Page 43 of Kidnapped By The Messy Dragon

I clean the whole bowl. I catch myself running the last triangle around the bottom of it like no one’s watching.

Across the kitchen, Dorian leans on the counter with his arms folded and grins at my empty bowl.

I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me and then stood there happy about it. My mom fed me fine until I could feed myself. After that, kitchens were rooms I microwaved in.

The kitchen is warm from the stove, but I catch myself rubbing my arms anyway. Jalen runs hot, and my body has already learned to lean toward it. Right now the whole room reads empty of him.

He said he had to leave, but he didn’t say where, and it’s been longer than he promised. I keep glancing at the dark outside the window.

Dorian clears my empty dishes without a word. Then, instead of washing up, he pulls a cutting board over and starts halving lemons. I watch his big hands work them over a pitcher, patient with every squeeze. He stirs honey in after and pours me a glass with the pulp still swirling.

I didn’t ask for it. You sit down hungry, and things appear.

The lemonade is cold and sweet, and it goes down easy on my sore mouth.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

He beams.

“What’s the big deal about feeding me, anyway?” I ask.

“I am the family cook,” he says. “I wanted to prove to you that I could be trusted.”

I look at the proud grin on his face, and all I can manage is, “Ohhh.”

Then I catch slow footsteps, and I turn my head as Jules comes wobbling down the hall into the kitchen, one hand under her belly.

Dorian rounds the island and pulls a chair out for her. He leans down and steals a kiss off her lips, his hand spreading over her swollen belly.

Dorian looks at his wife, and worship is the only word for what’s on his face. He lifts her into the chair and eases her in. He steals another kiss before he rounds the counter again.

He pulls down a fresh plate and bowl and serves her the same dinner he made me, soup and triangles.

“I can cook you something else,” he says.

Jules holds both hands up. “This is fine, baby.”

Jules digs in. Between bites, Dorian watches her from his side of the counter. I know that look. Jalen aims it at me.

“How are you today?” Jules asks me.

“Better than yesterday,” I say. I nod toward the stove. “Your mate is a wonderful cook.”

That’s when I notice the mark on the side of Jules’s neck, a crescent of scar with a faint gold sheen to it, like something bit her once and left treasure behind.

Jules catches me staring. She lifts her hand and rubs it.

“It’s my claim mark,” she says.

I put my hand to my own neck. “Claim mark?”

“Think of it like a shifter wedding ring,” Jules says. “It happens during the mating process.”

I keep my mouth shut about the rest of it. A ring comes off, though. Teeth are forever. Other people’s choices have left marks on me.

Dorian’s chin lifts, and I remember too late that my feelings are public record in this house.

“It is sacred between mated couples,” he says. “You will feel the urge to claim my brother when the time is right.” He tugs his collar aside and shows me his neck. There’s a matching crescent, gold sheen and all. “And the world will know he belongs to you.”