Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,58
and frosty, usually what we gave everyone who tried to weasel into our duo.
Everyone except Katja.
“No?” The fae clapped his hands and rubbed them together, eyes glinting with the cruel mirth commonly associated with his kind. “Playing War, are we? Deal me in. Half your decks each, just to keep it fair.”
“Who the fuck are you, fae?” I demanded, and he seemed to brighten at my accent—no doubt recognizing a Dubliner, finding familiarity in my lilt. Spearing a hand through his rakish hair, the fae’s mouth stretched into a smile that predicated a humble-brag. Across the table, Elijah rolled his eyes, both of us bracing for bullshit.
“Prince Fintan of the Midnight Court.” Yup, bullshit. “A pleasure to make your acquaintances… Elijah, dragon shifter. Rafe, vampire. It’s been an eon since I’ve found myself in such company.” He spoke with a lofty high fae accent, a blend between posh English and old-money New York, and then had the nerve to snap his fingers. “Come on, come on, deal me in.”
Elijah caught my eye, and I shook my head. Prince Fintan, eh? Highly doubtful this one was a prince. There were so many courts in the fae world, so many royal bloodlines and bastards, so many nobles fighting tooth and nail for a piece of the action; it wouldn’t be the first time a lesser fae came to the mortal realm declaring they had a claim to the throne. No one could prove otherwise, and fae arrogance carried an annoying sense of entitlement that was easily mistaken for a royal temperament.
Besides, believing a fae at their word, especially in the beginning, was foolhardy at best. Until you could read them, decipher their physical tells, map the rhythms of their slow-beating hearts, it was best to take everything they said with a grain of salt.
Elijah straightened to his full height, larger than me and Fintan when he sat up and rolled his shoulders back, then tapped his half of the deck on the table. “What did you say to Deimos?”
“Oh, that little parasite?” In a unison that would have been laughable anywhere else, we three turned toward the demon, who had been staring unabashedly our way since the fae sat down. However, without his full horde as backup, he yielded fast, going back to his book with flushed cheeks and a snarl. Fintan chuckled, drumming his fingers hurriedly on the metal tabletop, a ball of energy despite having had the shit kicked out of him—twice—in less than twenty-four hours. “I told him that while I appreciated his offer to become an underling and lick his boots at every sunrise, I had no interest in sucking micro-dick for the short time that I’m here.”
Much to my surprise, Elijah snorted, which had me grinning incredulously—both of which seemed to delight the fae.
“Now, can I play or not?” Those bright green eyes darted between us. “Or are you two the true schoolyard bullies of Cellblock C?”
My dragon counterpart conceded first, handing over a chunk of his cards, and I did the same, neither of us offering the suggested half. Let him start at a disadvantage—he hadn’t earned anything more yet.
“Talking about Miss Fox, are we?” Fintan glanced up expectantly in the silence that followed, shuffling his cards with a skill that could give mine a run for its money. The deck practically flew between his hands, just a blur of white and black, his fingers dancing. When neither of us answered, the fae chuckled again and set his deck on the table, carefully straightening it out so it was a perfectly uniform rectangle. “Oh, it’s just so obvious. She returned from her meeting with the warden rather upset last night. Shame it’s still bothering her… She’s a breath of fresh air in here.”
Elijah’s jaw clenched, muscles rippling, and he glared daggers at me, pupils in slits again. For Christ’s sake. Shifters and their mates—so tedious.
“She isn’t a conquest, fairy,” he rumbled, his snarl a warning that would have made lesser men flee. Instead, Fintan merely plucked the top card from his stack and eyed it curiously.
“No, the good ones never are,” he mused, turning the card to reveal the ace of hearts. “Are aces high or low?”
“High,” Elijah and I growled in unison. Once more, Fintan ignored the warning signs, grinning like a fool.
“Right. Might as well just give me your cards now, gentlemen.”
We did, begrudgingly, neither of us in possession of anything to either beat or match his ace.