“Okay, well, damn then,” I say to Henri, before making arrangements to try both pairs of earrings on. I’ve got to admit the little girl in me that used to wear Disney princess dresses until I got too big to fit into any of the ones they sold in stores is jumping up and down.
I still don’t know what this special day is all about, but it’s clear I’m going to look like straight-up royalty. Better than a princess, actually.
A queen. I’m going to look like a queen.
There’s only one problem.
Chapter Sixteen
After a day filled with wardrobe decisions, I go to find Damianos and my son.
At least, I try to find them. After almost 30 minutes of searching, I realize there’s a good chance I might never locate them on my own in this big-ass castle.
“Where are you guys?” I push into the ether, hoping Damianos is close enough to hear me.
“In the garden,” a voice answers, direct and to the point.
I follow my instinct to the back of the house, but dude, Damianos calling the situation going on in his backyard a garden is some kind of understatement. In fact, yard? Ha! More like back hectare.
The place has got levels that extend at least halfway down the other side of the island. There are a ton of grottoes. And, like, six different waterfalls too, because I guess all the fountains shooting huge spigots of water just weren’t majestic enough? There’s also, a huge sitting statue that may or may not be Damianos himself. And don’t even get me started on all the flowers. It’s a technicolor dream from the back of the house all the way down to what appears to be a stone receding wall at least twelve feet tall. No wonder Thalia couldn’t just bike on up in here.
So garden? No. Serious competition for that Nebuchadnezzar guy’s hanging gardens of legend? Getting closer.
But the seventh wonder of a garden isn’t what has me blinking, unable to believe my eyes when I reach the collection of reflecting pools on the garden’s second level.
Damianos is standing at the edge of the largest pool with his shirt off. I’ve never seen him topless under direct sun before. His skin is pale with a blue undertint, and his muscles are so big, they cast shadows. He looks, in a word…breathtaking. But that’s still not what stopped me in my tracks.
Bazzi…our son…he’s also shirtless and standing on stubby little legs with his little baby arms flexed, his wings nowhere to be found. There’s a look of utter concentration on his face that would almost seem comical if it wasn’t so very, very weird.
Shocked face emojis spew out of my eyes. “Our newborn can stand fully on his own now?” I ask Damianos. “I know I say this a lot, but, what the Fenrir Wolf?”
Bazzi visibly startles when I speak, and his wings pop out with an audible zwick! Apparently his highly impressive balance was also highly precarious. He teeters and falls as soon as the wings come back out.
“Bazzi!” I call out, rushing forward.
But no need to go to him. He pops right back up from the ground and comes flying toward me.
“You all right?” I ask with a little laugh when he lands in my arms.
Bazzi coos and pats my cheek with a chubby little baby hand, as if to say, “Oh, silly mommy, of course, I’m alright.”
Love…so much love. It feels like it’s flowing out of me.
But I missed one of the most important milestones of what’s apparently going to be a super short childhood.
“Poor timing,” Damianos says beyond Bazzi’s shoulder. But as it turns out, he’s not referring to the fact that I found them after he taught our son how to stand on his own.
“I have been working with him all day and only jusssst now had he managed to retract his wingssss,” Damianos complains.
I narrow my eyes at the sound of his voice. It’s taken on a distinctive hiss. “Did you take off your tongue cap?”
“Yesssss. Our native language issss incredibly hard to sssspeak with a tongue cap.”
“So you’re teaching him a long dead language along with how to put away his wings?”
I realize my mistake as soon as the light in his golden eyes dims.
And though I’ve never been one to apologize, I say, “Sorry. That was a crappy thing to say. I get it. It’s not like my fathers needed to teach me Old Norse, but I still know enough of it to get around if I ever end up in the Viking Age. I can see why you’d want to start teaching Bazzi your language too.”
“There is no need for ssssuch belabored teaching,” Damianos answers, his usual cold tone even icier with the added hisses. “Unlike your inferior species, drakkon pick up new languages within only a few conversssssations.”
“Okay, I see you’re back to your old M.O.,” I say with a disappointed shake of my head. “I say something you don’t like. You insult me instead of just saying, hey, Ola, don’t be an asshole about my language.”
“I am not insssulting you,” he answers. “Your sssspecies is poorly designed. Fragile, too long in infanthood, and still centuries away from a quantum leap because of your constant inner squabblingssss. There issss no arguing that.”
“Yet, here we are on a planet filled with billions of us, while most of your supposedly superior race got taken out with just one bomb.”
I can tell it’s a solid burn by the way his golden eyes narrow. “Did you sssseek me out for a reason?”
Darnit, why do I always forget about that not picking fights with somebody if you’re planning to ask for something?
Backpedaling a little, I begin with, “First of all, I wanted to thank you so much for the wardrobe. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been wanting new clothes until I started picking stuff out. I’m so, so appreciative.”
He hesitates. And I can almost hear him going through his megavillain cache of possible answers, before he settles on a careful, “You are welcome.”
I stare at him in silence waiting for the neg.
But it never comes. So I layer on some more gratitude. “Also, thank you for hiring Thalia. She’s wonderful and efficient and unlike her grandmother, doesn’t treat my stomach like a pet.”
A ripple of amusement is ruthlessly suppressed before Damianos answers, “You are welcome. Again.”
“Seriously, I’m so grateful. There are just two things I’m missing now for my big day.”
“And those are?”
“Any idea whatsoever about what I’m getting ready for and somebody to do my hair for the big event. I tried to talk to Thalia about it. But she said she didn’t have any idea either and that any additional staff who came to this island would need to be screened by you—which I’m assuming means gag-ordered in that special way of yours.”
Damianos frowns. “Why would you need someone to attend to your hair? It looked beautiful when you came down the stairs at the gatehouse. In truth, I was somewhat disappointed that you opted for a simple puff during my imprisonment in the North Dakota kingdom house. Braids like the ones you wore previously are fine enough to match any dress.”
“First of all, please stop with the shade. Be happy I was able to pull off an afro puff, considering that while you were passed out in the basement, I was dropping a bowling ball out of my hoo-hah.” (If you’re wondering why I’m referencing my birth after telling you it wasn’t all that hard—shaddup and MYOB. He doesn’t need to know that!) “And second of all, Other You did those braids. Not me.”
Damianos crooks his head. “You are saying the alternate future timeline version of me braided your hair?”
“Yes,” I answer, my heart squeezing at the memory. “He considered bathing me and braiding my hair a form of Reverence.”
I guess Damianos doesn’t feel the same way. His half of the mate bond goes so mute, it feels like he’s smothering it with a pillow. And several seconds pass before he finally says, “I will ssssee to the matter with Thalia. In the meanwhile, you may go now to dress yoursssself for dinner while I continue my lessons with Basileiossss.”
“Thanks for figuring out the hairdresser. And I ca
n get Bazzi dressed for dinner or whatever. I haven’t seen him all day.” I heft Bazzi up and switch him to the other hip to punctuate my point. Mistake. God, he’s heavy. My arms are going to be jelly by the time I get him back up the stairs.
Damianos frowns, his eyes switching between Bazzi and me. But in the end, he simply says, “I will see you both at dinner then.”
With that, he pushes past us and heads back into the house.
I turn to watch him walk away, his words from the drone, echoing in my ears.
I could never be him.
Is he right? Am I a fool?
Why do I have a feeling I’ll be finding out sooner than later?
Chapter Seventeen
The castle must have a professional-grade replicator stashed away somewhere. When I go back up to my room, I find my closet filled with rows of nanite dresses and my drawers stuffed with everything else I ordered this morning.
Also, Thalia didn’t leave when I went looking for Bazzi and Damianos. She knocks on the door five minutes after I return and offers to get him dressed for dinner.
“Is he sleeping in his bassinet?” she asks, extending her neck to peer over my shoulder.
I close the door a little bit more so that she won’t be able to see Bazzi fluttering around in the air. Thalia’s even younger than me and I don’t know if she’s on the list of wolves who know and believe about the king dragon legend.
I’m also feeling like an asshole because while I spent all day picking out a wardrobe, “Bazzi actually doesn’t have any other clothes to wear yet. Maybe we should just have dinner brought up to the room?”
“That is not necessary,” she answers. “Mr. Drákon himself picked out clothes for Basileios this morning so that you could both dress appropriately for dinner.”
“He did?” I ask. “And seriously? There’s a dress code for dinner?”
“Yes,” she replies. And I guess that’s the answer to all my questions because she continues with, “The new clothes are ready and waiting for Basileios in the nursery.”
My eyes bug. “He has his own nursery?”
“Yes, right next door to Mr. Drákon’s suite. So, if you would like to give him to me.” She holds out her arms.
“Uh….” I’m not sure if Thalia’s strong enough to carry a thirty-pound baby to…wherever the dragon king’s suite is located in this humongous place. I also can’t see her wrestling Bazzi’s wings into a shirt. “He’s…sleeping. Could you bring the outfit here? And I’ll put it on him when he wakes up.”
“Of course,” she answers. “I’ll do that now.”
She starts to head off, but I stop her with, “Thalia?”
She turns around, expression eager, and ready to serve. “Did you…did you want this job? Like legit want it? No convincing needed by Damianos?”
“Yes, of course, I want this position.” Her face falls. “Why? Am I not doing a good job? Are you dissatisfied? Is there something I could do to improve my—”
“No, no, no,” I assure her. “I just…I just wanted to make sure you weren’t forced into anything you didn’t want to do.”
“I do desire this position,” she answers, her expression totally sincere as far as I can tell. “I was so excited when Grandma told me you’d need an attendant—that is after I looked up what attendants do.”
Alarm bells go off. Was she excited or had Damianos lied to me about the god speaking? “So it was your dream to be an attendant?”
“Well, no, not exactly…but it’s even more not my dream to run the counter at my father’s restaurant on Lukos, which was my only other option. Plus…” Her expression goes from sincere to frank. “For the amount Mr. Drákon pays, there’s not a lot I wouldn’t be willing to do. Also, Grandma says he’s much nicer these days, now that he’s in love.”
“In love,” I repeat. My heart flips all the way over. “He told you that?”
“Well, no…” she answers. “But none of the Drákon line of kings have ever brought a mate back. They usually show up after they inherit the title because their father has died. But to be honest, I’m not sure how it worked in the past. My grandmother isn’t the most reliable source, and from what I can tell, she and her grandmother were the only ones who were allowed into the estate prior to this. But now he’s hired her and me. And grandma said he also asked her about staff for the garden and many other jobs for your big night.” She laughs. “If he doesn’t watch out, he’ll have our whole family working for him.”
I chuff weakly. “Yeah, if he doesn’t watch out.”
The conversation with Thalia is both illuminating and confusing as hell. I get that Damianos has been pretending to go off and die for centuries now—classic vampire move. But what Thalia’s interpreting as love feels like stone cold disinterest to me. Damianos rushed off at breakfast. And we barely spent five minutes talking in that seventh wonder he calls a garden before he rushed off again.
We’re finally both free, and we’ve agreed to be together. We’re supposed to be working on a happy ending here.
But he won’t let me in, and it feels like we’re getting further and further away from the vision Other Damianos spun for us.
If Other Damianos had stayed, would he have shut me out like this?
Expected me to dress up for dinner?
Just as I’m finishing putting on a floor-length maxi dress, Thalia shows up with the outfit Damianos picked out for the baby. It’s not a really nice onesie with slits like I was expecting, but a full-on baby suit, custom cut to accommodate Bazzi’s wings underneath. It even has a special nanite inner panel in the back, which hardens when put on so that no one will be able to see his wings fluttering underneath.
I’m seriously impressed with the baby evening wear. But Bazzi? Not so much.
And it feels like I’m losing a fight when I finally haul my pissed off newborn through the arched doorway of the formal dining room on the bottom floor. The dining room’s basically the breakfast nook on steroids. Inlaid and painted ceilings. Three crystal chandeliers instead of one. A long table that looks like it’s only purpose in life is to give the one from Disney’s most recent reboot of Beauty and the Beast an inferiority complex. Crown molding everywhere and all the gilt that has ever been gilted.
But at this point, I’m done being impressed.
“Thanks for the suit,” I yell at Damianos over the screaming baby who apparently thinks I’m trying to straight-up murder him by way of this outfit. “He hates it.”
Damianos stands, lifts a brow, then hisses a few words at our outraged son.
And Bazzi immediately stops crying.
“What’d you say to him?”
“To stop crying because it would no longer be necessary to wear such things once he learns to properly retract his wings.”
“And he just listened to you?” I ask, goggling at Bazzi, who still looks sullen but has stopped screaming his head off.
He stares at me intently, then replies, “Drakkon do not disobey their fathers.”
“Like, ever?” I ask. “And from birth?”
“Yes, to both questions,” he answers. “Should I make another comparison between our species? You always seem to take great insult when I do.”
“Okay well…I’m too exhausted after hauling thirty-five pounds of squirming, screaming baby down the stairs to fight with you.”
To my surprise, Damianos rushes around the table and plucks Bazzi out of my arms in response. “It will take another week or so for Basileios to learn to walk on his own. Until that time, you will summon me whenever he is to be carried. There is no reason for you to tire yourself with this task.”
“A week? Don’t you mean like a month? Tell me, I’ve at least got a month.”
“If it makes you feel any better, he is still slightly behind where a full drakkon would be, even with a father to train him from the start.” Damianos takes the baby from me like he weighs nothing and placing him in a moon-shaped highchair I didn’t notice before. Unlike the rest of the room
, it’s sleek and modern and doesn’t look like it belongs in some lavish production of an opera.
No, it doesn’t make me feel any better, but… “Thanks,” I say as I watch Damianos buckle him into the chair.
Someone nicer would probably just leave it there. But I’m me, so of course, I have to push.
“Just so you know, this feels an awful lot like Reverence,” I say, taking the seat on the other side of the chair.
His back stiffens right before our mate bond goes dead. “It is not reverence but my fatherly duty to see to all aspects of care for my child.”
“Your fatherly duty?” I repeat. I’d been raised by two Vikings who’d told me to “confer with your mother” in Old Norse whenever I asked about anything that involved what they’d so quaintly termed “the women’s arts.” So I was more than a little curious by what he meant by that.
“On my home planet, fathers were the sole caretakers of hatchlings,” he answers, taking his own seat.
I wait. And when he doesn’t offer up any further explanation, I say, “Shocked face emoji…like, even when the mother survives childbirth?”
“Yes,” he answers.
And again I wait. And again he doesn’t expound.
But he’s said enough for me to note out loud, “So basically losing your father was like what losing a single mother would have been to one of us. He raised you by himself and guided you for thousands of years. Until that battle. That’s why you’re still so angry at my dads.”
This time he doesn’t respond at all. Just rings a bell I assume must summon somebody.
Like this conversation is done.
But it isn’t done. Not nearly.
“Wow.” I tell him, “Other You talked in paragraphs, but trying to have a conversation with you is like pulling teeth.”
Her Dragon King (Her Dragon King Duet Book 2): 50 Loving States, North Dakota Pt. 2 Page 11
