Chapter 10
Dungar
Four days had passed since our kiss by the sorhox paddock, and I’d replayed every second of it at least a hundred times. The softness of Riley’s lips, the way she’d melted into me, the small sound she’d made when I’d deepened the kiss. All of it lived in my mind on constant repeat.
We hadn’t talked about it. Every morning when she arrived at the jail with two cups of coffee from Sel and Holly’s bakery, I opened my mouth to bring it up, then watched her settle into her desk and lost my nerve.
She’d catch me staring sometimes, her face holding a speculative expression that made my heart race, but neither of us crossed that line into discussing what had happened.
What was happening between us.
Because something definitely was happening.
The way she leaned closer when we reviewed reports together, how her hand lingered when she passed me documents, and the soft smile that appeared whenever she thought I wasn’t looking.
They were all signs that the kiss had affected her as much as it had me.
I was falling for her. Hard and fast, and with the kind of intensity that would’ve terrified me if it didn’t feel so completely right.
Every orc knew the stories of fated mates, the legends passed down through generations about finding the one person who completed your soul.
I’d always assumed it was romantic nonsense until my brothers found true love.
Then Riley Smith strode into my life and turned everything upside down.
“Earth to Dungar.” Riley’s voice cut through my thoughts. She stood beside my desk, holding a stack of papers and wearing that amused expression that meant she’d caught me daydreaming. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ten minutes.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Sorry. Just reviewing the patrol schedule.”
“Uh-huh.” She perched on the edge of my desk, close enough that I caught her sweet feminine scent that made my chest tighten. “The patrol schedule that’s been the same for three days straight?”
“Consistency is important.” I tried to sound official instead of completely lost, which I actually was.
“Is that your answer for everything?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Consistency?”
“It works.”
“Does it work for this?” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper that sent shivers across my skin. “Because I’ve been consistently thinking about Tuesday night, and I’m not sure your organizational skills can help with that.”
My breath caught. She was talking about the kiss. Finally.
Before I could respond, the jail door swung open with a bang, and Aunt Inla burst in, her face flushed and her silver hair escaping its usually perfect bun.
“There’s been another incident,” she cried out.
Riley smoothly slid off my desk and grabbed her phone, opening a document. “What kind of incident?”
“Vandalism. Someone spray-painted rude words on the side of the general store in broad daylight. Can you imagine the audacity?”
I stood, automatically reaching for my incident kit that included a camera, evidence bags, measurement tools, all organized in labeled compartments. “Any witnesses?”
“Nobody saw anything, but it must’ve happened between noon and two o’clock when I was at lunch. They’re quite bold to do this during the day.”
Riley and I exchanged glances. This was the third vandalism report in the past few days, all following the same pattern, including a midday timing, no witnesses, and crude but harmless graffiti.
“We’ll head over now.” I stood, slipping the kit into my jacket pocket. “Take photos, canvas for witnesses, and check the security cameras in the area.”
“I’ll handle the interviews,” Riley said. “Sometimes people remember details when they have time to think.”
Aunt Inla’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I know you two can take care of it. You work so well together.”
As she left, Riley grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “Ready to solve the mystery of Lonesome Creek’s most polite vandal?”
“You think they’re being polite?”
“The graffiti could be much worse. Trust me.” Something shadowed her expression for a moment before she brightened again. “Plus, they’re using washable paint. That’s practically considerate.”
We walked the short distance to the general store, falling into the easy rhythm we’d developed over the past few days.
Riley had a natural instinct for reading people and situations that complemented my methodical approach.
While I documented everything, she drew information out of those in the area with casual conversation and genuine warmth.
“So what’s your theory?” she asked as she studied the area outside the general store after she’d finished.
“Random mischief. Probably kids testing boundaries.” I continued documenting the graffiti from multiple angles. “The pattern suggests someone with a regular schedule, access to downtown during lunch hours, and familiarity with foot traffic patterns.”
“Very logical.” She crouched near the wall, examining the paint without touching it. “But what if it’s not random? What if someone’s trying to send a message?”
“What kind of message could “Sheriff Dungar Stinks” possibly send?”
Riley snorted with laughter. “Okay, that’s not exactly criminal mastermind territory. But look at the handwriting. It’s deliberate, controlled. This isn’t someone acting on impulse.”
She was right. The letters were evenly spaced, the lines straight despite being drawn on a rough surface. It looked more like a task being completed than emotional expression.
“Good eye.” I took close-up photos of the lettering. “Someone with steady hands and attention to detail.”
“Someone who takes pride in their work, even when that work is spray-painting insults about you on buildings.”
“I’m flattered by their dedication.”
“Should I be worried about competition for your attention?”
The teasing note in her voice made my heart skip, but before I could respond, Joyce Jones approached from across the street, her expression concerned.
About Riley’s age, she’d taken a job waiting tables at the saloon and seemed to be happy here in Lonesome Creek.
I’d looked over her resume when Greel and Jessi mentioned they were going to hire her, and her references had checked out.
“Any leads on our mystery artist?” she asked, nodding toward the graffiti, tugging her apron over to make it land in the middle of her jeans, her long blonde braid swinging with the movement.
“We’re just getting started,” Riley said. “Did you notice anything unusual around lunchtime? Anyone hanging around who seemed out of place?”
Joyce considered this, her brow furrowing. “Well, Mary was working on the lanterns lining the boardwalk.”
“She’s head of maintenance.” I pulled out my notebook. “Tall, gray ponytail, generous build.”
“That’s her. She and I go way back. Would you believe she was my babysitter when I was little? Time sure does fly.”
We peered around but didn’t see anyone working on the lights now, and Mary had left no equipment behind. She must’ve packed up and moved on to her next project.
Riley’s gaze met mine. “I’ll track her down and question her.”
After Joyce left, Riley and I continued documenting the scene and interviewing nearby shop owners.
The pattern that emerged was consistent with the prior two incidents.
No one remembered seeing anyone lingering near the general store at the right time.
A few mentioned Mary, but they all stated she appeared busy when they saw her.
No one had seen her during the exact time frame when the vandalism occurred, however.
“Interesting coincidence,” Riley said as we walked along the boardwalk, aiming for the jail.
“Could be. I’ll run a background check on all recent hires just in case.”
“Look at you, going all detective on me.” She bumped my arm with her shoulder, the casual contact sending warmth racing through my system. “I like this side of you.”
“I’m just being thorough.”
“It’s sexy when you’re thorough.”
Riley Smith thought I was sexy? The knowledge hit me in the solar plexus, leaving me struggling to breathe and form coherent thoughts.
I stumbled, completely thrown by her casual admission.
“Careful there, Sheriff.” Her grin was pure mischief. “Wouldn’t want you to injure yourself on duty.”
By the time we returned to the jail, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that reminded me of the orc kingdom’s twilight hours.
Riley settled at her desk to create doc files for our reports on her laptop while I organized the evidence we’d collected, each photograph loaded on the computer and labeled, then filed in its proper subfolder.
The familiar routine usually calmed my mind, but tonight I was hyperaware of Riley’s presence. The soft sound of her fingers on the keyboard, the way she twisted a strand of hair around her finger when she concentrated, the occasional sigh when she paused to study the report.
“Dungar?” Her voice broke through my cataloging. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
She hesitated, then rolled her chair closer to mine. “When you were taking photos earlier, I noticed something on your wrist. It looked like a tattoo?” She gestured toward the mating mark.
“It’s not exactly a tattoo,” I said carefully.
“What is it then?” Her gaze shot to my arm lying on my desk. Should I hide the evidence or let it blaze in the sun?
This was it. The moment when I either trusted her with the truth or found a way to deflect. But looking into her curious brown eyes, I realized I didn’t want to hold this back. I wanted her to know everything about me, including the part that made me hope we were destined for each other.
I pushed up my sleeve, revealing the intricate golden pattern that had appeared when we first touched. Delicate swirls and geometric shapes formed a perfect circle on my inner wrist, gleaming as if the ink had been mixed with actual gold.
“It’s a mating mark,” I said, watching her face for any sign of fear or rejection.