Chapter Twelve #2
“Uh, sorry, could you repeat? Noisy in here.” I wave my mug toward the piano, now pounding through a rousing rendition of what I’m guessing might be “Charleston Rag.” Since anyone on the dance floor who isn’t feeling up their neighbors is currently dancing the Charleston, with varying degrees of success.
“It sure is,” Theo (who’s a father-in-law I actually like) says agreeably. “I was just saying Nik and I are fielding a lot of questions, Zara, about when you’re gonna name your First King.”
“Nik” spares the senator a narrow glance, then aims his pointed stare at my baby bump. “In truth, Your Majesty, I myself am curious. The Throne of the First King has stood vacant far too long.”
“Yeah, that’s because I don’t have a First King.
And I’m not taking one,” I announce firmly, totally secure in that talking point since the guys and I finally talked through this previously sensitive emotional shit tonight before the party.
“My guys and me, we’re all equal. We’ll rotate whose butt sits in that chair when we gotta, like for ceremonial events. ”
Halfway across the room, Zephyr’s sleek green head turns alertly toward me.
The Unseelie aren’t telepathic, so we don’t have a mating bond in the usual way. But those pointed Dark Fae ears of his are hella keen.
That’s about the hundredth reason I’m grateful he and Vasili finally settled their testosterone-fueled bullshit with last night’s epic Krampus fuck.
Due to those two finding their happy place, all the prickly tension and acrimony in our polycule have drained outta that whole Throne of the First King situation.
Theo rocks back on his heels. His green eyes, normally wide and guileless like Neo’s, narrow thoughtfully. “Whoa, that’s a big move. A rotating First Kingship? To be totally honest, I’m not sure there’s legal witching world precedent. We may have to debate it in the Senate.”
I park my cider mug firmly on the tray of a passing waiter. Then I pop my hip, plant a hand on my currently nonexistent waist, and tap my combat-booted toes.
“Yeah, no. You actually don’t,” I point out. “The queen’s gotta approve what goes down on the Senate docket for a vote. And this queen isn’t putting the intimate details of the relationships in our polycule up for a fucking vote.”
My proclamation is punctuated by a sputter and pop from the Yule tree as the silver bulb closest to my head blinks out.
Violet sparks crackle through the period-appropriate finger waves I’ve teased my hair into.
Static races down my bare shoulder and shimmers through the beaded fringes of my flapper dress.
“Take it easy on the Christmas tree, princess. It’s flammable,” Ash murmurs in my ear, angling his body so he’s squarely between me and Nikolai. “Gents, let’s give our gal a little space.”
Theo acquiesces with an easy nod and takes an obliging step back.
Unfortunately, Nikolai isn’t nearly as accommodating.
“If you don’t crown a First King, Your Majesty, how will we ever know which of your offspring is meant to inherit your crown?” To his credit, Nikolai manages (barely) not to eye my baby bump again.
Still, he’s perfectly aware that one of my triplets is Vasili’s.
And thus, biologically, Nikolai’s grandkid.
Three guesses which of my kids Daddy Nik wants to see on the throne?
He certainly isn’t referring to our clutch of dragonets, also Vasili’s, currently incubating with Xhevith back on Avalon. Because those dragon shifter kids aren’t biologically mine, they’re Max’s with V’s genderqueer dragon.
Which means they can’t legally inherit my Gemini crown.
Plus the inconvenient reality that Nikolai has an openly queer son, who shifts into a gender-fluid dragon, has been a truckload for a traditional Russian Orthodox oligarch with homophobic tendencies to absorb.
I’m trying to compose an answer to Nikolai’s question that doesn’t overtly refer to my Russian father-in-law as a bigoted, narrow-minded, interfering, queer-hating asshole when Ash steps easily into the breach.
“Zara and us guys, we figure we’ll let the kiddos be born and have some kinda normal childhood before you turn ’em into political chess pawns.
” Totally used to my pyrotechnics and the sparks still popping in my flapper dress, Ash tightens his thick arm around my waist. “If that’s all hunky-dory with you gents. ”
Unwisely, Nikolai keeps right on going. “In point of fact, Your Majesty—”
“For cripes’ sake, don’t call me Your Majesty. I’m your daughter-in-law, all right?” I make an active effort, for V’s sake, and smile tightly at his jerkwad dad. “That means you get to be on a first-name basis with me, just like Theo is. At least in social settings, okay?”
Despite the fact that I’m making nicey-nice, my hidden annoyance ripples through our mating bond and pulls all my warlocks toward me like a magnet.
Lucius appears suddenly in the library door, holding an open book and looking alarmed. Max looms at his shoulder and scans the sitch with a suspicious scowl.
My alpha dragon shifter looks more than ready to charge past Lucius to my rescue like, well, a dragon in a china shop. But our headmaster presses a discreet hand to Max’s thigh, with a murmured word, to hold him in place.
The swelling knot of bodies on the dance floor unravels enough to disgorge Ronin, jacket discarded and shirt half-unbuttoned to expose the black dragon tattoo roaring flames across his pecs. And Mordred, whose shirt gapes all the way open to bare his brawny sex demon chest and six-pack abs.
Mordred.
My thoughtful gaze lingers on the kraken. His smoldery purple sex stare. The sheen of sweat on his copper skin. The fresh hickey—shouting Ronin was here to my experienced eye—bruising his corded neck. Right above the fresh punctures of a mating bite.
Mordred .
He ’s the reason for this pending orgy. He’s the one going into heat—maybe even superheat—from Lucius’ mating bite in the cottage last night.
Which makes it pretty fucking crystal that we do need to leave the party. All of us in this polycule.
We gotta vamoose.
Unless we all wanna break Mordred’s heat together right here.
Under the pristine boughs of Theo Mercury’s all-white designer Christmas tree.
Clearly reaching the same conclusion I just did, Lucius locks onto my purposeful stare and snaps his book closed.
Max grips Lucius’ waist and looks violent. But our prof plants a hand over his to settle him.
Take a breath, big guy, I tell Max through our bond. Then help me round up the others, okay? We’re leaving.
Max’s chest rises as he pulls in an obedient breath. As you wish, my sovereign.
Then Max rubs his bristly jaw submissively into Lucius’ neck, following his lead in a really sweet way. But my dragon’s slitted golden eyes are riveted on the grand staircase that curves from the Great Hall to the guest rooms upstairs.
Right now, those stairs are Makeout Central.
At least a dozen guests—including the famous talk show host—are sprawled over the runners, entwined and writhing. All in varying degrees of nakedness.
Clearly, we cannot escape that way, Max mutters through our link. But do not worry, my Zara. I will find us a way.
He slips purposefully past Lucius and vanishes in the crowd.
Meanwhile, Ash makes our excuses to Theo and Nikolai, then starts herding me gently toward Mordred and Ronin. Both those warlocks are actively working to extract themselves from a jungle of roaming hands.
Thankfully, they manage to get off the dance floor with their pants still buttoned.
With Ash’s protective presence hovering at my back, I weave toward them through the increasingly horny and grabby crowd. I’m just reaching through our bond to summon the rest of my guys when Neo pops up beside me like a helpful Christmas elf, towing V and Zephyr by the hand.
Zephyr in particular commands instant attention.
And not only because of the green hair, the eyepatch, or the pointy ears.
His slight frame is sheathed in the supple silver dragonscale armor he wore for my coronation. In fact, the Dark Fae King looks violently alert and like he’s fervently wishing he had his swords, which I made him leave upstairs in our guest room.
V, who’s one of Mordred’s alphas (just like me) and feels everything I’m feeling, looks even more predatory and dangerous than usual. Vasili’s tall whippet-slim frame is extra elegant draped in a pin-striped gangster suit, white linen striped with black.
Complete with narrow lapels and an ivory fedora tilted at a jaunty angle over his glacier-blue eyes.
“Well, hello there. And yum.” I give all my warlocks an appreciative once-over.
Yeah, you could even call it an eye-fuck.
In fact, with all these sex pheromones thickening the air, It’s all I can manage not to lick my lips.
Reading the room and especially the look on my face, Zephyr unbends enough to give me a feral grin that bares his tiny fangs. “Greetings to you as well, my bride.”
Vasili just smirks at me, icy eyes glittering with a private smolder that promises all sorts of Goblin King mayhem in my immediate future.
“There you are, babe. Sorry I had to leave you alone for so long,” Neo says breathlessly, all the while clutching V and Zephyr’s hands like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he lets go.
“One of the seniors was getting heart palpitations and I had to find his nurse and his meds. All okay now, though.”
“Glad to hear it. And glad you’re back, baby, for real. We gotta vamoose, all of us, and break Mordred’s heat. You know, before the orgy hits.” Despite the increasing urgency of our collective sitch, I can’t help grinning at my bookworm.
Neo’s cute as a sugarplum fairy in a thick cream wool sweater, glittering with a blingy crystal reindeer.
He’s cutely accessorized by a pop of color from Mordred’s red Santa hat, jauntily perched on Neo’s purple curls.
He’s even wearing his cute Christmas glasses, which have round green frames that match his earnest eyes.
So I grin at Neo just for being Neo.
Same as always, Neo’s sweet smile blossoms in response to mine. He bends to press a soft kiss to my cheek, gives me a nice whiff of his soapy-clean sage fragrance, and whispers in my ear, “Don’t worry, I know just where to go. Igloo. Come on.”
Wondering if I heard him right, I furrow my brow and blink up at him. “What igloo?”