Chapter Thirty-Two Vasili

Chapter Thirty-Two Vasil i

If I'm being honest, my first Faerie Ball has proven to be a bit of a disappointment.

I mean, after darling Zara claimed her crown, I was certainly expecting at least a little homicide (if not regicide) with that demonic kraken surging from the sea like the leviathan in Clash of the Titans to tear down the kiva and claim Zara for his watery bed and (with any luck) hurl that aggravating Dark Fae tyrant with his smoldering looks and searing kisses into the sea.

At the very least, I expected some old crone in the crowd to rise up screaming "Boo!" and calling Zara the Queen of Putrescence, as in Buttercup's nightmare of marrying Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride .

Not that I'm complaining, of course.

But the fact that none of this has happened (yet), after all our well-laid plans to trap that demon and banish him back to the fiery abyss, is a bit… anticlimactic.

On the positive side, Zara certainly seems to be having a celebrity moment with these Unseelie. Since the instant they saw the crown accept her, instead of frying her to a crisp (which was apparently a distinct possibility, one Zephyr kept conveniently to himself), Zara Gemini has become the new It Girl of the Dark Fae court.

"Sorry, but no, she won't have this dance," I announce coldly, for at least the tenth time, to the latest hopeful suitor trying to butt in on my dance with Zara. "The queen's dance card is completely full—as is her bed, just in case you were wondering—for… oh… approximately the next fifty years. Don't bother coming back before then. "

Zara manages to maintain her queenly composure until I've whirled her away from her disappointed suitor. Then she dissolves in my arms in a fit of slightly hysterical giggles.

"Don't be so horrible to my peeps, Goblin King. I gotta build some trust with these guys. Woo them over." Her Hollywood face alight with mischief, she grins up at me under the sparkly white-and-green dazzle of the Dark Fae crown. That crown certainly suits her, and she knows it. She hasn't taken it off once since she claimed it.

I do wonder if she's planning to wear it later while we're fucking.

Up close, her new bauble is charmed silver, twisted into vines and leaves cleverly crafted to mimic thorny smilax. Which is, fittingly, a poisonous plant. Every dazzling chip of diamond is a thorn sharp enough to cut.

How utterly charming.

In short, that crown is far more sinister than her innocent homecoming queen tiara in the witching world (which, in case you've lost track, is still in the clutches of my vile funnel web spider of a father).

"For pity's sake, don't talk to me about wooing these people over." I tuck my girl's delicious curves, sheathed in dragonscale like a domme in latex, possessively against my body and glare at the bystanders writ large as we whirl past. "Your new subjects would cheerfully have watched you fry if that demon had his way. They should be wooing you , little queen. They should be licking your boots."

Deftly I pivot to steer us safely past another determined-looking Fae who's clearly on an intercept course for Zara. I can waltz like a Bridgerton (one of my many hidden talents), even to that war-harp's tripped-out tunes.

Needless to say, I haven't let anyone outside our harem lay a finger on Zara all night.

"Well, I definitely think they're trying." My girl tilts her head toward a particularly lovesick trio—two lords and a lady—all of whom I've already given the brush off—who stare longingly at Zara as I whirl her briskly past.

"Power of attraction," my girl adds wryly, lifting one hand from my shoulder to adjust the crown over her teal hair on a rather jaunty angle. "That bennie certainly kicked in promptly. Let's hope whatever other superpowers I've just added to my repertoire manifest PDQ. Because we're gonna need 'em tomorrow to find the Horn of Ceres and pass our finals. "

Her brows draw together. Her eyes darken to storm-cloud blue. "That's assuming Cleo the sea dragon hasn't already found it."

"Hmmm." I don't disagree, but I'm not ready to pivot quite so quickly from the current threat.

By all appearances, the coronation certainly seems to have gone off stunningly. Zephyr is enduring a dreary succession of tedious congratulatory toasts from his nobles while they all kiss the ring, with Ash looming protectively at one shoulder and (I'm quite interested to see) Ronin lingering at the other.

Max is slow-dancing with Neo, a sensual bump-and-grind that's definitely drawing Zara's attention and making our girl's breath quicken. Neo's trusting head is resting against Max's, and the dragon has a tender hand threaded through our bookworm's magenta curls.

Yet Max is watching Zara and me with his oblong dragon pupils narrowed to slits. Very clearly, he's fantasizing with obsessive focus about sticking his impregnating dick in both of us. The blazing heat in his smoldering face sharpens my own state of alert.

On the surface, this night is an absolute triumph.

But something is, nonetheless, very wrong.

With me.

My Armani tux is perfectly tailored to fit every inch of my scrumptious self to perfection. Yet somehow, despite my tailor's impeccable skill, my haute couture is chafing. Beneath, my skin stretches tight and hot against my bones. I've been struggling with temperature spikes and sudden sweats since that infernal dragon spilled my secret and dropped his bombshell about my newfound ability to carry eggs (like a hen!) last night. An inferno burns under my skin that makes my shirt cling to my back.

In fact, I'm perspiring so heavily I've already had to repair my cosmetics twice.

Now, with Zara's fuckable little body tucked up against my hips and thighs, this persistent boner I've been sporting all day is achieving truly epic proportions.

Until I know my mate is incubating a little Goblin Prince or Princess in her deliciously fertile body, I'll simply have to fuck both of us through this mating rut.

The fact that I'm simultaneously in heat, and (apparently) ready to incubate eggs myself, is an intolerable complication .

I don't want this. The eggs. Obviously.

Yet my snake is demanding the immediate sexual service of Max's dragon with a savagery that's both intense and alarming.

Well, she's simply not going to get what she wants.

As a result of all this, I'm fretful.

Anxious.

Not feeling at all like my usual horrid self.

The knowledge that I'm helpless to control what's happening in my own body stings like a wasp. Infuriated by the entire ridiculous mess, I lash out at the closest target I can reach and glare at Zara.

"You do realize, I trust, that Zephyr's demon is only biding his time?" I snap. "Clearly, Mordred wanted the crown to reject you in front of the whole Unseelie realm. Now that it hasn't, he'll move on to Plan B."

Sweet fuck, I sound positively shrewish. Truly, it's not a flattering effect.

Zara's lovely eyes narrow dangerously at my tone. "Pretty clear on that, yeah. Just not as clear on how we can trap him inside a summoning circle in, like, the next twelve hours if he won't come on his own. You have any ideas on that , bad boy?"

The best idea I have is one I have no intention of voicing. But I'm distracted by my rut, her fertility (how soon can we know if she's pregnant?), and my own mounting heat.

Consequently, she lifts the thought I'll never voice from our bond before I can block it.

"Put myself out there all alone… no ball, no crowd, no warlocks… as bait?" Zara tilts her head in thought. To my considerable alarm, I realize she's already contemplated the unpalatable notion herself. "Yeah. It's an idea I'm not opposed to. I actually suggested it to Zephyr while you were getting your facial this morning."

"Dear fuck." I stare at her, appalled. "Did it never occur to you to consult me?"

"No point." She shrugs. "It didn't go well when I raised it with the others. Total non-starter for the whole harem. But especially Lucius and Max. Guess those two are hormonally incapable of peeling off and leaving me exposed to danger while they're in rut."

"They're not the only ones," I say shortly .

Zara's stubborn face softens and her lush lips curve. "Yeah, I kinda figured that, Goblin King. How are you doing with all this anyway? I mean, you being non-binary and able to carry eggs in dragon form, plus being in rut for me and in heat for Max at the same time, then Zephyr and Ronin kinda making up, and the demon and everything else that's going down? It's… like… a lot."

I'm opening my mouth to assure her I'm in complete command of the entire situation when Lucius appears unexpectedly at our side.

He's still impeccable in his vintage tux and ascot with his delicious Renaissance curls spilling down his back. But my sharp eyes detect a flush along my pet's high cheekbones and a tinge of red in his whiskey gaze. With the creamy sweetness of Zara's intoxicating pheromones perfuming the air—with that addictive new note to her scent like ripe peaches that tells every shifter in sniffing range she's fertile—plus the lethal threat of that demon hanging over her head…

Lucius Aries is clinging to his aristocratic Old World civility by a thread.

"You've monopolized our queen long enough, Mr. Romanov," our headmaster says mildly. "I believe I'll take over for a time, if you don't mind."

Privately I'm amazed he's managed to give me this much time alone with her. Our three alphas (including Max) have been maneuvering delicately through the landmine of possessiveness, violence, and aggression that are defining characteristics of male shifters gripped in the biological and emotional crisis of a mating rut. For that reason—and because he's Lucius, and there's nothing I won't do for him—I command my reluctant hands to loosen their hold on Zara and entrust my darling girl to our wolf's eager arms.

Zara snuggles into Lucius' hungry embrace with an upward look that brims with so much mischief his fangs drop. He growls and drags her against his powerful body with a savagery that turns heads.

"To be continued," Zara calls over her shoulder, laughing, as Lucius whirls her away. "I seriously wanna talk about what's going down with you, Goblin King. Okay?"

Another couple spins between us and breaks our eye contact, which gives me the perfect excuse not to answer.

I pivot away from my mates and fight my way to the fringes of the pressing crowd. By this point, I've passed beyond any sort of genteel perspiration into a disgusting muck sweat. I'm a literal inferno of heat and hormones.

If I could only escape this crowd of alien Fae I dare not trust. Escape into the open air and breathe .

Desperately I wrestle open the sparkly bow tie that's strangling my throat and peel out of my smothering jacket. I glimpse the spiral stairs climbing to the kiva rim and twist through the crowd toward freedom.

I'm barely halfway to my objective when my snake uncoils and writhes inside the hot tight prison of my skin.

Vasili, we rise, she hisses, fierce with need. We rise now. I burn!!

Dear fuck.

This is happening. Whether I want it or not.

My mating flight.

My only conceivable option is to put as much distance as humanly possible between me and the male dragons at this fucking ball. Before I lose every shred of my sanity in this uncontrollable need to breed.

I abandon all restraint and bolt for the stairs, discarding my priceless designer jacket in my wake as I flee. Helped along here and there by an ungentle telekinetic shove from yours truly, Fae scatter left and right, yelping in alarm and cursing me for my rudeness.

With zero apology, I shove roughly through their ranks. Leaving chaos and bruises in my wake.

By the time I reach the stairs, I've torn my shirt open—buttons flying everywhere—and ripped the sweat-soaked garment viciously from my shoulders. My long legs devour the stairs three at a time, fingers wrenching open my fly with a violence that will surely make my tailor weep.

Halfway across the kiva, as I rise above the crowd, Maxim's eyes lock with mine.

He takes one look at my desperate face. Then his own predatory face ignites with triumph—and hunger. With truly alarming speed, he lunges for the stairs, ripping his Zephyr-provided dragonscale from his chest and shoulders as he charges after me.

Oh, fuck. Fuck!

In an uncharacteristic panic, I explode onto the rim and drag my trousers down my legs. The clothes tangle with my shoes—Italian leather, it would be a crime to spoil them—as I struggle desperately to rid myself of the lot.

Unexpectedly Xhevith rears before me, wings extended, head snaking down for a good sniff. One whiff of my heat makes his nostrils flare. He rumbles, long and low, with intense interest.

"Zephyr!" I shout without turning, frantically kicking free of my trousers. "For fuck's sake, control your fucking dragon!"

Dear God, why did I have to drink that magical moon wine?

Bitterly I curse the moment I found that innocuous bottle, standing innocently beside Zephyr's bed, and let my petty impulse to provoke him (by drinking his precious wine without asking) overcome my wits.

I'm smarter than that. I should've guessed—or at least suspected—it was moon wine. Laced with enchanted herbs to ensure fertility.

That moon wine is the entire reason I'm fertile.

I've barely gotten naked when the shift sweeps through me in a holocaust of heat and light.

I twist away from Xhevith and launch into the air, in my flying serpent form, with a teakettle scream of rage.

Behind me, the skies light up with a second shift. I don't waste time looking back. My wings churn the air for speed and altitude. I stretch my sleek form for maximum aerodynamics and minimum drag.

Xhevith's nails-on-chalkboard scream tears the air, echoed by Max's tyrannosaur bellow.

I entertain the brief uncharitable hope that those two male dragons will fight each other senseless in a testosterone-fueled frenzy for claiming rights to my genital slit, while I slip away from both of them and vanish in the night. Desperately I chart a course for the volcano, where numerous small caves offer countless hidden nooks and crannies where I can hide.

Until this abominable heat passes.

But all the while, as I'm far too keenly aware, my fertile female dragon—with her consuming need to breed—harbors other intentions.