Page 2 of Queen of the Cursed Egg
“No, Mina needs me more,” Balor replies, no regret or reluctance in his voice, which is nice. His absolute commitment to her welfare is reassuring. Balor and Callan pull out the schedules for the five ofthem, the rustling of papers the only sound for a moment. Balor is an assistant in one of the weapons classes Mina is in, but that’s as close to teaching as he’s coming. Abraxis is teaching offensive warfare and Callan defensive warfare. Leander has taken over Balor’s poison class, and Ziggy is doing spy craft and stealth. Abraxis is still doing weapons of all kinds, with Callan and Leander picking up classes.
“You guys have it all figured out. Great job,” I say with genuine approval, the careful planning evident in their coordinated schedules. I glance over my shoulder and see Abraxis has Mina cradled in his arms, holding her tight to him. His face is buried in her hair, inhaling her scent as if to reassure himself she’s still there. Thauglor is maneuvering Mina’s body, so she’s as comfortable as possible, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they adjust her limbs. The tenderness in his movements is unexpected from such a formidable predator.
Hopefully, Mina awakens soon. Seeing Thauglor this distraught is uncomfortable, like watching a force of nature suddenly become vulnerable. The waiting hangs heavy in the air, each minute stretching into eternity as we all hold our breath, waiting for our mate to return to us.
Day seven has cometo a close, the fading light casting long shadows across our private residence. I have Mina in my arms in the recliner in the main part of our dwelling, her body warm against mine, yet still unnaturally still. The scent of her—wild honey from her shampoo and thunderstorms—has weakened during her extended sleep, but still clings to her skin, a comforting familiarity. Vaughn approaches slowly, his footsteps nearly silent on the polished stonefloor, and lifts the hair on the back of Mina’s neck, his fingertips gentle against her skin.
“Every scale is back to being emerald and silver. She should wake up any time now,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile silence that has enveloped us for days. He kisses her temple, his lips lingering for a heartbeat, then backs away.
Cora and Warwick arrive with the hatchling and their slightly older child in tow, the door creaking softly as they enter. The distinctive scent of new life—milk and innocence—cuts through the heavy atmosphere of waiting. “Okay, what do you need us to do?” Cora asks as she shifts the baby in her arms, the infant’s soft cooing a stark contrast to the tense silence.
“As cruel as it’s going to sound, we need to wait for the baby to cry,” I exhale slowly, the breath warm against Mina’s hair, and watch the sleeping little one in Cora’s arms, its chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.
“You’re hoping her maternal drive kicks in and gets her to react to the baby in need,” Callan says, looking between Cora and the baby, his one good eye reflecting the dim light like burnished gold.
“Exactly,” I smile and rumble softly to Mina, the vibration passing from my chest to hers. I hear the faintest answering purr from her. So quiet it might be mistaken for a sigh. The sound sends a jolt of hope through me, electric and sharp. Thauglor and Abraxis freeze, having heard her, and move closer to the recliner. Their scents mingling with mine—smoke and earth from Abraxis, petrichor, and ancient stone from Thauglor.
Abraxis rumbles softly, the sound reverberating in the quiet room, and Mina’s head moves slightly against my chest. She purrs softly again, the vibration barely perceptible against my skin. Arching a brow, I look at Thauglor, and he rumbles to her, the sound deeper than Abraxis’s, felt more than heard. Scales race up the column of herthroat, emerald, and silver catching the dim light, before a slightly louder purr escapes her lips. The sound is sweet to my ears after so many days of silence.
Just before we rumble again, the baby lets out a blood-curdling cry, the sound piercing through the quiet like a physical force. We look up to see Warwick holding his son at arm’s length, the sour scent of vomit sharp in the air. The little man has projectile vomited on his father. The white liquid contrasting starkly against Warwick’s dark shirt.
A deep growl rattles Mina’s chest, the vibration intensifying against my body. I see scales racing up her arms, catching the light as they emerge. I am bracing for the absolute worst to happen, my muscles tensing in anticipation.
Her eyes fly open, gold blazing with sudden awareness, and she stares at Warwick. “What are you doing to my nephew?” Mina’s voice cracks from lack of use as she glares at Warwick, the sound rough yet wonderfully familiar.
“He puked,” Warwick offers Mina his son, taking two quick steps toward us, and as soon as the baby is in her arms, she settles and starts purring. The sound is louder now, steady and soothing, a balm to the tension that has gripped us all.
She cradles the little one against her, the infant’s warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt. She curls her body, placing the baby between me and her, the movement fluid and protective. “Hi, Klauth,” she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin as she stretches up and kisses my lips. She snuggles back in with the baby, her hair tickling my chin as she settles.
“Hello, baby. Enjoy your nap?” I kiss her forehead, inhaling her scent deeply, and smile, watching her hug the baby. The relief flooding through me is almost dizzying, a weight lifting from my shoulders.
“Yeah, Thauglor is an absolute furnace,” she says, her voice growing stronger with each word. She smiles and looks over her shoulder at the man in question, her eyes softening. “Thank you, my love, for guarding me so fiercely.” Mina yawns and stretches a little. The movement is catlike and graceful, before snuggling back in with the baby, her body a welcome weight against mine.
“Whatever you need, anything you desire. Just tell me, and it’s yours,” Thauglor says, taking a knee before me next to Mina. His massive frame seems to fold in on itself as he lowers to her level, the leather of his pants creaking with the movement.
She sits up slowly, the recliner shifting beneath our combined weight, and passes the baby back to Cora, the transfer gentle and careful. “Anything?” The way Mina says “anything” makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s a primal warning that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Anything your heart desires. If it’s possible, it will be done,” Thauglor bears his throat to Mina, the bronze skin there unmarked save for her mating bite. His word is his bond, and he doesn’t give it lightly. The scent of his sincerity fills the air, as tangible as a physical presence.
“Two things,” Mina slides off my lap to sit in front of Thauglor, looking up at him. The loss of her warmth leaves me suddenly cold. This is probably the most submissive I’ve seen her, her posture a stark contrast to her usual confident stance. She passes the baby back to Cora.
“Name them,” Thauglor’s eyes become that of his dragon’s, the blue darkening to midnight, pupils elongating into slits as he stares down at our mate. The air between them seems to thicken, charged with an energy I can almost taste—metallic and sharp.
“I want to do the scale exchange with you and my father’s head on a pike in my garden,” Mina says, her voice soft but firm. She hasalready shifted her hands, the transformation accompanied by a series of small pops and cracks. She is looking at the scales near her thumb on her left hand, the emerald, and silver gleaming under the dim light. She plucks one, the small sound like a fingernail against glass, and I can see the shock in Thauglor’s eyes, his pupils widening momentarily.
“You would gift me one of your precious scales,” he breathes, staring down at the emerald and silver scale in her hand. Its surface catching the light in iridescent ripples.
“You are mine, and I am yours. I already have Klauth’s, Abraxis’s, and Balor’s scales. I want one of yours too,” she explains, her voice rich with emotion. She reaches forward, using a talon that gleams like polished silver, and pops the top buttons on his black henley. The soft sound of thread giving way is audible in the hushed room. Mina sweeps the fabric aside, revealing the bronze skin beneath, and drives her talon into his flesh, then plants her scale over his heart. The scent of his blood fills the air, coppery and rich. Mina shocks us and leans in to lick his wound where she implanted her scale, her tongue leaving a glistening trail on his skin.
Thauglor groans, the sound deep and primal, and bites his bottom lip as his scent changes, becoming heavier, muskier—the unmistakable aroma of arousal. My eyebrows shoot up, and I see the satisfied smirk playing on Mina’s lips, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She knows exactly what she did to him, the effect she has on her newest mate.
Shaking his head, Thauglor shifts his hand, the transformation smooth and practiced, and starts looking for a scale to gift Mina. The sound of scales shifting against each other fills the silence. She stops his frantic flipping of his hand, her smaller fingers wrapping around his wrist, and uses her talon to remove a scale. The small piece comes free with a sound like a cork being pulled from a bottle.
Her hand raises, and she moves her shirt aside to show him our scales, the fabric rustling softly. He sinks his talon in just above mine and Abraxis’s scales, the sharp point entering her flesh with minimal resistance, then plants his scale in place. The obsidian piece nestles among the others, creating a constellation of dragon scales on her skin. Thauglor leans forward and licks the wound, his tongue rasping gently against her flesh. Mina purrs softly, the sound vibrating through the air between them. She hugs him to her, their scents mingling. She then allows Abraxis to help her stand, his powerful hands steadying her as she rises.
“What’s for dinner?” Mina looks expectantly at all of us, her eyes bright. Balor laughs, the sound rich and relieved, breaking the tension that has held us captive for days.
“Welcome back, babe. I’ll start your favorite wings and rib platter,” Balor smiles and leaves the room, whistling a cheery tune, his footsteps light against the floor. The scent of anticipation follows him—soon the air will be filled with the aroma of smoking meat and spices. It’s definitely a good day having our mate back from her extended nap. The relief is palpable, a weight lifted from all of us, replaced by a lightness that feels almost foreign after the days of worried vigilance.
