Chapter Fourteen Zephyr

I should never have come.

That is, very clearly, what they're all thinking. My wild Gemini queen and her distrustful warlock harem.

Bathed in the harsh electric light of this alien kitchen with its threatening appliances, so unlike the gentle witchlight and friendly stone hearths of my Unseelie palace, the silence seethes with the suspicions these warlocks yearn to whisper in my pointed ears. The air is loud with the accusations they burn to hurl at my moon-fucked head.

The dragon is the worst.

Maxim Grigoryevich Rasputin.

I've made it my business to learn their true names. If they should ever threaten me…

Well, I'm Unseelie.

They call us the Dark Fae for reasons. We're not exactly known for kindness and mercy, are we?

To defend myself and my bride, I will never flinch from doing what I must.

Maxim looms vigilant in the doorway, scowling ferociously at me and blocking my access to the rest of the house, to the rooms where my precious queen showers and prepares for her day. This dragon shifter mate of hers looks utterly disreputable, brooding barefoot in torn jeans and worn shirt, with his dragon eyes slitted and his hair twisted in a warrior's braid that bares his ruthless face. A barbed wire tattoo loops around one sinewy wrist.

Dressed impeccably in Academy uniform and chunky combat boots with vivid green soles, Vasili Nikolayevich Romanov lurks near the complicated device called espresso machine . He leans casually against the counter and watches me with poisonous eyes the treacherous hue of quicksilver, expertly rimmed with smoky liner under a shag of silver hair, while he sips in pointed silence from a tiny cup of that revolting mortal beverage whose acrid reek corrupts the morning air.

That one is dangerous.

So dangerous he makes my skin twitch and my nerves prickle.

I've known it since the night he killed my moon-cursed mother.

For that vast mercy, I owe him a debt.

For any Fae, a debt is no small thing. The obligation sits uneasily beside my wary respect for his powerful witchcraft and my bitter envy for his mating bonds with all of them—Zara, Ronin, even that timid Neo. All the hearts this one collects so casually.

Romanov is the one Zara calls her dominant alpha.

To me, he is a rival to be vanquished.

If not for the debt I owe him, I would have killed him already.

Neo Theodophilus Mercury presides capably over a sizzling skillet at the monstrous six-burner stove, where he has coaxed a pop of reluctant blue flame to sputter under the ancient-looking grate. He is frying up what appears to be an entire sow's worth of bacon. A jaunty apron tied neatly over his schoolboy uniform proclaims Don't kiss the cook. Bend me over.

From this one, I sense no danger.

Only sweetness.

Every time his bashful eyes meet mine, Zara's innocent fated mate blushes to his hairline.

Well.

When the time comes, I know exactly what to do with all that shy submission.

Soon, I'll have the lot of them safely installed with Zara in my royal bed.

I spare Neo a predatory grin and let my fangs peek out. He ducks his head, but his blush deepens.

And then there's Ronin.

My Ronin.

Ronin stands at the counter whisking eggs with his back turned pointedly to me. His powerful shoulders and lean hips look unreasonably sexual, encased in those leather pants and another man's button-down shirt, braced in a silent challenge I burn to master. His inky hair spills between his bunched shoulders in a sleek fall I long to wrap around my fist.

By the moon.

Ronin.

In the endless years we've spent apart, the graceful slimness of boyhood has vanished. That boy I loved to the point of hopeless despair—the boy I risked everything to win, the boy whose betrayal all but killed me—he has vanished.

Ronin Kilcannon Pendragon, scion of the powerful Leo clan, is a man now. A deadly one. One who harbors a lethal grudge.

Against me.

In the midst of this hostile crowd, I stand alone.

Same as always.

I stand sentinel in my armor behind the granite island that houses the deep kitchen sink, with an absurdly tiny cup of that vile mortal beverage called espresso cooling on the counter beside me.

I'd rather drink arsenic than this tar-like sludge.

But that is not the only reason I spurn it. When a Fae offers food and drink, it's a form of entrapment.

"I beg your pardon, Maxim." That old-fashioned courtesy belongs to the wolf, Lucius Aries, the headmaster of this residential college, who looms suddenly behind the dragon. The wolf places a hand at the dragon's waist in a way that whispers of all the intimacy this harem shares.

An intimacy from which I'm excluded.

"Lucius." Without shifting his gaze from me, Maxim rubs his whiskery jaw affectionately into the wolf's shoulder to scent him, then sidles to one side to let him pass.

Aries pads past the wary dragon into the kitchen, his rangy frame respectably attired in houndstooth trousers and a tweed coat with suede patches on the elbows, wild chestnut curls bound in a civilized knot around his scholarly face.

He is bearing a neat sprig of clipped leaves.

"Fresh mint from the garden," the wolf explains to my curious face, " for your herbal tea. I, er, understand the Fae don't care for coffee."

My nostrils flare to savor the welcome aroma of mint. In this one's expression, without the alluring complication of Zara looming between us, I see nothing but grave courtesy and a lively interest.

This is no entrapment.

This mortal world is… different.

This wolf means to offer me a gesture of genuine kindness.

My tense shoulders relax a notch. I incline my chin in a regal nod.

While Ronin joins Neo at the stove and starts frying eggs with a silent ferocity, the wolf calmly adds the sprig to a glass tea press, then pours boiling water from a kettle. The familiar tang of hibiscus flowers twines through the scents of coffee and aggression that perfume the pregnant air.

Lucius brings the tea press and a proper cup to me. I have laid aside my gauntlets, so I accept these offerings with the careful courtesy one gives these small rituals in Avalon.

Even an innocent cup of tea can be dangerous.

But it's true that I thirst.

Xhevith and I flew half the night through the portal at the standing stones—after I slew my loathsome cousin—in order to reach this place.

I study the tea flowers and mint leaves swirling in the slim glass cylinder of boiling water, then lean forward to give a wary sniff.

While everyone looks expectant, I survey the room—now wreathed in another weighted silence—with lifted brow.

Neo lowers his spatula and mouths, Thank you.

Ah yes.

Mortal manners.

In this world, I am not a king.

"Thank you," I tell the wolf stiffly. "For your hospitality."

"You're quite welcome, Your Radiance." The headmaster's alert face softens in a smile. His eyes are lovely, the color of warm sherry. They flicker over my wary frame and linger on the crossed blades that jut over my shoulders.

I'm far too guarded, in this ungodly land, to disarm.

"That tea needs a moment to steep. Do come and fill your plate from the stove," Lucius says kindly to my defensive face. "We don't stand on ceremony here. We all serve ourselves on school mornings. "

"I do not dine without my bride," I say stiffly.

At this mention of Zara, a muscle flexes in the wolf's jaw. A wicked spark of red flares in his suddenly hostile gaze.

Near the door, the dragon bares his teeth in an unfriendly growl.

"Zara's… getting ready for school with the girls. As you may have gathered, we had some excitement here last night. They'll be along shortly," Lucius says with careful control. "Rest assured you've nothing to fear under my roof, Your Radiance. As long as you harm no one, then no one here will harm you. You have my word as your host."

Clearly this scholar knows something of Faerie custom. Still, he's no Fae to be bound by his sacred word.

Unlike the Fae, these men can lie.

Over his miniscule cup, Vasili Romanov utters a scornful snort. "Speak for yourself, Lucius. If that little pissant tries to whisk Zara away on his odious dragon like he did last time, I'll crush him like a cockroach."

"Vasili, my dear." The wolf gives him a reproachful look. "You're not helping."

I'm already bristling with offense. "I am not here to abduct my own queen. I told you I've come to crown her. I assure you, she'll come with me willingly."

"For fuck's sake, mate." Ronin drops the skillet to the stovetop with a noisy clatter and twists around to shoot me a thunderous scowl. "Are you blooming mental? She's got her own bloody royal crisis to manage here, hasn't she?"

Still looming threateningly in the doorway, the dragon growls a foreign word in his mother tongue. His shoulders flex under that ghoulish shock-rock shirt. His fists clench into white-knuckled knots that promise violence.

"Zara will go nowhere," the dragon bites out, "while she is breeding—"

"Ronin, Maxim, kindly let me handle this." The wolf levels me with a warning look. "As for you, Your Radiance…"

I begin to sense I'm treading on thin ice, even with this one who is more patient and shows me greater courtesy than the others.

Besides, I know well that if I spur them all to violence, Zara will not be pleased .

Already, I've angered my volatile queen with my long absence.

For her sake, I can see, even I must bend a little.

I pull in a long breath and reach for my forbearance. "You may address me by my common name. I am Zephyr."

This is a great concession on my part. In Avalon, it would be considered a rare honor. Yet I suspect these troublesome mates of hers will not view it in this light.

Besides, even to my own ears, I sound truculent.

"Very well, ah, Zephyr," Lucius says firmly. "We can discuss the future of your realm and this one—with Zara— after we've all eaten. Come now, surely you must be hungry."

"I am not—" I begin loftily.

My empty stomach chooses this untimely moment to voice a noisy rumble.

Vasili, the one Zara calls her snake, hisses rudely. "Sweet fuck. Just let him starve, Lucius."

The snake abandons his espresso and slithers to the stove. Instead of snatching a plate as I expect, then stuffing his hateful face before my hungry eyes to taunt me, he shoots an arm around Ronin's waist and pulls him into a hard fierce kiss.

Ronin's hand rises to cup the other man's cheek in a tender moment of contact that seems to steady them both.

Without breaking this consuming kiss, Ronin reaches behind him to pull Neo close. Neo snuggles in and hugs both of them (even that prickly snake, which seems to me the height of recklessness) and the three of them share a moment.

I wait for Vasili to push Neo violently away, this interloper who is getting between him and his precious Ronin.

To my surprise, I even find myself tensing to spring to that innocent boy's defense.

Instead, Romanov's arm twines around Neo's waist. The bookworm tucks trustingly into both of them with a happy murmur. The sight of those three, wrapped in each other's arms, makes my chest ache with a poignant sensation I find… unsettling.

Surely, this is not the ache of yearning.

Lucius Aries watches them with a quiet fierce love that holds nothing of envy .

Very clearly, they're together—all of them in this harem—precisely the way Zara always said. These warlocks of hers are more than bedmates or friends or even political allies. They're a true polycule.

They're deeply committed, not only to her, but also to each other.

They love each other.

Me? I'm alone and unloved on the outside.

Peering in.

Same as always.

A quick step in the doorway draws them apart. Awareness crackles through the room like a bolt of lightning. Everyone turns with alacrity as Zara appears on the threshold and loops her arms around Maxim's neck for a quick kiss, which he returns with a dragon's brooding intensity. Then she ducks into the kitchen.

She is not dressed for Avalon, which vexes me.

Clearly she means to make me wait.

I'm in no mood to idle and tarry on her doorstep like an addled suitor while Avalon seethes with rebellion, my spider of a cousin spins his web of deceit and betrayal, and my love—my Ash—holds my throne alone.

Still, at the sight of her, my heart lifts with pleasure.

My bride's fetching curves are on pleasing display in a short plaid skirt and smart emerald blazer—at least she is wearing my color—with the Academy logo stitched over her lush breast. Her teal curls stream over her shoulders in saucy pigtails she's tied with two snips of black ribbon. Black knit stockings encase her slim legs. A handspan of sleek bare thigh peeks between the tops of her stockings and the hem of her skirt. Beneath, she wears black-and-white saddle shoes.

"Mmmm, maple bacon." Zara ambles in as though we're not all teetering on the naked edge of violence. She shoots a warm look at her three mates snuggling near the stove and gives an appreciative sniff. "I'm starving ."

"I'll fix a plate for you, Zara." Looking perfectly happy to perform this menial chore like a servant, Neo detaches from the huddle and fetches a clean plate.

"Thanks, baby." Her casual glance finds me standing alone and wary near the sink. "How about you leave those swords somewhere, Your Transcendence? There's not gonna be room for your whole medieval arsenal at the breakfast table. "

Now I feel beset from all sides.

As my bride clearly senses, I don't feel comfortable disarming in this alien land. Nor do I wish to sit cozily bumping elbows over a rasher of greasy eggs and burnt sow with these rivals and enemies.

If I accept their hospitality in this way, if I disarm and eat and drink at their table, I myself will be bound by the sacred obligation a guest owes his host. I will be bound to harm none who dwell beneath this roof—

Unless they harm me first.

The quiet knowing look I'm receiving from the wolf tells me he too knows these ancient laws.

Perhaps he even senses my turmoil.

I feel my brow furrow. I itch to return with my bride to Avalon. It is for this reason alone I've come.

Now, all too clearly, I will not achieve my aim without patience. Perhaps it was churlish of me to arrive late and unannounced, then make my distrust of her mates so blatant.

Now I experience another emotion I do not often tolerate. My face heats with the awkward burn of embarrassment.

"Forgive me," I say stiffly, hands rising to the harness that straps my swords to my back. "I meant no offense. I will disarm."

"If you intend to disarm," Vasili Romanov fires back spitefully, "don't forget to remove the pole that's currently riding your royal Unseelie ass. There's no room for that at the breakfast table either."

Ronin snickers. His sullen face lights with a sudden grin. It's a mocking grin, to be certain.

But it pulverizes my heart.

Once I would do anything to see him smile.

"Okay, everyone grab a plate," Neo says with determined cheer, while he busily fills Zara's. "Your eggs are getting cold."

We do not mind cold food in Avalon. Our witchfire is not capable of a gas stove's sustained heat.

But apparently cold breakfast is a problem here.

Neo's comment prompts a general migration for plates and cutlery and an orderly procession of bodies past the heaping skillets.

While Zara fearlessly engages the hissing and grinding contraption of the espresso machine in some sort of struggle involving steam and milk—while she ignores me completely—I unbuckle my harness and prop my sheathed swords neatly against the wall.

Still, I keep them well within reach.

Covertly I watch her mates pile eggs and sow on their plates. Vasili holds himself apart and graces his plate sparingly with a tidy dollop of scrambled eggs and a token strip of sow. Ronin and Maxim tussle playfully over the sow, like two brothers instead of the intimate lovers they probably are, until Lucius intervenes to claim the lion's share of the sow with a wolfish growl.

At last, they've all tromped noisily out to the great room with their eggs and suspicion.

Leaving Zara and me blessedly alone.

By now, my wild Gemini appears to have compelled the infernal espresso machine to do her queenly bidding. She stands in a shaft of sunlight that streams through the open kitchen window, cradles a steaming Icarus Academy mug between her small hands, and eyes me with pensive periwinkle eyes while she sips her latte.

She seems to expect me to speak. But I am afraid to make matters worse.

As the silence stretches, her teal brows compress in a pucker of annoyance.

I yearn to vanquish this abominable distance between us, crush her delectable body in my arms, bend her backward under the force of my ardor, and ravage her sweet mouth with kisses.

But her expression is not inviting.

She does not appear to appreciate the sight of me standing rigidly in her kitchen with my swords and armor, before my untouched tea, brewed by my host with his own hands.

In the tight-stretched silence, with the savory aroma of eggs and meat thick in the air, my hollow stomach gives another undignified grumble.

At last, her expression of annoyance softens. She hides a small smile behind her mug.

"They left some for you, okay?" She sighs. "Plus the girls are coming down. Dez and Racetrack. They're my friends and they're part of my court, you should meet them."

"I am not opposed to meeting your court." This much I can say in all honesty. "They will be welcome in Avalon. "

At the mention of Avalon, her expressive face hardens.

"Up to you whether you eat with the rest of us at the table— minus those swords—or standing alone in the kitchen." Now her voice too is hard. "But I'm not doing this with you unless we're with all of them too. All my guys. Right now, they don't trust you, and I don't blame 'em. So you gotta figure your shit out."

That's how my bride leaves me, in her strange and perilous electrified kitchen.

Standing alone.

Same as always.