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Summary
Aaric had always had a quiet volatility about his stuff – framed right, you could call it overprotectiveness, but some days it edged closer to obsession. With his home, his money, his people – anything that he considered his was wrapped in something like a hazy mist of mine. Dain had once been one of those things. Collected and cocooned – like the blue dragon plushie that Aaric’s mum had bought him that had stayed in its wrapping on the shelf – never to be cuddled, never to be touched – a prize that Aaric was so fiercely protective over. He’d nearly broken a boy called Dylan’s arm when he’d tried to touch it at a sleepover.
No one touched his stuff.
So yeah, Aaric collected things, and Dain heaved a small internal sigh of relief that he wasn’t one of those prizes anymore.
Series
- Part 5 of Detective Dain
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