Page 28 of Saving Her Dragon

"You snore," she countered smoothly, taking a slow sip from her own mug.

Garrett’s thumb paused over the screen. Slowly turning his head, he leveled a deeply offended, narrow-eyed glare in her direction. "Dragon Guardsmen do not snore, Sydney Kavanaugh-Acheson. We maintain silent respiratory discipline at all times. It is one of our greatest camouflage techniques. The enemy never even knows we’re there. We are…"

Deep inside his psyche, a low, tectonic rumble of amusement vibrated through their Bond. “You absolutely snore, Lad,” Han chuckled, his golden eyes gleaming in the mental dark. “Sounds like a cave-in at a gravel pit when you lie on your back.”

Garrett silently took a sip of his coffee, deciding to ignore both his Mate and the Dragon King with whom he shared his soul. Domestic warmth filled the kitchen, effectively pushing the shadows of doubt back into the corners.

The front door opened a moment later, the screen door clicking shut as Carrick walked straight into the cottage. It was immediately obvious that he was on a mission of some sort… Something personal, from the way he looked. The expression said the Head Elder was mildly annoyed. The way his calloused fingers were aggressively fiddling with the stiff collar of his button-down shirt added more weight to the assumption the issue at hand was one of a personal nature.

Then Ginnie walked in right behind him, carrying a covered dish of fresh pastries, her expression equal parts amused and exasperated. That was the icing on the cake. There could be no doubt, Carrick needed help with something every day and more mundane than malicious.

Looking up from the counter and over Garrett’s shoulder, Sydney called out, "Morning, Carrick. Morning, Ginnie. Everything okay?” Chuckling lightly, she added, “What did that shirt ever do to you? Looks like you’re about to rip it to shreds.”

"Morning," Carrick grunted, dropping a stack of patrol logs onto the dining table. Giving his collar one final, frustrated yank, he grumbled something under his breath that Garrett couldn't quite make out.

Before Garrett could ask what Carrick had said, Sydney stepped closer to the Elder. "Where's your tie tack? You usually have one on when you're dealing with the Council."

"That's exactly what I'd like to know," Carrick grumbled, crossing his massive arms over his chest. “And you’re right. I do.”

Setting the pastries on the island with a soft clack, Ginnie rolled her eyes. "Are you talking about the one Emma made?"

"Aye," Carrick sighed, his shoulders sinking just a fraction.

"I haven't seen that one before," Sydney noted, leaning her hip against the counter, genuinely curious. "Is it a Clan piece?" Waving her free hand, she added, “Like from Alastair, your Dragon King’s Clan, Clan of the Red Diamond Dragons?”

"It's old, but not quite that old," Carrick explained, his tone softening, a quiet reverence touching his rough voice. "Emma made it for me years ago. She took one of Alastair's naturally shed scales– from back when the Dragon King still walked the Earth, right before we were joined– and set it in a gold mount. I only wear the damn thing for official Council business, and on my surcoat for Mating Ceremonies."

It was a piece of jewelry. An incredibly special, irreplaceable piece of family history, but jewelry, nonetheless.

Before the moment could turn even remotely solemn, the back door swung open, and Grey strolled into the kitchen, a smirk already firmly pinned to his face. He had clearly caught the tail end of the conversation.

"Look at this," Grey chuckled, heading straight for Ginnie’s pastry dish. "The Head Elder of the Golden Fire Clan. A legendary Warrior of the Realm, and he can't even keep track of his own jewelry."

Narrowing his eyes, Carrick’s voice dropped into a dangerous rumble. "Keep talking, boy. See where it gets you."

"Wouldn't dream of stopping, Old Man," Grey shot back, flashing a cocky, unbothered grin as he bit into a pastry.

Swatting Grey’s hand away from the dish with a wooden spoon she snatched from the drying rack, Ginnie scolded, "Leave the food alone, Young Man. One pastry at a time will do.” Turning to her Mate before Grey could argue, she kept right on going, “And Carrick, I know exactly where you left that tack. It's sitting on the small cedar dresser in the guest room upstairs. You put it down right beside your wallet on Tuesday when you were looking for something else."

"I already looked there, woman," Carrick fired back, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Thoroughly. Checked all over the top, the little cubbies, and the drawers. It’s not there."

"Then you didn't look with your eyes, you looked with your boots," Ginnie insisted, her hands settling onto her hips. "Men are structurally incapable of finding anything that isn't actively shouting at them."

Letting out a genuine, deep laugh from his spot at the island, Garrett watched the familiar, comfortable bickering bounce around the room. Nobody was worried. It was just normal banter for any couple, everywhere. Carrick had simply misplaced a piece of his wardrobe. It was a beautiful, profoundly normal morning ending in ‘y’.

The argument over the missing tie tack faded into a steady murmur of domesticity, and Garrett didn’t dwell on it. People misplaced things all the time. Even the Universe’s Chosen Warriors who should have known better. It wasn’t a security breach. It was just life in a busy household with three couples milling around.

By mid-morning, Carrick had cleared the breakfast plates and pinned Garrett with a sharp, calculating look. "Enough sitting around, Lad. I need your eyes on something in the tactical office. It’s actual Clan business– no more rehabilitation logs."

A sudden, sharp spike of pride flared in Garrett’s chest. He wasn't officially back on active duty yet, but the fact that Carrick trusted his mind– sought it out, even– felt like reclaiming a piece of the identity that had been violently ripped away from him.

For the next three hours, the two of them sat huddled over a secure digital terminal in the back corner of Carrick’s office, carefully reviewing deep-intel reports. They had been trying to locate Leviathan ever since the fallback operations from the previous month. They knew the bastard was severely injured, hiding like a wounded animal, but he was still out there, a lingering shadow over the Golden Fire Clan– and over Garrett and Sydney.

Tapping a flashing red icon on the monitor, Carrick brought up a localized scout report from the Louisiana border. "We received a possible sighting forty-eight hours ago. A high-ranking private security detail matching Leviathan's old shell company signatures was spotted moving heavy crates into a warehouse near the bayou."

Garrett leaned closer, his lavender eyes scanning the text lines, the timestamps, and the specific logistics of the movement. He didn't look at the map. He studied the behavior.

"That’s not him," Garrett said, his voice flat and entirely certain.