Page 139 of Nine-Tenths

"Move," Simcoe snarls. "It would only burn my clothes."

"Then you can’t spit fire in here because I have no desire to see your junk!"

Both dragons pause. Dav chokes back a surprised chuckle. Simcoe snorts smoke out his nose.

"Go cool off." I shove Dav at the door toward the kitchen.

"I am not leaving you—!"

"I will be on my best behavior," Simcoe says placidly, scale melting back into flesh, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

Biiiiiitch.

Fuck it. Simcoe wants to treat me like I'm the little wifey? Fine, I'll act like it.

God, getting between those two for the rest of my life is going to be like refereeing for the twins.

"Colin—" Dav tries again, even as he's letting me shove him into the hall that separates this formal public space from the privacy of the house.

"Out. Chill." I close the door in his face.

When I turn around, Simcoe is entirely human again, smugly patting his hair into place.

"Well that was certainly a visit, wasn't it? I'll walk you out," I say, diving for my best imitation of Mum. It's a good trick—most people are too polite to tell you that they want to stay and fight more without sounding like a complete twat.

Luckily, it's a trick that works on dragons. Or at least, dragons as obsessed with poshness as Lt. Gov. Fuckface. He only looks mildly shocked to be railroaded to the door so politely.

Simcoe follows me to the modest foyer, and we shuffle awkwardly as he waits for me to open the door for him.

"Well. Thanks for stopping by," I say, when he hesitates on the front step. "See ya."

"Wait," Simcoe says, hand on the door to keep me from shutting this one in his face, too. "I hope that display hasn't put you off a life amongst dragons."

"But you'd be fine if it has?" I ask.

Simcoe blinks, not expecting to be called out. "You said it," he simpers, recovering quickly.

"And you could make it happen?" I shove my hands in my back pockets, unimpressed. "I was told there were no takesie-backsies."

Simcoe gestures after Dav. "He is the one who says it's all just gossip rags and celebrity television. I suppose it would not be too much of a scandal, were I to exert a modicum of, shall we say, influence?"

He's saying he's willing to threaten journalists? No surprise there. He's already had my socials shadowbanned.

"Nah. I'm good."

Irritation crosses Simcoe's face, but leaves quickly. "If that's your choice."

Wasn't aware you thought I was worthy of getting to choose.

"Not just mine," I remind him.

"Then I want us to be friends," Simcoe says, and the way he delivers it sounds and looks genuine. Which gets my hackles up, because I don't know how much friendship I want from a man who thinks corporal punishment is peachy. "You are to be family in a way, son."

"I'm not your son," I blurt.

It's the second time he's called me that.

There won't be a third.