Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,73
made her laugh, that her smile lingered as she picked through roses. No telling what it was about this woman that so infatuated me. Sure, I’d never had a witch before; she was a conquest in that regard.
Some sick part of me liked when she was mean. Rollo’s wife—future queen of the Midnight Court with three impressive heirs birthed already—was mean. Only to him, of course, and he seemed rather taken with her attitude. Always teasing and pushing one another, the act private and personal, glaringly intimate. Noblewomen in the court were charming and worldly. Intelligent and skilled in many talents.
But they all would have fallen into my bed by now.
Most of them had fallen into my bed with minimal effort on my part. No wooing. No courting. They bowed and thanked me when it was done.
None of them were mean.
Katja had a ward around her, one that effortlessly repelled my usual tricks, one that made me work.
And that delighted me.
Intrigued me.
For the first time in centuries, the object of my desire challenged me, possibly without even realizing it.
I cast her a sidelong glance, fiddling with a wilted rose, pretending to be busy while I studied her. What a gift, this witch.
“Tell me about Café Crowley.”
She snipped too hard, fumbling over the request, then shot me a frown. “What?”
“I’ve heard you mention it in conversation,” I remarked casually. Eight days ago, at breakfast, with Rafe—discussion topic: coffee. Lately, I had taken it upon myself to note, catalogue, and file interesting tidbits about her—about all of them, actually—for later use. But just those three, only Katja, Elijah, and Rafe. No one else necessitated that level of detail. Everyone else was an open fucking book: no layers. “Tell me about it.”
Setting her scissors aside, Katja laid into the newly clipped rose, ridding it of its thorns. “Why?”
“Because you interest me.” Ah, yes, there it was—the delectable plume of pink in her cheeks. A dewy carnation, just like those on the table across from the roses. “Therefore, your life interests me. Ergo, Café Crowley interests me—”
“Gods, I get it.” She shot me another wry grin. “What do you want to know?”
Tossing my shears and my gloves aside, I popped a fist under my chin, then swooped in and fluttered my lashes. “Everything, Miss Fox. Everything.”
Her flush sharpened in color, which positively tickled me, but I laid off the dramatics when she started to pull away. Begrudgingly, I shoved my hands back in the gloves and pretended to work, my efforts coaxing her to spill a few details about her profession.
And it was oddly fascinating to hear her share her passion. She loved the work. Loved her employees. Loved the books and the drinks and the kitschy aesthetic. Katja’s eyes lit up when she spoke of it, so animate and wild, and I did my best to swallow every crude thing that came to mind as I watched and really listened, utterly enraptured. No sense in pushing her away—not when she was unfurling her petals like so many of these thorny flowers.
When she eventually tapered off, her smile different, faltering, I let her. Only a fool would push for more than she was willing to give, especially when everything about this place was a painful reminder that she was so very far from home.
That I was…
I tossed the one rose I’d clipped and cleaned into the bucket, a measly contribution compared to her nine.
“Katja?”
“Hmm?”
I hesitated, scanning our surroundings for any eager ears. The nearest inmate was one row over and a good fifty feet down the way—another purple jumpsuit with his head stuck deep in the greenery. Above, the fans whirred, the greenhouse humidity suddenly stifling, the glare through the brushed glass too bright.
“Never mind.”
“What? No…” She nudged me with her elbow, and a bead of sweat dribbled down the side of her face. “Say it.”
Ignoring the urge to brush the droplet away, to lick it away, I tightened my gloved hands to fists as she got to work on the bush that I’d been poking at for the last… however long we’d been standing here.
“I… want to go home.”
The witch stilled, then straightened, tossing her thick, messy braid over her shoulder and unleashing a waft of primrose that almost made my eyes flutter—like I’d never smelled fucking primrose before. When she frowned up at me, face etched with concern, I almost backpedaled and whispered something lewd. But she had shared a piece of herself with me. She had been open and honest, gifting