Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,32

standing in front of Elijah now made me feel awkward and small. I only made it up to his shoulders, and when he sighed, I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t thrilled about having me in here either.

“Come on…” He breezed by, bringing with him the scent of brimstone and raw, untamed masculinity. My belly looped and my pussy pulsed with interest. Not good. Not good at all. The dragon cast me a sidelong glance as he passed, headed away from the ovens and toward a cluster of flour-dusted tables. “We have a million rolls to prep.”

Swallowing thickly, I padded after him, my shoes silent to me but probably swishing along like cannon fire to a shifter. I wasn’t sure where the nondescript white slip-ons had come from, but one evening they were just there, waiting for me at the end of my bed. Although a touch too big, anything was better than navigating the prison barefoot, and days later, with my roughened feet practically singing, I still had no clue who to thank for the gift.

Which bothered me.

Because—now I was in someone’s debt.

And I hoped to all that was good in this world that it wasn’t Deimos.

Elijah stopped at one of the larger prep tables, a mountain of dough piled high in front of him, along with a stack of metal baking trays. He grabbed the top one and set it down slightly off to the left of him, and I positioned myself around the table’s corner, cheeks hot, unsure where to look.

I’d seen gorgeous men in the supernatural world for years, but Elijah exceeded them tenfold. This shifter had to be Apollo—he was everything the legends promised, a golden god, youthful and handsome and dripping with vitality.

“So, you just roll them out to about yea big,” he told me, snatching a clump from Dough Mountain and rolling it between his palms. Fifteen seconds later, he had a perfectly round little sphere roughly the size of a golf ball, made even smaller by the sheer heft of his hand. “Twenty to a tray. Full trays go in the pantry over there.” He pointed to a metal door embedded in the wall, shrouded in shadow. “They’ll proof overnight, then tomorrow we bake them.” His chocolate-brown gaze slid my way, and he arched a golden brow. “Questions?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to talk around him yet—not with my every cell utterly drawn to him.

Not when he set me on fire with nothing at all.

Definitely getting worse. Worse every day, and I feared the more I fought it, the worse it would get.

Would I spontaneously combust? Was he doing this to me, even with that leather band around his neck?

Was I cursed?

Would I—

“I swear I’m not stalking you,” Elijah muttered, placing his ball on the baking tray between us before going for the doughy mountain again. “I didn’t know you’d be assigned here.”

Obviously he knew I’d been avoiding him; I hadn’t exactly been subtle. With a quick glance his way, I went for the massive pile myself, ripping off a substantial enough chunk of soft, sticky dough to make a few balls before needing to go back for more.

“This is Rafe’s detail anyway,” he carried on as he set his second perfect sphere on the tray, “but vamps can’t work during the day because no one fucking accommodates for them here now that the weather’s turned, so someone else has to pick up the slack…” His jaw gritted, muscles briefly dancing. “Otherwise the vampire gets punished. So, I… I… Normally I’m in the metal shop.”

Guilt’s icy cold fingers plucked at my heartstrings, and I swallowed thickly, unsure why I felt like this—because I shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter that I’d been purposefully and obviously distancing myself from a dragon who, from what I’d seen, was a good guy. It shouldn’t matter that we shared some weird connection, that he set me on fire just by standing close. I didn’t owe him anything. I didn’t owe him my feelings. Elijah Greystone was a stranger. Fact.

So… Why the guilt?

I shook my head, more at myself than anything, and peeled off a hunk of dough from my little pile. Maybe I felt shitty because I’d misjudged him; who else would voluntarily take on another work assignment in prison? It was sweet that he stood in Rafe’s place—kind, really.

And apparently, he was better at making dough balls than me.

So not the typical alpha shifter we all heard about.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, peeling the plucky, tacky