Page 82 of Loched in Love

“It’s everything you need for the new world that you’re living in now,” Maren explains, taking another satisfied sip of her coffee. “There’s an established credit history along with private bank accounts that won’t trigger any money laundering alerts, and ironclad paperwork. As for the mountain of treasure, I brought a specialized containment charm in my pack and we can shrink the raw gold down into a handful of pebbles. I can then smuggle it out in my pelt and the underground brokers I work with will then systematically deposit the cash directly into that brand new account over the next few weeks. It’s completely untraceable, and you, my dear cousin, are now a law abiding citizen to anyone who may take a look.”

I look from the plastic debit card in his palm up to Lachlan’s face, a profound sense of relief washing over his features, erasing the tension he’s been carrying all morning.

“Maren,” he says, his deep voice thick with genuine gratitude as he looks down at his new identity card. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

My heart swells as I gaze up at him and I step close, resting my hands against the thick wool of his jacket. “You can go and afford whatever you like from now on, no more Frank Stein cards now.”

“So long as he doesn’t go flashing his tail feathers at any of the locals,” Maren chimes and leans back against the ship deck. “Now that you have your own wealth and perfectly legal bank account, what’s the very first thing the Loch Ness Monster is going to buy?”

Lachlan looks down at me, a twinkle in his gaze as he slides his fingers into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Our first purchase,” he says firmly, opening a travel application on the screen, “will be two flights to the United States to visit Elena’s homeland.”

He glances at the paper and the balance figure Maren provided, but with the enormous pile of gold behind us, he could easily rent a private plane to jet us across the Atlantic if he truly wanted to.

“Maren, a little signal boost if you don’t mind?”

Maren snaps her fingers and a purple shimmer rises in the air, and I watch as he smoothly navigates the phone, a look of concentration on his expression.

“Thank you cousin. First class will do nicely,” he adds with a chuckle and taps the screen to filter the options. “Do you see any of these that look like they’ll have enough legroom for me to sit for a long flight?” he asks, showing me the display.

I grin up at him. “Are you sure you’re ready to try and fly again?”

“Aye,” he says, pulling me flush against his side and kissing the top of my head. “You followed me all the way here to my home. Now it’s my turn to follow you wherever you want to go, and we can see the world if you like, Elena, starting with America if we have to, but I’m going to be paying for every single mile myself.”

Maren lets out a dramatic whistle. “Go ahead and book it before I start charging you all the exorbitant courier fees for moving all this gold back and forth. I may even need to make extra trips by the looks of it,” she says, glaring up at the pile.

Leaning over his arm, my breath warm against his neck, I watch his large fingers carefully navigate the digital buttons. As he enters the details for us, his brand new debit card, and hits the confirmation button, the phone gives a small, victorious chime.

“Alright, my flower, here’s hoping this won’t be the disaster the last plane ride we attempted was because otherwise, it’ll take us weeks to get you home,” he says, his tone worried.

I rub lightly at his arm in reassurance. “Don’t worry, Lachlan, it’s all going to be fine, and if the plane is cramped, we’ll simply get a different one. The flight attendants are going to love to see us coming.”

“Aye. It’ll be right as rain,” he says, smiling warmly down at me, making my stomach do tiny somersaults.

I bite my lip to keep from grinning like a fool. I hope everyone back home is ready to meet the Loch Ness monster.

Lachlan Macbeth

I’ve traversed the treacherous pitch black depths of the oceans, battled ancient sea serpents, and survived centuries of freezing isolation, but nothing can prepare me for the suffocating terror of a modern international airport terminal.

Memories of the disastrous attempt to fly has panic clawing at my throat, and standing with my shoulders touching the airport metal detector gates, I’m acutely aware of every lingering human stare today.

I keep my head down and my large hand shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket, my chest tight as I brace myself for a repeat performance, but the moment we step across the threshold of the aircraft, my defensive posture finally relaxes.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Macbeth,” a flight attendant murmurs with a polished and deferential smile, gesturing toward the forward cabin.

I let out a low rumble of surprise, the sound vibrating deep in my chest when instead of a cramped biscuit tin, an atmosphere of a high-end luxury sanctuary greets me. The first class suite is entirely enclosed, boasting rich wood paneling, soft ambient lighting that mimics a warm sunset, and a massive leather seat that looks more like an opulent armchair you’d find in an upscale gentleman’s club rather than an airplane.

“See,” Elena whispers, stepping into the private pod ahead of me and tossing her small carryon down onto the foot rest. She looks up at me, her gaze dancing with affection. “I promised you that there wouldn’t be any trouble and look, there’s way more room this time. No rushing to escape, right?”

I carefully lower my solid frame into the soft leather seat and tentatively press my back against the cushions, testing the structural integrity of the human craftsmanship, but it holds effortlessly.

I extend my legs fully and my boots barely brush the plush foot rest up opposite me, there are no plastic seat backs digging into my kneecaps, there are no strangers elbowing my ribs, and there are no suffocating walls closing in on me. Elena looks soothingly comfortable across from me and everything is perfect.

“Aye,” I murmur, a slow, genuine smile breaking across my face as I run a calloused palm over the buttery leather armrest. “There’s plenty of leg room, my knees are safe, and we both should be comfortable for the long flight.”

“Can I offer you a glass of vintage champagne before takeoff, Sir?” a steward asks, appearing at the entrance of our suite with a silver tray in hand.

I look at the incredibly delicate and impossibly thin crystal flute holding the bubbling golden liquid. My thumbs could easily crush the stem without an ounce of effort. Why do they make them so bloody tiny?