Page 24 of Progeny of the Cursed Egg
“Abraxis has been letting Mina be in control most of the time during sex. He didn’t think it was important to be the dominant.” Klauth’s voice is low, resonating with frustration. “We’re going to be in deep shit if he doesn’t change his ways. Someone could get hurt.” His gaze drifts to Callan, then flicks toward Leander’s door, where we can still hear Mina’s soft laughter. A faint smile touches his lips before he heads to Mina’s room to retire, the door clicking shut behind him.
“We’ll try to talk some sense into Abraxis. We have about a month before Mina’s next fertile cycle hits,” Balor says, shaking his head before he heads to his own room.
“It’s going to be a group effort. We have to correct him when hescrews up,” Callan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. The hush of the apartment feels heavier now, thick with unspoken concerns.
“Good luck with that,” I reply, crossing my arms and staring at the balcony doors, my reflection faint in the glass. “Abraxis doesn’t listen to anyone except Mina.”
We exchange uneasy looks, and the tension wraps around us like a suffocating blanket. We all share the same sinking feeling—Mina is going to be a handful when her dragoness is fertile again, and none of us truly knows how to handle it yet. The thought makes my stomach twist with a mixture of anticipation and dread, the air thick with the promise of storms to come.
CHAPTER 13
Mina
Abstract art is surprisinglyenjoyable to drag Klauth through, though the echoing halls of the academy give our laughter a hollow ring. Poor Nigel trails behind, his footsteps uneven against the polished stone floor, eyes darting between Klauth and me like he’s expecting a dragon to appear at any moment. I catch a whiff of anxious perspiration clinging to him; it blends with the faint smell of parchment and old varnish that always seems to permeate these corridors.
By the time we reach Royal Protocols class, my shoulders ache from the tension of Nigel’s persistent worry. We settle in, the tall arched windows letting in only a weak, gray light that does nothing to soften the severe lines of the instructor’s scowl. This class is a nightmare, especially when they start us on drafting official announcements. My handwriting is little more than glorified chicken scratch.
Klauth takes one look at my wobbly letters and breaks into laughter—warm and rich, cutting through the dusty hush of the room. His own penmanship is immaculate, each stroke deliberate. When I glance at his script, it’s as though he’s weaving patterns on the page.He makes a point of scooting closer, pressing the length of his body against my side, and slowing my hurried attempts. The faint musk of leather from his jacket mingles with the damp ink as he places a hand over mine.
“This is going to be important sooner than later, Mina,” he whispers into my ear, his breath sending a soft shiver down my spine. I lean into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as he adjusts my grip on the pen. The nib scratches lightly against the thick parchment, each line more jagged than I intend.
“Did your parents not spend any time on the finer points of being a dragoness?” He bites his bottom lip, exhaling roughly as he clarifies, “What I mean to say is, did your mother teach you anything about running a nest—or flight?” His brow arches, a hopeful flicker in his crimson-flecked amber eyes.
“She tried … but my father insisted the gauntlet and training came first.” My voice drops, shoulders tensing at the memory. Klauth moves my hand gently, guiding the pen in slow, deliberate motions. I catch the faint sound of other students murmuring around us, chairs scraping, but I focus on the faint rasp of our pen strokes.
“Well,” he says softly, kissing my temple in a surprisingly tender gesture, “if you’ll permit me, I’d like to teach you enough that you won’t have any difficulties.” His tone is warm, threading through the quiet atmosphere of the room.
He releases my hand, and I attempt the decorative script on my own. My pen glides over the parchment, forming swooping loops and elegant lines that resemble, if not match, Klauth’s effortless flourish. My fingers tremble slightly at first, but with each stroke, I find more confidence. “How’s that?” I ask, turning to gaze into his mesmerizing eyes. A faint reflection of the sputtering lanterns dances across them.
“Very good, my treasure. Let’s try the next section. Take your time—don’t rush,” he encourages, pressing a light kiss to my temple again, the warmth of his lips sending a small thrill through me.
“I’d rather be sparring,” I admit with a soft laugh, the tension easing from my shoulders. Each carefully crafted letter feels more challenging than parrying a broad sword, yet strangely satisfying. I push forward, letting the gentle scratch of the pen fill the silence. Occasionally, Klauth’s hand slides over mine to correct my grip, a subtle reminder of his patience.
Eventually, we reach the signature line. I write out Willamina, pausing at the surname, heart thumping in my chest at the weight such a choice carries.
“Try writing both, my treasure,” Klauth whispers next to my ear, his breath brushing the tiny hairs at my nape, sending a warmth trickling down my spine. “See which one you like better? I promise I will not be upset, no matter which one you choose.” He kisses my shoulder before leaning back, giving me the space to decide.
I take out a separate sheet of paper and try writing all the surnames for shits and giggles.
Willamina Havock
Willamina Ragnar
Willamina Whitlocke
Willamina Husk
Willamina Crosse
Willamina Dagon
Willamina Xander
Willamina Mrithun
Myeyes lockon the sheet of paper, the thin pages rustling under my fingertips as I examine how my name looks written alongside each of my mates’ surnames. There’s a stale chalkiness lingering in the air—Finlay must have been writing on the board before class. Around me, the gentle hum of murmured conversations forms a low backdrop, but my attention narrows on the ink scrawled in front of me.
I shake my head, glancing up at the four names that tug at my focus more than any others:Havock,Ragnar,Whitlock, andMrithun—the last one generously supplied by Thauglor, though I wish he hadn’t. My fingertips brush over the page, feeling the slight grooves where I’ve pressed the pen too hard. Then I rewrite my name again, pairing it with only those four. Finally, I narrow it toCallan’sandKlauth’ssurnames.
