Page 14 of Queen of the Cursed Egg
“Oh, hey!” His face lights up the minute he sees me, eyes crinkling at the corners, then he dives in for a hug, his arms encircling me, lifting me slightly off the ground. His scent—clean linen and snow—envelops me.
Ikiss him softly, his lips warm and yielding against mine, then motion to go to his office. His eyebrows raise in question, a silent inquiry that makes me smile, and we head to the room. The door closes behind us with a soft click, sealing us in privacy. “Open your shirt,” I command. He arches a brow, curiosity, and heat mingling in his gaze, and Balor pats where his scale from me is. Understanding dawns on Leander’s face like the sunrise, bright and beautiful. He strips off his shirt in record time, the fabric rustling as it falls to the floor, and is practically bouncing out of his skin.
I pluck a scale off from close to my wrist, the pain sharp but brief, like the sting of a needle. The scale gleams in the light filtering through the office window, catching and reflecting it in shards of emerald and silver. I approach him, my heartbeat quickening with each step. “This is going to hurt,” I warn, my voice low. I don’t give him a chance to say anything before I stab him with my talon and plant the scale in the small wound. His blood is warm and slick against my fingers, the metallic scent of it filling the air between us.
I dive in quickly and seal my lips around the wound, the copper tang of his blood exploding across my tongue. His blood tastes sweet, like a candied apple, rich and intoxicating. I purr, the vibration traveling from my chest to his as I taste his blood until it stops bleeding, the wound already beginning to close around the scale. When I pull away, my lips are stained crimson. The scale is alive and well on his chest, pulsing with a soft light that matches the rhythm of his heart. The connection between us strengthens. I can feel deep in my bones, tying us together more completely than before. One more mate left. His I need to make special. Maybe I’ll wait for art class.
Balorand I make it to art way ahead of Vaughn. The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy of leaves above us, casting dappled shadows that dance across the grass as a gentle breeze stirs the branches. I set up both of our art supplies like Vaughn usually does, the familiar scent of canvas, paints, and charcoal filling my nostrils as I arrange everything meticulously. The plastic containers click softly against each other, and the sound of paper rustling in the wind punctuates the quiet. When everything is set, I lean back against the rough bark of an ancient cherry tree, the texture pressing patterns into my skin through my thin shirt.
“You know you’re going to throw him off having everything ready?” Balor says as he leans back against the tree behind me, his warmth radiating against my shoulder blades. His voice carries the hint of amusement, low and rich like distant thunder.
“I know, but it’s so going to be worth it.” I smile as I trace an image of Balor’s basilisk on the canvas in front of me. The charcoal feels smooth between my fingers, leaving dark smudges on my skin that contrast with the pale canvas. The scratching sound it makes against the textured surface is oddly satisfying, almost hypnotic.
What feels like forever later, though my phone tells me it’s only been fifteen minutes, Vaughn finally arrives at the art class. His footsteps crunch on the gravel path before he steps onto the grass, the sudden absence of sound drawing my attention before I even look up. The scent of him reaches me first—aged leather, cedar, and something uniquely his, a mineral tang that reminds me of rain on hot stone.
“You guys beat me for once,” he says, laughing a little, the sound warming me from the inside out. He shakes Balor’s hand, their palms meeting with a solid slap that echoes in the clearing, before sitting next to me. The grass whispers beneath him as he settles, his body close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Before I say anything, I shift my hands, feeling the momentary prickle of scales replacing skin, a sensation I’ve grown to love—bothalien and deeply familiar. I take a scale from the middle of my forearm, wincing slightly at the sharp sting as it detaches. The scale gleams in the sunlight, iridescent green with hints of silver at the edges, warm and alive in my palm. I hold it up to Vaughn, watching his eyes track the movement, pupils dilating as he realizes what I’m offering.
“Will you wear my scale?” I hold it out to him, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I’m certain both men can hear it. The scale pulses slightly, as though it has its own heartbeat, and a drop of my blood traces a crimson path down my wrist from where I removed it. Vaughn’s eyes widen, the blue of them deepening to the color of a twilight sky.
“Yes...” he breathes, the word barely audible over the rustle of leaves above us. His hands shake as they go to his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. I can hear the rapid cadence of his breathing, feel the tension vibrating through him like a plucked string. When his chest is exposed, pale skin catching the golden afternoon light, I don’t even warn him. I drive my talon into his chest, feeling the resistance of muscle and then the give as it penetrates, hot blood welling up around my claw, the metallic scent sharp in the air. I plant the scale there, pressing it into the wound. The sensation of his flesh accepting my offering sends a shiver down my spine, an intimate connection beyond words.
Several moments pass, the world narrowing to just us and this act of bonding. The scale lives as the wound heals, melding with his skin until it looks as though it’s always been a part of him. The blood dries quickly in the warm air, leaving a rust-colored stain around the scale that now gleams against his chest, catching the light with every breath he takes.
We stare at it, mesmerized by the sight of my scale on his body, and then a creeping thought enters my mind, cold and insistent as winter frost.Will it live when he shifts?I stare at it for several minutes, notinghow it rises and falls with his breathing, how it seems to pulse with his heartbeat. I look up into his eyes, finding them fixed on mine, dark with an emotion I can’t quite name.
“Will it live when you shift?” The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility. His eyes flare at the thought, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue remains. He pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric whispering against his skin as it falls to the grass beside him.
Vaughn shifts slowly to his gargoyle form, and I watch, transfixed, as his skin turns to stone. The transformation is always both beautiful and terrifying—bones cracking and reforming with sounds like splitting wood. His skin hardening with a noise like sandpaper on rough stone, his breath catching and then deepening into something more primal. My scale changes with his shift, appearing to look like stone, the same granite gray as his chest, but with the faintest hint of green still visible in its depths. The air around us cools noticeably as his transformation completes, his body radiating the chill of ancient stone.
I can’t breathe for several minutes as I wait for Vaughn to shift back, my lungs burning with the need for air. When he does, flesh replacing stone with a sound like ice cracking, my scale returns to normal, its green, and silver brilliance stark against his now-flushed skin. The warmth of his human form returns, along with his familiar scent, now tinged with the earthy aroma that always accompanies his shifts.
“Whoa, my scale became stone when you did. Do you think it’s because of the iron dragon's ability of stone shape?” I look over at Balor, my voice slightly breathless, still caught in the wonder of what we’ve witnessed.
He tilts his head, thinking about it, the movement causing his dark hair to fall across his forehead. I can almost hear the thoughts turning in his mind, like the distant grinding of gears. “That wouldbe my guess, to be honest,” he says finally, his voice thoughtful. He smiles as he motions for us to pay attention as Nigel stands in front of the class, the professor’s authoritative voice cutting through the intimate bubble that had formed around us.
Mission accomplished—all of my mates now have one of my scales, a piece of me living on their bodies. The knowledge settles deep in my chest, warm and satisfying like honey, binding us together in ways invisible but unbreakable. As I turn my attention to the class, I can’t help but brush my fingers against Vaughn’s chest one more time, feeling the smooth surface of my scale against his skin. Our connection is now physical as well as emotional.
CHAPTER 9
Callan
To be gifteda dragon’s scale, let alone have a dragon for a mate, is mind-blowing. The weight of it on my chest is a constant reminder, cool against my skin even through my shirt, pulsing faintly with Mina’s life force. Mina gave all of us scales within a school day and couldn’t wait to do it. The urgency in her movements, the gleam in her eyes—it was like watching a predator claim its territory. Today she’s off with Klauth preparing for the dragon council to arrive later. The idea of those ancients being here sets my feathers on edge, causing them to ripple and shift uncomfortably beneath my skin.
I get to oversee the cleaning and setup of the war room to host them when they arrive. The scent of furniture polish and floor cleaner stings my nostrils as I shake my head, watching everyone running around, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Cleaning staff scurry about like ants, dusting every surface until it gleams. “Has anyone checked the menu for tonight’s dinner?” I yell down the hallway, my voice bouncing off the stone walls, waiting to hear someone answer. The taste of anxiety is metallic on my tongue.
“Relax. Mom and Cora are overseeing the food. Mina abducted Addy back from wherever she was to make sure the guest rooms are ready.” Abraxis pulls out a small notebook, the leather cover worn and soft from use, and looks it over. He flips through the pages, the soft rustle of paper audible in the relative quiet.
“Besides hunting Abaddon, do you know what’s happening?” I arch the brow over my empty eye socket, knowing how much it unnerves him. The air around us cools slightly as I watch him shift uncomfortably, his weight moving from one foot to the other.
Abraxis shivers, his scales rippling subtly beneath his skin, and looks down at the notepad. “I believe they are formally telling the elders that the females on this isle will fall under their king’s protection.” He inhales deeply, the sound raspy in the quiet room, then looks down again. “Thauglor is at the temple of Bahamut, verifying who he is. Dad went with him to officially hand over control of Blackhaven to him.” I can see the corner of Abraxis’s eye twitch, a tiny movement that speaks volumes.
“That bothers you, I’m guessing.” I lean back against the couch, the leather cool and smooth beneath my palms, just as Leander walks in. His scent—clean linen and winter—precedes him, a stark contrast to the tension in the room.
“Of course it fucking bothers me,” Abraxis snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Blackhaven was supposed to be mine as soon as I sired my first offspring. Now I inherit nothing. Not a damn bloody thing.” He throws his arms in the air, the movement displacing the air enough that I can feel it against my face, and shakes his head. The bitter scent of his anger fills the room, acrid and unpleasant.
“Yes, you don’t inherit Blackhaven.” Thauglor’s voice, deep and resonant, fills the room as he and Vox enter. The ancient’s presence is like a physical weight, pressing down on all of us. His scent—old stone and something primordial—overpowers everything else in the room. “Instead, you are part of a nest that controls almost two-thirds of anentire continent.” Thauglor flexes his wings in challenge, the sound of leathery membranes stretching loud in the sudden silence. Abraxis backs down immediately, his posture shifting to one of submission. “Shit changes, youngling. Life is about change and adapting.” Thauglor goes and leans against the desk, the wood creaking slightly under his weight.
