Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,126

fence hinted at an internal debate—that for once he wasn’t just rushing into something, driven by instinct and personal gain.

“Fine.” He steered us deeper into the greenhouse’s shadow, our backs to the glass wall. “Let’s go find your mate.”

My heart soared—because at some point he had figured it out. Elijah didn’t strike me as the type to discuss our personal relationship, not even with Rafe, but Fintan had just admitted to it: he knew I was fated to a dragon shifter.

But he still held my hand, still looked at me with that otherworldly gaze like he wanted to devour me whole.

He knew—and it didn’t matter.

“Let’s get our dragon and our vampire,” I clarified, so many words unsaid suddenly dangling between us. “And my familiar.”

“I mean, if we’ve got the space in the escape pods, I suppose his royal highness can tag along.”

I trailed after him to the edge of the building, Xargi Penitentiary soaring before us, and I did my best impression of a nonchalant Fintan-shrug. “If Tully even wants to leave this Shangri-La, of course.”

“Of course.”

Fintan then grinned, acceptance and affection glinting amongst the mischief in his eyes, and we broke off into a sprint toward Xargi—hand in hand, off to rescue a dragon, a vampire, and a cat.

25

Elijah

Although forced labor wasn’t my thing, there were very few places in this pit where I truly felt my most dragon-y self than the metal shop. The fire and the forge, the crash of metal on metal, welding and shaping weaponry and machines, commenting on Colin the elf’s exceptional glass-blowing abilities… I tolerated these shifts better than any other setting. The bakery I put up with for Rafe’s sake, and Katja’s company was a bonus that not even the forge could top.

Here, sweaty and dirty and surrounded by male inmates who liked to throw their strength around, I felt oddly at home. Artistry thrived in the shop. Talent blossomed. Exceptional goods left these doors, shipped off to vendors who sold custom pieces, to supernatural clans that still relied on ancient weaponry alongside tooth and claw, to the human militaries and militias who loved the intricacy of our firearms.

A very small part of me looked forward to metal shifts.

Today, I had showed up alongside all the rest—and discovered I would be reloading bullets for nine hours straight. Tucked away in a dim, windowless room at the far back of the shop, I was stuck on a stool doing the most tedious job imaginable. Most shifts had thirteen inmates assigned to this furnace, and although no one had said as much, usually the dimmest fuckers loaded bullets. There was nothing to it—no skill required, no tact or craft or passion. Put all the pieces in the machine. Pull the lever. Crunch. The machine stuffs all the parts and powder together. Out comes a reloaded bullet. Put the bullet in the box. Eventually seal a full box. Put the box on the pile. Repeat.

For nine fucking hours.

No swords for me today. No arrow tips or throwing stars or double-sided axes.

Just… this.

I wrenched down the lever, grinding my teeth as the machine did all the work for me, then pushed the lever back up. The bullet sat waiting in its slot, slightly warm to the touch when I plucked it out and dropped it in the ammunition box destined for some bullshit gun shop in the States.

Of all the inmates assigned to this place, I had the most skill. I did this professionally and could withstand the fire—yet here I was, making bullets in a room with no circulation, a rock-hard stool under me and a wood table in front of me, the reloading machine drilled into its top and bullet parts scattered everywhere by the cunt guard who purposefully spilled the containers before he left me to rot.

This was Guthrie’s doing.

Just a little taste of the suffering he had in store for any male who associated with Katja…

So be it.

I could outlast him.

He was just flesh and bones, even with his magic.

I was dragonfire and steel, nearing three centuries in age and capable of surviving unspeakable horrors.

What I couldn’t stand was not being with Katja. Not speaking to her, touching her, smelling her—and it had only been a day. We three had agreed not to push her, to give her the space she needed to sort through her own unspeakable horrors. In the end, it might have been better for her if Guthrie had no one to use as leverage, but I fucking hated