Page 45 of Heir

Her frown tore at the hollow in my chest. “Thank you. I was only two weeks old, so I don’t remember her. But from what Aunt Delia says, she was . . . she was really something special.” She cleared her throat and looked around, sipping from her fresh mug of coffee. “Where is the bear?”

“He went out to find food,” I answered, deciding that I’d waited long enough and it was time to slice into my steak.

She nodded. “Is controlling my powers something that you can help with? Or just the mage? Or do I need to find a demon to help me?”

The fact that she was talking about getting help and control of her powers was a good sign. Did this mean she was accepting her fate as heir to the Realm? Was she also going to accept us as her mates?

It felt safer not to make eye contact with her, so I focused on slicing my steak into thin, even pieces on the diagonal. “I can’t unless we’ve completed the Mate’s Bond. I strongly urge you to agree to mate. It will protect all of us.”

“And bind us together for life!” she countered, her tone laced with an ire that worried me. “I just met you. You realize that? I’ve never even had a one-night stand, let alone a one-night eternal commitment.” I glanced up to find her staring at me with wide eyes. “Wait, am I immortal?”

“Well, you can be killed by decapitation—”

“But if, like nobody does that, then I’m going to live forever, right?”

“That is generally how it works, yes.”

“God, you’re so backhandedly rude, you know that? The sarcasm and patronization in your tone is exhausting.” A small pain in my brain made me wince. I needed to subdue her. If she got angry with me, she could kill me. Even though she was just coming into her powers, there was little doubt in my mind that she wasn’t an incredibly powerful demon. Even if she wasn’t the Queen, she would still be very powerful. Lethal. She needed to learn to control her powers before she did irreparable damage to someone she cared about—like Gemma.

I stared at her, gritting my molars in reaction to the ache in my head. “My apologies. I didn’t think I was being sarcastic or patronizing. I thought I was answering your questions.”

She batted her hand like swatting at an invisible fly. “Whatever. So wait, like if I’m a demon and going to live forever, did Aunt Delia—if she’s even a mage, which I still doubt—not think I’d start to wonder why I’m living longer than the average tortoise? Also, why are you like a billion years old but only look around forty?”

“A billion years is an exaggeration, right?”

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. “Of course.”

“I am four hundred and forty-one. And we stop aging around the age of forty. So once we hit forty years old, we don’t look any older even though we are.”

“Well, then that confirms it. Aunt Delia isn’t a mage. She looks older than forty.”

I was anticipating her saying that. I held up a finger and chose my words and tone very carefully. “However, spellcaster mages can age themselves. They can cast spells to make themselves—or anyone who asks them—to appear older. And some choose to. There are those who wish to age, who wish to grow old and eventually die. Not everyone wants to live forever, and we have ceremonies and protocols around that.”

The bathroom door opened, and the mage came out with a towel wrapped low on his waist to reveal a torso of well-defined abs. He was bone-dry and steam flooded out of the bathroom and rose off him like some weird hot spring.

“Did you hotbox my bathroom?” Omaera asked glancing at the foggy space he just emerged from like a creature from some eerie lagoon. “You need to turn the fan on, dude.”

Maxar shook his head. “No. The water was cold. This is just what happens when water touches my skin. It steams off.”

Omaera frowned and bunched her brows in a cute way. “Hmm.”

Rolling my eyes, I exhaled and dove into my steak. “I guess I need to eat, then shower before the bear comes and uses all the hot water.

Speak of the beast, the door opened and in lumbered the shifter. He’d ditched the red crop top and sweatpants and now wore an open flannel shirt and loose-fitting jeans. He was also licking his fingers.

“Where’d you find clothes this early in the morning?” Omaera asked.

Zandren washed his hands in the sink. “I picked the lock at the clothing store down the road with my claw. I’ll go to the bank later and take them money when they open. Then I went to the bakery for breakfast.” He peeled off his shirt. “But I’m going to take a shower now.” Then he plodded his way to the bathroom.

Omaera snorted and shot me a smirk. “Snooze you lose, Fangs.”

Oh gods, this was going to be a nightmare. An absolute bloody nightmare.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maxar

We tolerated each other because we had to.

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