, but he is no longer a partner and the firm doesn’t bear his name anymore."

The firm. My life’s work. Ashbane, Griswood and Hornblood, now only Ashbane a generous endowment for the Saltford Bay Public Library; smaller bequests to longtime friends and staff members.

I've reviewed each provision multiple times to ensure everything is legally sound.

The probate should be clean, efficient. A textbook execution.

I’ll take care of things, old friend. I owe you this much.

My gaze drifts to Harold's portrait above the fireplace.

It was commissioned when he was a young minotaur lawyer, his horns long and proud, his snout strong and his eyes dark and shining.

From his portrait, he looks down on me with that slight smile that always made me wonder if he knew something the rest of us didn't. In the fifteen years I knew him, I never quite managed to decipher the man completely. And now I never will.

"You’ll be missed," I murmur, surprising myself with the sentiment.

I check my watch. Two hours until the will reading, and then I can return to the city with my mission accomplished.

I begin organizing the documents. The primary will. The property deed transfers. The bank authorizations. All the machinery of wealth changing hands.

My hand hovers over a slim walnut box sitting at the corner of the desk. Inside rests Harold's fountain pen, a Mont Blanc that he used to sign every important document in his life.

This pen is Harold’s final gift to me. I will use it as well, to remind me of the man he knew I could be .

The grandfather clock in the corner chimes the half-hour, its deep resonance filling the room. Time to leave. I snap the briefcase shut and straighten my tie, a deep burgundy against charcoal gray.

A knock attracts my attention, and the study door opens silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing the long hallway that leads to the main foyer.

Mrs. Winters, Harold's pixie housekeeper of twenty years, waits on the other side, her hands clasped before her.

Her slim frame seems impossibly fragile in her black dress, and her pale pink wings droop slightly behind her back, a sure sign of her exhaustion.

It gives me comfort knowing Harold left her a significant amount of money, enough for her to live comfortably in Saltford Bay for the rest of her life.

"Everything in order, Mr. Ashbane?" she asks, her voice steady despite the redness around her eyes. “Delilah and Mrs. Farrington are here, as you instructed. Are you ready for them?”

"Yes, thank you." I sit behind Harold’s desk, keeping my wings tight against my back. "You can let them in."

She nods, then lingers a few moments before speaking.

"We're all grateful you came yourself. Mr. Greaves always spoke highly of you."

Something tightens in my chest at her words, an uncomfortable pressure I choose to ignore.

"He was a good lawyer."

"He was a good man," she corrects gently. "And he trusted you."

I incline my head slightly, and she disappears, her light footsteps barely making a noise on the plush carpet.

This is it. My last favor for the old friend I owe everything to.