Page 6 of Courted By the Grumpy Dragon (Monsters of Saltford Bay #2)
"You have wings?" he whispers, his voice barely audible.
Before I can formulate an appropriate response, Nina places a gentle hand on the child's shoulder.
"Mr. Ashbane is a very important lawyer, but I bet if we ask nicely, he might help us with our story."
The child's eyes grow even wider, somehow. "Please?"
I open my mouth to decline, but Nina is already turning toward the children's section, calling out, "Everyone, we have a special guest for story time today!"
A chorus of excited squeals erupts from the colorful corner of the library.
A dozen small faces turn toward me with expressions ranging from curiosity to awe.
Parents glance up from their position at the back of the room, some with amusement, others with closed-off expressions that can only indicate one thing.
They know who I am and what I'm doing. And they don't like it.
Again. Small towns and rumor mills.
"Nina," I begin, lowering my voice, "I really must insist—"
"They're so excited now," she whispers back. "You wouldn't want to disappoint them, would you?"
She's manipulating me, and we both know it. Yet I find myself following her to the children's section, placing the folder carefully on a nearby shelf, out of reach of small, sticky hands.
The children's area is a riot of color and light.
Beanbag chairs in primary colors are arranged in a semicircle around two small wooden chairs.
Plush rugs depict scenes from children's books.
The walls are adorned with artwork that appears to have been created by the children themselves, judging by the varying levels of artistic skill on display.
"Sit, sit," Nina urges the assembled children, who scramble to claim beanbags. "Mr. Ashbane is going to help me tell today's story."
She pulls me aside before I can protest further and presses something into my hands. I look down to find a black felt puppet shaped like a bat, complete with googly eyes and fabric fangs.
"You'll be the Looming Shadow," she explains, her voice low and quick. "When I point to you, just move the bat across the pages and read your line. Nothing complicated."
She squeezes my arm briefly, then turns to the children. My scales burn like lava is coursing underneath where her small, dainty hand touched me through the fabric, and I find myself sitting down at her side. The small chair creaks and protests under my weight but holds fast.
"Who's ready for 'The Witch's Midnight Feast'?"
The puppet feels absurdly small in my hand as I sit awkwardly beside Nina. She opens an oversized picture book, revealing illustrations of a witch stirring a cauldron beneath a full moon.
"Once upon a time, in a crooked little house at the edge of a crooked little town," Nina begins, her voice taking on a storyteller's cadence, "there lived a witch who loved to cook."
The children lean forward, entranced. Nina reads with animated expressions, her voice rising and falling with the story's rhythm.
Occasionally, she glances up at me, nodding toward the book.
After a moment's hesitation, I lift the bat puppet and move it stiffly across the pages while reading my line of dialogue .
A few children giggle. I feel ridiculous, a grown dragon holding a felt bat for the entertainment of small children, but Nina's encouraging smile makes it difficult to retreat.
As the story progresses, something about a witch who learns to share her magical feast, I find myself relaxing incrementally. The children's eager faces and gasps of delight are... not entirely unpleasant. I adjust my movements, making the bat swoop and dive in time with Nina's narration.
"The witch raised her spoon high," Nina reads dramatically, "and thunder cracked across the sky!"
I make the bat tremble appropriately. A collective "ooooh" rises from the audience.
"Mr. Dragon," a human child with missing front teeth calls out, "can you do the thunder?"
All eyes turn to me expectantly.
"The thunder?" I repeat, puzzled.
Nina leans closer, her scent momentarily overwhelming my brain. My temperature rises automatically.
"Scare them a little," she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. "They'll love it."
I hesitate, then decide that if I must participate in this charade, I might as well do it properly.
When Nina reaches the part where the witch's shadow looms large and thunder shakes the heavens, I raise the bat puppet menacingly and let out a low, rumbling growl from deep in my chest. Simultaneously, I allow my eyes to glow, just slightly, just enough to create the effect I know most people find intimidating.
The reaction is immediate and mixed. One child screams. Another claps gleefully. The small troll, Bram, dives behind a beanbag .
"That was AWESOME!" A young elf boy jumps to his feet. "He's the best storytime reader EVER!"
Several parents shift uneasily. One mother stands, her expression concerned.
"It's all part of the show," Nina calls out reassuringly, her smile never faltering. "Mr. Ashbane is a professional."
Professional what, she doesn't specify.
She continues reading, skillfully bringing the story to its conclusion as I tone down my performance considerably. By the end, even Bram has emerged from hiding, though he keeps a wary eye on me.
"And that's why, to this very day, witches always set an extra place at their table on Halloween night," Nina finishes, closing the book. "Because you never know who might come knocking!"
The children applaud enthusiastically. Some parents join in, seeming relieved that no actual dragon fire was involved in the telling.
"Thank you," Nina says as the children disperse to their waiting adults. "You were wonderful."
"I nearly frightened that troll child into hibernation," I mutter, returning the bat puppet to her.
She laughs, the sound unexpectedly musical.
"Bram will be fine. By tomorrow, he'll be telling everyone how a dragon made real thunder and lightning in the library." She touches my arm lightly. "Seriously, thank you. The children loved it."
The casual contact sends another jolt of heat through my scales that I struggle to suppress. I take a small step back, putting the necessary distance between us.
"If you have time," she continues, apparently oblivious to my reaction, "I'd like to show you something in the archive room. Harold kept some personal notes about the library funding that might help your investigation."
I should decline. I have the folder Mrs. Bateman provided. I should return to the carriage house, review the documents in privacy, and solve this case as efficiently as possible.
"Lead the way," I hear myself say instead.
The archive room is small and intimate, tucked behind the main circulation area.
Glass-paned doors separate it from the main library, offering a modicum of privacy while maintaining visibility.
Inside, shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes and archival boxes labeled in meticulous handwriting.
Nina closes the door behind us, and suddenly the space feels much smaller than it appeared from outside. We stand close, too close, with barely an arm's length between us.
"Have a look at this," she says, turning to a nearby shelf. She pulls down a leather album and opens it on the small central table. "Harold kept this record of all the library's special events."
I lean in, careful not to brush against her as I examine the photographs. Harold stands with a group of humans and Others in formal attire, raising champagne glasses in what appears to be a celebratory toast.
"This was taken at the annual fundraiser three years ago," Nina explains, her finger tracing the edge of the photo. "Harold was president of the library board back then. Before his cancer diagnosis."
She turns the page, revealing more photographs of Harold at various library functions. In some, he reads to children. In others, he stands proudly beside community leaders receiving oversized checks .
"He was like a father to me," she says quietly, her voice catching. "He's the one who offered me this position. He believed in me when no one else did."
A tear escapes, tracking silently down her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my touch, impossibly delicate compared to my scaled fingers.
The moment our skin connects, heat surges through my chest. My body's response is immediate and treacherous as my pores open to release my pheromones, their cinnamon scent cascading from my skin.
The unmistakable courting smell that dragons emit only when encountering a potential mate now surrounds me, betraying me in the worst way.
I never responded to a female this way before. It's inappropriate and unprofessional.
And completely beyond my control.
Nina's eyes widen, and she sniffs the air with an expression of wonder on her lovely features. We're so close that I can see her pupils dilate as the pheromones impact her.
Arousal now layers her scent, making my own pheromones grow even stronger.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should stop. I know I should walk out of the library and fly far, far away from her.
But then her gaze drops to my mouth, and she licks her lips in a movement that has my cock straining painfully against my pants.
When she raises her eyes again to meet my gaze, there's confusion there, but something else, too.
Something that makes my wings twitch behind my back and my balls tighten in my now too-tight tailored pants .
Stop this before it's too late!
I jerk my hand away, suddenly aware of how very close we're standing, how inappropriate this entire interaction has become.
How close we've come to disaster.
"Thank you for your time."
Nina reaches for me, her expression bewildered. "Kraxon, wait—"
"Good day, Ms. Farrington." I manage to keep my voice steady as I exit the archive room, though my steps are quicker than my usual measured pace.
The cinnamon scent trails me as I stride through the main library, past curious onlookers and the skeleton still grinning its macabre welcome. Outside, I gulp the crisp October air, willing my body temperature to normalize.
The realization settles over me like a weight: Nina Farrington is triggering a mating response in me.
No. Unacceptable.