Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,13

as steel, and yanked me toward his cell.

“Elijah,” he growled, low enough for only a shifter to hear, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

“She… I…” I blinked hard, then shook my head. All the stories said we lost ourselves the first time we scented our mate—lost ourselves to the beast, driven by pure, uncut animal need. Risky, that. Dangerous for a creature who needed restraint and self-control to survive in this world.

“You look a mess,” Rafe muttered. The collar also muted a vampire’s unparalleled strength, their ability to snap bone with the slightest touch, but he was still strong. A worthy match for a dragon shifter—certainly. He held firm, forcing me to focus on his green-blue stare, intense in a way only Rafe could pull off without triggering my fight instinct. “Come on… Before the brat sees you like this.”

The brat. Yeah. Right. Couldn’t let Deimos spot a crack.

While the rest of our block meandered over to the center table, Deimos leading the way, Rafe marched me to the two-seater on the outer rim. Positioned in front of warlock Avery’s cell, he sat me down—and I just went, like I was in some fucking trance, all from a little witch’s scent.

Fated mates was serious business—and a weakness of epic proportions, especially in here.

Rafe left for a moment to fetch our deck of cards, and as soon as he settled across from me, he resumed dealing in silence, like we were actually going to play gin. I humored him because I felt like I had to, going through the motions, throwing down cards and picking new ones up, reorganizing my hand, all the while staring at her open cell door. Located on the southeastern side of the block, sunlight beamed into it for the better part of the afternoon, which meant she could see how depressing our holes were while also feeling what little warmth Xargi Penitentiary had to offer on her skin.

A blessing and a curse, the sun.

Nearly an hour later, supper on the horizon, she finally padded out of her cell—and I lost it. Again. Even seated, I struggled for control, my inner dragon snarling and huffing and clomping about inside, desperate to get at her, this diminutive witch with hair like copper flames. Long and wavy, it rolled down her back for the most part, the staticky pieces on top like a messy bird’s nest. Somehow, she made her purple jumpsuit look good; it clung to her curves, to the swell of her breasts and the roll of her hips. Perfection. Sheer, untainted perfection. While the point of her chin and the high sharpness of her cheekbones suggested a heart-shaped face, her cheeks had a nice roundness that this gutter would trim off in a matter of days.

I mean, the food here was mediocre at its best and literal gruel at its worst. Most lost their appetite the first few weeks. Goodbye, adorable chubby cheeks. Hello, severe lines and sharp angles.

Her eyes were such a startling shade of blue, bright and electric as they danced around the cellblock. She lingered in the door, hands clutching at either side, timid and hesitant to join any of us—

And then there was Deimos, right on cue, gliding to her side like he fancied himself her savior.

I tossed my cards on the table, ignoring Rafe’s curt exhale and glaring openly at the pair. Vision tinged red, blood pounded between my ears, every sense heightened when the demon swept my witch under his wing.

“There, there, sweetheart,” he murmured, gently guiding her out of the cell. “I know this must be terribly overwhelming for you.”

Fucker. He had the faintest of English accents most of the time, but he really hammed it up, from Cornish to Received Pronunciation, all posh and proper, when he seduced a newbie into his ranks.

Jaw clenched, hands in fists, I tracked the pair as they drifted toward the middle table, her mouth moving like she was actually giving that shit the time of day. I tensed, about to stand, when Rafe shot me a look—and then kicked me hard in the shin.

“Elijah, don’t,” he remarked when I turned my fury on him.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pick up strays,” the vampire said with a sigh, as if my behavior was just so tedious. “We don’t need any extra—”

“She’s not a stray.”

My friend faltered at my tone, at the way my glare burned hot as blue fire. I never turned my ire on him, but if he called her a stray one more