Page 8 of Having the Dragon's Baby

He thought about the fact that they weren’t entirely wrong as he polished the final touches on his appearance in his bathroom. He was getting older by the second, and that meant he was only that much closer to retirement or death. Without a proper heir, the thunder would have to find an entirely new family to lead them, and that was another part of his legacy that he didn’t want to have stained.

Marcus adjusted his tie, a soft pale-rust shade of paisley, moody and autumn-themed, just like the party he was invited to. He dressed it up with a mahogany jacket and slacks, keeping the look formal and serious with a sprig of zest and personality.

Not that zest was a vital part of his personality. It was more Vincent’s attempt to mask his stoic demeanor.

“You want her to actually like you, right?” Vincent jested when Marcus was selecting his outfit.

Marcus let out a sharp grunt. “It’s the theatrics I’m not a fan of. The pageantry and all that bullshit,” he replied.

“Get used to it,” Vincent said, rolling out the burnt orange paisley patterned piece. “She is going to see you first, and you have to make a good impression. If you want this to work, of course.”

Vincent, as usual, had been right. He was a good man whom Marcus trusted with the optics of his leadership as well as some blunt truths the rest of the den wasn’t keen on delivering. He finished off with a mist of a fine musk cologne along his neckline and wrists, then pushed out into the night.

It was an elegant garden party, taking place on the grounds of a rather quaint estate in the countryside. Marcus wasn’t sure if it belonged to Sylvia, the woman who ran the agency, or if it belonged to one of her associates. He had been told that he would meet the woman who had applied to the agency and who could possibly be assigned to him. But there was no contract signed yet. That all depended upon this first meeting.

The aesthetics were appealing, with fairy lights strewn around shrubs and tall maples drawing the eye to multiple white tents that were set up for the event. It was a semi-casual affair with humans and attractive and rather wealthy shifters alike.

His heart raced in his chest as he walked to the bar. It had a charming lavishness about it, with the kaleidoscopic shade of the different, glistening liquor bottles.

He figured he could have a few drinks before meeting the potential surrogate and stood there adjusting his tie while drumming his fingers against the wood surface. Being nervous was a rare sensation for Marcus. He was normally able to leap headfirst into any situation without blinking. That was the nature of alphas, along with an extra layer of critical thinking and quick decision-making.

“Two fingers of Jameson, neat,” he ordered.

The bartender, like the rest of the servers, was dressed in all black. He nodded and got to work. Marcus dropped his gaze to the grass below, which was pristine and had most likely been recently curated by landscapers.

Get it together. You need this. It’s for the thunder.

“Come here often?"

A voice snuck between his reverie. It was sweet, like a bird song at dawn.

Marcus lifted his head and regarded the woman who had come over to the bar while he had been distracted. In front of him was a vision striking his heart like a gong for the first time in his long dragon existence.

She wore a sundress in a crisp shade of coral, resting against the creamy skin of her shoulders and cutting a sharp V-shape down her neckline. Her sandy-blonde hair, wavy and carefree, kissed her collarbone. She stood with a glass of scotch in her hand raised triumphantly over the bar. And then, there were her eyes, a glimmering sea green that somehow highlighted the dusty blush of her cheeks and lips.

Something moved inside him at that very moment. It was a lot like feeling the Earth shift, all while the din of the party rang out, and no one else noticed.

He knew then, without knowing how it happened, the true reason he had been brought there.

“Sorry?” he said, swallowing to remedy his dry mouth.

The woman tittered, leaning forward against the bar. “I’m the one that should be sorry. I’ve always wanted to use that line.”

She approached him, and something exotic and noble, like the scents of lilacs and eucalyptus, wafted in the air around him. She reached for his hand with hers, a smile resting on her face as blinding as the sun.

“My name is Rachel. I’m your surrogate.”

Marcus reached out to take her hand, which was silky smooth but also strong and bold. She shook his with a firmness very few women had ever been capable of.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” he said, forcing a smile to veil his awe. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you so soon.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes at him, her grin melting away. For a beat, Marcus thought he had said something wrong.

“If we’re going to get to know each other, you’re going to have to stop apologizing so much.”

The bartender placed his drink in front of him while the vibrant, enticing image stood at his side. After a few long seconds, her face brightened, and she lightly brushed a hand against his forearm with a playful slap.

“Wow, I didn’t know shifters couldn’t take a joke!” she said with a smile.

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