Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,92

the supernatural community for that reason alone. Always outcasts. Always separate. This fight was nothing new to me, and I bore down as hard as I could, overchewing every tasteless morsel as a distraction.

Marking her, going out of my way to announce my claim, to piss a circle around her, was a huge risk. With the shower incident still fresh in all the guards’ minds, if I showed too much interest in my mate, they might separate us for good—move one of us to a new cellblock and ensure we never saw each other again, just to be extra cruel. I wouldn’t put it past any of them.

For now, I had to keep my shit together.

Not that my inner dragon understood or cared about any of that. Impulsive fucker raked his claws up and down my insides as Katja settled on the stool between mine and Rafe’s, then huffed a lock of hair out of her face. Pain seared up my throat, but I swallowed it down with a gulp of too-sweet apple juice and a wince.

“You know,” the witch started, poking at her own mountain of expired scrambled eggs, “they’ve really outdone themselves this morning.”

I grunted in agreement as Fintan guzzled his own juice, slurping noisily at my side. No better way to start the day than some fucking gross eggs, a slice of an orange with what looked like it somehow had extra seeds shoved in there, apple juice that was so artificial I could feel the grains of sugar on my teeth, and then a rock-hard chunk of bread.

Magnificent. No wonder most inmates looked like the walking dead.

I snatched up the bread and clunked it on the table. “I find this particularly insulting.”

After all, Katja and I had access to the fresh stuff several days a week. The bread we made was perfect—and obviously in high demand from the external suppliers, as there was talk of extending the bakery shifts and adding a few more inmates to the crews to up production. The likelihood of another tumble in the pantry looked dimmer with each passing day.

“Oh, yeah, a giant screw-you for sure,” she muttered, picking up her bread and squeezing it in a fist. A few bits of stale crust fluttered to the table, and she glanced at Rafe for his input—only for the pair to lock eyes a little too long, then look away, my mate’s cheeks a delicious rosy red.

My inner dragon sneered, then stabbed hard enough to make me cough. Of course the dramatic shit was punishing me for that interaction. I held a fist in front of my mouth, and when the subdued wheezing settled, I found my skin speckled with bright bloody droplets. Perfect. The bastard was literally tearing me apart from the inside out, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until I marked her.

Do you see where we are? Can you cut me some fucking slack?

A begrudging grumble rattled around my brain as I wiped the blood on my leg, preferring not to look like a human suffering from tuberculosis on top of everything else.

Fintan had gone from drumming on the table to rolling his bread ball back and forth between his cupped hands. I scowled his way, only to find him sporting the standard shit-eater grin as he watched the three of us like we were the best entertainment around.

And we probably were—like a fucking soap opera, me, Katja, and Rafe.

Most days I wanted to punch the fae right in the nose, if only to shut him up, maybe even have a few blessed moments of silence while he was out cold. He still operated under the delusion that he was fae royalty—as did just about every fae I’d ever met—and he flirted shamelessly with my mate right out in the open. The thought of her and him spending hours together in the greenhouse made my blood boil…

But I didn’t want to skin him alive.

Didn’t want to tear his heart out and eat it as I watched the life drain from his eyes.

So…

Again, perplexing. Fintan and I didn’t share Rafe’s and my bond, the connection fostered over eight years and deeply fortified in the last ten months. The fae had just appeared one day, and unlike every other male at Xargi, from the lowliest inmate right up to Warden Guthrie, my inner dragon didn’t want to slit him from stem to stern.

I didn’t relish the implication. Fintan was a stranger—and kind of a pompous ass. The thought of fate aligning us