Page 46 of Misadventures with a Duke

“He had another one.”

She yanks her hands away. “They had drums in your time, right? Ones that needed to be played with two sticks?”

I unleash an open seethe. Hers clearly wants company. “And we also had human beings who reached the achievement of their elder years and were shown respect for that. Respect that never had to be enforced with nudges, glares, or fisticuffs.”

A sigh tumbles from her pursed lips. “Fine. You’re not completely wrong. But you’re not totally right either.” She slides her eyes closed. When she reopens them, she sends a visual plea to the plain pendant light overhead. “Holy crap. I just hope nobody got viable footage for any decent posting. If they did and there’s a connection between the stuff that got streamed from the consulate, we might be dealing with more than just one peeved percussionist…”

Her trail-off is perfectly timed. Another few seconds would not have been enough to quash my enraged spike. “Peeved?” I spew. “Why? He was being a complete toad. That woman was carrying food and supplies! He was toting sticks.”

“Okay, whoa there, Trigger.” She lowers her sights back to my face and slides her touch along my shoulders. “Was he a total asshole amphibian? Yes. And were you right about reminding him of it? Technically and morally, super yes. But in the eyes of our law, that’s a hard no.” She throws one hand back up, halting my objection in my throat. “Hold up there too, buddy. Everyone in our day and age isn’t a boorish cretin. The nice guys are still here, but the battlefield has gotten a lot flatter. As you can probably surmise, that’s a good and bad thing.”

I push to my feet. This conversation is heading into different nuances, though I do not fully hate the recognition. I can surmise that, merci beaucoup, and it feels good to have someone simply recognize the fact. As thoroughly as I worship my big brother, it has been maddening to be brushed off as the denser brother simply because of our birth order. Why? Doesn’t second in line merely mean I’ve just germinated a little later?

But vocalizing all that will not change it. I embrace her bigger point instead. Her better point. “Equality for all means even the toads, oui?”

“Exactly.” Her whoosh of the word coincides with her backwards flop onto the room’s large bed. “Regrettably and unfortunately,” she adds, “but…exactly.”

That repetition falls out of her with more heavy breath—a sound I also recognize well. The rush of an exhausted whisper is likely known to every warrior throughout history. I am reassured by that, at least, just as I smile while predicting what will spill from her next. The full breaths that predict she is approaching deep sleep.

Quietly, I close the two steps to the bed. Assuredly, the woman’s eyes are solidly shut. Her lashes are thick umber sweeps against the cream and ginger dapples of her cheeks. I’m halfway toward touching her there, so tempted to trace those dots like she’s my human constellation…

But all too quickly remember what happened the last time I reached for heaven.

With the drive of a dagger, it was ripped from me. She was gone.

She is still gone.

It is my self-imposed dictate, over and over in my mind, while I lift the bed’s top cover and gently wrap it around the woman who is here with me.

Raegan Tavish, who chose to run for me after I ran from her.

Raegan Tavish, who has literally worn herself out to keep me safe in this danger-strewn new world.

Raegan Tavish, who now shivers before jerking the blanket away from me. Who proves that her keen intelligence is working even in its subconscious state.

Oui, little one. Stay away. I am clearly not the Duke De Leon. I am the Lord of Chaos.

But I promise you—I promise—once I know you are safe with your friends again, you will never have to deal with my insanity again.

I do not leave her side until watching her breathing even out. Once I am certain she is warm and comfortable, I step over to the radiator device that she hurriedly activated once we arrived in the room.

“Incroyable,” I rasp, fanning my hands in front of the steel grill that gives off the heat of a small campfire.

Once the chill has seeped from my own limbs, I strip off my shirt and drape it across the back of a nearby chair to dry out a little more. For a long moment, I gape at the garment—before deciding that who or whatever Spiderman is, the eighteenth century will surely seem like an emptier place without him.

But I will learn to live in a world without the web tosser just as I will abide in a world without Magique.

And…without Raegan.

The woman who entrances me all over again, even from the couch onto which I flop across the small room. Who already has me wishing to turn into a pillow as she rolls over and wraps her arms around one. Who has me timing my breaths to the gentle air flowing in and out of her soft form until I am ruthlessly engulfed by slumber, as well.

Then just as savagely ripped from it.

A shriek explodes across the room. As I jolt into consciousness, it peters into an agonized wince. I gain my feet as another scream tears the air.

“Mag—Raegan.”

I sit on the bed next to her, already observing how deeply her nightmare has ensnared her. A mere shake of her shoulder will be useless against her subconscious wraiths. As she cries out again, I sprawl all the way next to her.