Her Dragon King (Her Dragon King Duet 2)

“You’re just now figuring this out?” I ask with a wry laugh. But somewhere deep inside of me, there’s a small flare of hope. He says he’s not Other Damianos, but he ungodspoke his servants, just like the dragon I fell in love with did.

“I had to instruct her out loud to sliver pieces of meat small enough for Golden Prince to eat. That was tedious.” He frowns at me. “You’re laughing again. Why do you find what I’m saying so amusing?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that Damianos off of mind control is funny as hell.” I throw my hand against the back of my head, lower my voice a few registers, and put on a vaguely ancient accent to lament, “It’s so hard to find good servants without totally highjacking their minds these days. How will my 15,000-year-old ass even cope?”

Again that single spark of amusement before it’s ruthlessly crushed. And I find myself smiling for reasons that don’t have anything to do with teasing him some more.

I mean, yeah, he’s still a sociopath bent on avenging his father’s death by annihilating my family. But now I know he’s secretly laughing at my jokes.

Also, I meant what I said before we flew out the window. And again on the drone. I want to make this work. We’ve got to make this work.

So even though Bazzi is heavy as hell, I drop one arm to take my dragon’s hand in mine. “Ready?” I ask, nodding toward the open door.

A ripple of surprise makes it out before his side of our mate bond goes mute. Other than that, he doesn’t respond to my affectionate gesture.

But he also doesn’t shake my hand off as I escort him toward the hallway.

I could never be him, he’d told me on the plane.

Yeah…maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not. Either way, this definitely feels like progress.

Chapter Fourteen

Damianos and I walk into the downstairs kitchen hand and hand. It’s pretty modern in comparison to the rest of the house. I mean, given the lack of crown molding, painted ceilings, and other baroque flourishes, I can only assume it was designed back when the masters of such grand estates never set foot in their kitchens. And there’s a crapload of wide arches throughout the room as if the original architect was trying to figure out airflow in a time before the invention of air conditioning. But the counters are made of the same touchscreen material that could be found in most smart kitchens. And there are a ton of smart appliances, many of them slightly bigger versions of what I have at home.

I appreciate the low-key design. It’s the first place I’ve seen in this castle that doesn’t make me feel like I got dropped into a Shakespearean play.

However, I stop short when I get my first whiff of the little lady bustling around the kitchen. No, she couldn’t be…

But a few more hard sniffs confirm it. She isn’t a human, like Colby, but a wolf like me.

She doesn’t look nearly as surprised to see me here as I am her. “There you are, the new Queen Drákon! So nice to meet the woman who finally make this one want take wife. I thought he would be like all the Drákons before him. A widower. But now here you are…” she exclaims, rushing over to me as soon as I come into the kitchen. She has a heavy accent, and I’m guessing by her broken English, she doesn’t have a biosystem doing any translating work in the background.

Her name is Agda. She’s like two feet shorter than me and I’m guessing old. Really, really old. She has steel gray hair with only a few black lines running through it, and she pinches me like we’re in a 20th-century movie made before any kind of political correctness became a thing.

First my cheek, then a big chunk of my waist as she says, “Look at you, so tall and fat and brown with the curly red hair. And you’re a wolf like the rest of us!”

“Like the rest…” I repeat, still reeling from the fact that she really just grabbed my stomach fat.

“Mr. Drákon didn’t tell you?” She hits Damianos with an injured look. “The island neighboring this one is the wolf kingdom village for Greece. It’s called Lukos and filled with wolves just like you. Mr. Drákon is our king.”

Total shocked face emoji. “You’re the king of the Greek wolves?” I ask Damianos. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It never came up,” he answers with one of those boreder-than-bored shrugs only Europeans can pull off.

Agda pats my shoulder. “Don’t be angry, Queen Drákon. I think you will be very happy here with the new king. And obviously, fat tummy like yours, you’re hungry for some breakfast, yes?”

I mean, the answer to that question is yes, but… “Is she serious?” I ask into my mate’s mind. “How many times is she going to call me fat to my face?”