Page 71 of The Forbidden Dragon King
Has it only been a day?
My memories, once I waslost to the heat, are a blissed out blur centered around the pulsing pleasure between my thighs and the press of Daire’s ghost lips across our bond mark.
He promised that no matter how far apart we were, we would never truly be alone again.
He didn’t break his promise.
I smile, glancing down at the snowflake, which is covered in purple hickies, scratches, and bite marks.
I preen.
I’ll wear them with pride.
Daire will be wearing the same marks, and I can sense the same contentment and pride through the bond from him.
It’s better than pain and hunger.
When I look up, however, I startle.
Lucius is sprawled on the bottom of my bed, resting his chin on the palm of his hand and studying me with a bored expression.
Lucius’ silver silk tunic falls off his snowy shoulder. It looks like someone clawed it to pieces.
I swallow.
Whoops, that must have been me.
Also, that tunic looks like it cost more than my salary for the month, maybe for the year.
I edge myself to sit up, protectively pushing a cushion to block the view of the mattress that covers my silk purse.
An Omega can’t be held responsible for the crimes that they commit during heat.
Isn’t that a rule? Right?
Lucius smells of narcissus: sweet but underneath it, narcotic and bewitching.
“Good morning. I thought that you were going to sleep forever. You’re lazier than I am.” Lucius snatches up my housekeeper uniform from the end of the bed and throws it at me — a simple linen tunic with a Golden Dragon brooch to show that I belong to the King’s personal household — and it lands on my head. “You can’t lie around all day.”
I splutter, dragging the uniform off my head. My hair is now standing at all angles.
I hug my tunic in front of me. “Why not? You do.”
“Oh, a fellow Omega with spark. I like it.”
I growl.
“Don’t be disrespectful.” Lucius tosses his honey curls, pushing himself to sit cross-legged across from me. “I stayed up all night helping you and now I want some breakfast.”
“Can’t you make it yourself?”
He opens his silver eyes wide in mock shock, staring down at his soft hands. “Do these hands look like they were born towork? I may break a nail or, the horrors, burn myself. Elites are served; they don’t serve.”
“I don’t believe your spoiled act, you know.”
“That is like a blade to my poor heart.”
I snort.
