Page 42 of Caged Kitten

“Do you think this is easy for me?” he demanded, posture easing for the sake of our audience, his voice gravelly and low. I shook my head, knowing for a fact that it wasn’t easy for him. He had no control over fate, same as the rest of us. Elijah didn’t get to decide if his mate was a one-dragon girl or not, and I imagined that was devastating. But he’d concede to her, no doubt, because of their bond—and that certainly wasn’t fair either.

“I appreciate that, my friend,” I said with a sigh. “Really, I do. I appreciate the difficulties in all this, but my loyalties are to us. I would never compromise that.”

Elijah scrubbed at his cheek, looking more exhausted than he had in months. “Us includes her now. I’ve accepted it… You should too.”

The weight of his statement hit like a freight train—so much so that I hadn’t even noticed we had company.

“Room for one more?” the fae trilled, a wall of green materializing almost out of nowhere at my side and easing onto an empty stool like he belonged here. Even Elijah flinched, his shifter senses so entrenched in our conversation that the newcomer had gotten the jump on him as well. Not good. In a place like this, no one should ever be able to sneak up on you.

I had met more than my fair share of fae over the centuries, especially living in Ireland where the portals between our worlds were so frequent and rooted. Ancient passages stretched from the emerald isle to the Otherworld, and in my experience, most fae were uptight bastards who deserved a good beating just to bring them back to reality. Unfortunately, pummeling a fae had its own set of difficulties. Fast as a vampire. Durable as a shifter. Powerful as a mage and cunning as a trickster. The fair folk were the predator of predators—but at least these collars balanced things out.

After all, never in my long life had I seen a fae speckled with bruises and scabs like a Jackson Pollock painting. Their healing abilities were a mystery to me, but I had always assumed that like shifters and vampires, they regenerated a healthy form almost instantaneously. This one had seen more action in his one day than I had in my seven months. All angles and handsome fairy charm, the bruises did nothing to detract from his natural allure, his messy light brown hair and his impish green gaze. The only positive he had going for him at the moment in my books was that he’d said something to really piss Deimos off, a feat neither of us had accomplished—had to give credit where credit was due.

In fact, whatever this smirking fae had whispered in the demon’s ear must have still stung, because there was Deimos glaring at us from his table. Miserable, pathetic little shit… Knowing someone outside of his posse had royally pissed him off gave me a special little thrill, but we certainly didn’t need the extra attention. This fae brought heat with him, first from the staff and now our fellow inmates.

As he glanced between Elijah and me, we offered a stony silence by way of greeting—unwelcome and frosty, usually what we gave everyone who tried to weasel into our duo.

Everyone except Katja.

“No?” The fae clapped his hands and rubbed them together, eyes glinting with the cruel mirth commonly associated with his kind. “Playing War, are we? Deal me in. Half your decks each, just to keep it fair.”

“Who the fuck are you, fae?” I demanded, and he seemed to brighten at my accent—no doubt recognizing a Dubliner, finding familiarity in my lilt. Spearing a hand through his rakish hair, the fae’s mouth stretched into a smile that predicated a humble-brag. Across the table, Elijah rolled his eyes, both of us bracing for bullshit.

“Prince Fintan of the Midnight Court.” Yup, bullshit. “A pleasure to make your acquaintances… Elijah, dragon shifter. Rafe, vampire. It’s been an eon since I’ve found myself in such company.” He spoke with a lofty high fae accent, a blend between posh English and old-money New York, and then had the nerve to snap his fingers. “Come on, come on, deal me in.”

Elijah caught my eye, and I shook my head. Prince Fintan, eh? Highly doubtful this one was a prince. There were so many courts in the fae world, so many royal bloodlines and bastards, so many nobles fighting tooth and nail for a piece of the action; it wouldn’t be the first time a lesser fae came to the mortal realm declaring they had a claim to the throne. No one could prove otherwise, and fae arrogance carried an annoying sense of entitlement that was easily mistaken for a royal temperament.

Besides, believing a fae at their word, especially in the beginning, was foolhardy at best. Until you could read them, decipher their physical tells, map the rhythms of their slow-beating hearts, it was best to take everything they said with a grain of salt.

Elijah straightened to his full height, larger than me and Fintan when he sat up and rolled his shoulders back, then tapped his half of the deck on the table. “What did you say to Deimos?”

“Oh, that little parasite?” In a unison that would have been laughable anywhere else, we three turned toward the demon, who had been staring unabashedly our way since the fae sat down. However, without his full horde as backup, he yielded fast, going back to his book with flushed cheeks and a snarl. Fintan chuckled, drumming his fingers hurriedly on the metal tabletop, a ball of energy despite having had the shit kicked out of him—twice—in less than twenty-four hours. “I told him that while I appreciated his offer to become an underling and lick his boots at every sunrise, I had no interest in sucking micro-dick for the short time that I’m here.”

Much to my surprise, Elijah snorted, which had me grinning incredulously—both of which seemed to delight the fae.

“Now, can I play or not?” Those bright green eyes darted between us. “Or are you two the true schoolyard bullies of Cellblock C?”

My dragon counterpart conceded first, handing over a chunk of his cards, and I did the same, neither of us offering the suggested half. Let him start at a disadvantage—he hadn’t earned anything more yet.

“Talking about Miss Fox, are we?” Fintan glanced up expectantly in the silence that followed, shuffling his cards with a skill that could give mine a run for its money. The deck practically flew between his hands, just a blur of white and black, his fingers dancing. When neither of us answered, the fae chuckled again and set his deck on the table, carefully straightening it out so it was a perfectly uniform rectangle. “Oh, it’s just so obvious. She returned from her meeting with the warden rather upset last night. Shame it’s still bothering her… She’s a breath of fresh air in here.”

Elijah’s jaw clenched, muscles rippling, and he glared daggers at me, pupils in slits again. For Christ’s sake. Shifters and their mates—so tedious.

“She isn’t a conquest, fairy,” he rumbled, his snarl a warning that would have made lesser men flee. Instead, Fintan merely plucked the top card from his stack and eyed it curiously.

“No, the good ones never are,” he mused, turning the card to reveal the ace of hearts. “Are aces high or low?”

“High,” Elijah and I growled in unison. Once more, Fintan ignored the warning signs, grinning like a fool.

“Right. Might as well just give me your cards now, gentlemen.”

We did, begrudgingly, neither of us in possession of anything to either beat or match his ace.

“Why are you here?” Elijah rasped, tossing his next card into the middle of the table. I did the same—eight of clubs—and Fintan followed shortly after.

“At this table?”

“In this prison,” I hissed, sweeping the three cards back to me. Fintan shrugged with the nonchalance of a man who had never had to care about anything in his life, that smirk implying this was one big game.

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