Page 93 of Caged Kitten

Elijah

Although forced labor wasn’t my thing, there were very few places in this pit where I truly felt my most dragon-y self than the metal shop. The fire and the forge, the crash of metal on metal, welding and shaping weaponry and machines, commenting on Colin the elf’s exceptional glass-blowing abilities… I tolerated these shifts better than any other setting. The bakery I put up with for Rafe’s sake, and Katja’s company was a bonus that not even the forge could top.

Here, sweaty and dirty and surrounded by male inmates who liked to throw their strength around, I felt oddly at home. Artistry thrived in the shop. Talent blossomed. Exceptional goods left these doors, shipped off to vendors who sold custom pieces, to supernatural clans that still relied on ancient weaponry alongside tooth and claw, to the human militaries and militias who loved the intricacy of our firearms.

A very small part of me looked forward to metal shifts.

Today, I had showed up alongside all the rest—and discovered I would be reloading bullets for nine hours straight. Tucked away in a dim, windowless room at the far back of the shop, I was stuck on a stool doing the most tedious job imaginable. Most shifts had thirteen inmates assigned to this furnace, and although no one had said as much, usually the dimmest fuckers loaded bullets. There was nothing to it—no skill required, no tact or craft or passion. Put all the pieces in the machine. Pull the lever. Crunch. The machine stuffs all the parts and powder together. Out comes a reloaded bullet. Put the bullet in the box. Eventually seal a full box. Put the box on the pile. Repeat.

For nine fucking hours.

No swords for me today. No arrow tips or throwing stars or double-sided axes.

Just… this.

I wrenched down the lever, grinding my teeth as the machine did all the work for me, then pushed the lever back up. The bullet sat waiting in its slot, slightly warm to the touch when I plucked it out and dropped it in the ammunition box destined for some bullshit gun shop in the States.

Of all the inmates assigned to this place, I had the most skill. I did this professionally and could withstand the fire—yet here I was, making bullets in a room with no circulation, a rock-hard stool under me and a wood table in front of me, the reloading machine drilled into its top and bullet parts scattered everywhere by the cunt guard who purposefully spilled the containers before he left me to rot.

This was Guthrie’s doing.

Just a little taste of the suffering he had in store for any male who associated with Katja…

So be it.

I could outlast him.

He was just flesh and bones, even with his magic.

I was dragonfire and steel, nearing three centuries in age and capable of surviving unspeakable horrors.

What I couldn’t stand was not being with Katja. Not speaking to her, touching her, smelling her—and it had only been a day. We three had agreed not to push her, to give her the space she needed to sort through her own unspeakable horrors. In the end, it might have been better for her if Guthrie had no one to use as leverage, but I fucking hated the thought of my mate going up against that filth alone. My inner dragon and I wanted to incinerate the warden, fry him to a crisp and bathe in his screams.

But this was Xargi—and here, no one ever got what they wanted.

And now the odds were stacked so high against us—

A sharp tap on the shoulder made me fumble as I reloaded the machine, so lost in my thoughts, in the mundanity of my task, that neither I nor my inner dragon had sensed anyone creeping up behind. Fool. My inner dragon bristled, missing his mate and desperate to fight, but we both faltered again when I scented… Fintan?

Elderberries and dewdrops on grass and the subtle smokiness of aged bourbon—Fintan.

Abandoning the reloader, I whirled around and found my fae counterpart standing there with one of the metal shop’s guards—a warlock in his early twenties whose voice still broke when he shouted at us. And… he had a knife to the whelp’s throat. My inner dragon unleashed a war cry that rattled in my bones and set off a stress headache between my eyes. I stabbed a thumb at the sharp twinge, scowling, seconds from asking what the fuck was going on—had I fallen asleep reloading bullets? No surprise if I had… So mind-numbingly boring—

But I scented her first.

Briar rose and candle smoke and a storm raging across a tumultuous sea… Over the crackling flame and seared metal of the shop, my mate reigned supreme.

Katja zipped into the room a second later, out of breath and flushed, sweat glistening across her lovely face. Fire sparked in her big blues, hottest in all the realms, and for the first time since I’d known her, she looked exhilarated. Alive. Stunned, my gaze dipped to the pair of thick gardening scissors clutched in her one hand, the shears bloodless—for now. Had she the courage to use them, to jam them into a guard’s throat just as Fintan tormented the pup in his grasp with the blade’s razor-sharp tip?

Where the fuck had he even found a knife?

A storm of feeling charged through me, clashing, battling to come out on top. Relief and concern and gut-churning confusion that made the room spin as I shot to my feet. My inner dragon had more clarity, snarling, sensing something stupid had happened without me.

“What…?”

“Uh…” Fintan shrugged as Katja fidgeted with her shears, and the fae cleared his throat. “Escape attempt?”

“What?” My temper reached critical mass in a millisecond, and it took every ounce of restraint I had not to throttle Fintan within an inch of his life. Yes, we had agreed to get serious about breaking out of here, but we were nowhere near ready.

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