Page 34

Chapter 30

A Bomb-Ass Genie Breakfast

~DOLLY~

Velis wakes first, kissing my forehead when I rouse next to him. “Arrik is awake,” he whispers. “I’m going to tell him your theory.”

Either I was dreaming, or he may already know it.

“I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t know what a cupid is,” I murmur, enjoying Vel’s body heat left behind. “Maybe he doesn’t know who Santa is after all.”

“The word ‘cupid’ keeps translating to slang for us. It’s possible it was adopted into your world like ‘genie’ was into ours. Multi-realm linguistics is actually kinda fascinating. I had to take a class on it for my wish-granting license. Good news is, now that we know what we’re dealing with, we can figure out how to stop it.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” I say sleepily. “Tell me more about the classes you took in college when this is over.”

He wiggles his fingers to make his heated imprint in the mattress linger longer. “Deal.”

An hour later, I rise for real. It’s one of those disorienting mornings, waking up in another foreign place, wondering how our honeymoon led to all four Reilhander brothers under one roof, understanding that we now have about thirty hours left before Alex comes for my genie and that we have a lot of ground to cover before he does. I toss on a sweatshirt and clean myself up in the sink, then venture out to see what Vel’s up to. He’s alone at the coffee table, the morning sun pouring between a crack in the curtains while he pores over a pile of research Arrik definitely started in the middle of the night. There’s no sign of Arrik, though I suspect he slept on the couch judging by the pillow, blankets, and Steve he left behind.

“He ran to the manor to get a book.” Velis looks to the strange, multi-handed clock contraption on the wall. “Are you hungry? Jeb ordered groceries.”

Vel’s lack of worry is comforting. Arrik’s headfirst dive into research is comforting.

“Jeb’s okay with us using his kitchen?” I ask.

Velis shrugs. “I didn’t ask him to get groceries. He just spit at me that they were on the counter. I assume he means us to use them. It’s possible he felt your hunger.”

It’s true I mostly picked at my noodles last night, worried about Vel’s supposed looming fate, and my stomach is now growling hard.

I scan the documents of varying age torn from books and unrolled from scrolls gathered from who knows where in the middle of the night.

“Do you think it’s any coincidence that tomorrow’s also your birthday?” I ask.

“I believe in coincidence less and less every day.” Though he says so, his aura remains composed. “Come on. Let’s prepare food.”

By the time Arrik returns to the apartment, Vel and I, in our nearly identical joggers and oversized Ts, are in the middle of making breakfast. We did this by hand nearly every day at the start of our vacation because it’s fun and cutesy and fills both our romance meters. Vel’s a pro at brushing my hand while reaching for the sugar or coming up behind me to stir a pot.

He really is a terrible cook. But he looks damn cute struggling to understand human-world directions, with that dense expression and his messy hair.

Arrik drops a heavy stack of books beside the commandeered coffee table, one of them marked with the same flaming feather symbol I saw on the prince’s garb and all over the Célesteen palace. Several scraps serve as placeholder bookmarks, so it seems he’s found at least one useful resource. He sizes up our mess of ingredients on his way to the bathroom, ultimately giving us a bro nod. “I want some.”

“How do you like your eggs?” I ask.

“I don’t.”

We can’t be friends.

Standard unconscious quip, but this time—

Friends isn’t good enough for me. And I can’t be around you. Not anymore. I don’t trust myself.

Another memory comes whizzing at me, and Arrik pauses before the bathroom door, gaze stuck on mine as I hear his raspy voice vibrate in the darkest caverns of my mind.

It has to be this way, Dolly. It already is this way. ‘This’ was always meant to happen between us.

I don’t remember him ever saying that. But I can guess when he said it.

He pushes the hidden button beside the pocket door to the bathroom and closes himself inside.

“Dolly?” Vel’s voice prompts me to look up, where he’s standing before a massive pile of burned crepes. “Is this enough?”

They’re a disaster. Charred. Oddly shaped. Not at all edible. And he’s standing there like a proud dog that just dragged home a dead turkey.

I told him to make the batter. I didn’t realize he had moved on to the rest .

As I search for a way to let him down gently, his dimples prick, and the stack is replaced by a single uncooked egg rolling around on the plate.

“I fucked up the batter,” he says. “I gave up.”

Putting aside the fact that it’s only six ingredients, I slip my fingers around the back of his neck, noting a spot of powdered sugar on his cheek I’m pretty sure he planted just so I could—

He catches my mouth with his, fingers holding my skull like it’s some fabled golden egg.

Maybe it’s overcompensation.

But I don’t care. I’m happy to live in this small, protected moment while chaos rages continually around us.

Speaking of chaos—

“He’s demanding to be let out.” Jeb emerges, fully ready for the day, like if he were allowed out of the apartment, he’d have already ticked four things off his list of errands. An ultra-morning person.

Always knew he was a psycho.

He storms over to watch us, rolling his eyes at how much we’ve indulged in a simple task like making food. “He’s demanding to see Dolly Jones.”

“Not happening,” says Velis, scooping a pile of eggshells into the wastebin with his cupped hand.

“I can hear you out there,” Beckham’s voice ricochets down the hall. “And I can smell , Master. It’s rude not to say good morn—”

Velis pinches the air, and the shouts abruptly stop.

Based on the way I can easily make eye contact with the youngest triplet, it seems he came out with his magic dulled. Was it for my sake? Like those groceries?

At the thought, he narrows his eyes, as if daring me to question the decision.

“Do you want breakfast, Jeb?”

“No.” He curtly dismisses himself.

Velis watches him go, leaning to tell me, “He keeps to a strict schedule. He eats at the same time every day, and often the same thing. Ever since we were kids.”

Vel might be right about him and Beckham being opposites. Could they really both be split from Arrik? Does that mean it was Arrik, not Beckham, who should have been the true Reilhander heir?

My thoughts wander, pulling me away from the kitchen, away from flirty Velis. Suddenly, I’m elsewhere, drawn toward the bathroom, where Arrik stands under the shower. I can practically feel the water beading down his flexed back and snaking over the raises in his magical tattoos. He’s there, unmoving, like he just got off a long day’s work, just letting the water drip down his face.

Until he slowly turns to look over his shoulder.

I snap my attention away from him, blinding my focus with a nearer light—the one brushing his hair from his eyes as he reads my chicken-scratch recipe he just completely messed up. He’s wondering where he went wrong. Determined to do better next time. Light shines on his face from breaks in the many curtains. When he notices me admiring him, he catches my eye, flirting at me without saying anything.

In the other room, the shower stops, and I feel the devil himself stepping from the steam. The fluff of a towel wrapping around his waist.

I snap my focus back to the market-fresh loaf of bread I was slicing for our French toast. “Think you can handle the drinks, my laird?”

“Handle? Psh, Master.” Velis gives me a schmoozy ‘c’mon’ face.

“Without magic?”

A pause.

“ Master . That’s going to significantly limit our options. Can I at least conjure the ingredients?” He moves his hand like he’s brushing aside a sheer curtain to reveal a glass jar of orange juice—like, way too many bottles of champagne—and three whole pomegranates .

And a muddler.

“This should be interesting.”

He feigns offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A grin warms my face.

“Move.” With a cigarette dangling from his mouth, freshly showered yet slightly bedraggled, Arrik weasels us out of the way, a skillet in one hand and a pack of bacon in the other. He uses a blue flame on the end of his finger to light a burner, then swipes two farm-brown eggs from a nearby carton, cracking both on the side of the skillet before dropping the innards into an already sizzling pan. He looks over at me with his usual dry confidence. “How do you like your eggs, Master?”

Of course he knows how to cook breakfast.

Vel chops a pomegranate loudly in half atop the wooden cutting board. “Know how to make any other meals, Arrik? Or is it just for the morning after?”

“If you haven’t figured out how effective breakfast is for building trust, then you aren’t a very good wish-granter. Not all of us have puppy dog eyes and blind optimism.” By way of revenge, Arrik leans across me to grab the salt, trapping my eye on the way back to ensure I’ve gotten a good whiff of his aftershave.

Velis shrugs like he doesn’t know the meaning. “Canine eyes?”

Arrik puts out his cigarette on the counter. “He’s your boyfriend, Master. You educate him.”

“Husband,” corrects Vel.

Arrik stares him down. “Pretty and poppable, and runny inside. That’s how Master likes her eggs.”

Velis shoots him a look that is semi-assault-y.

“Now that that’s out of your system.” I step between them, hating being the point of contention between them. “Have you figured anything out? About the... cupid?”

I wait for a reaction from either of them to show they’re worried.

Neither flinches.

“Not yet. But I will.” Arrik pulls open a cupboard in search of spices, swatting things aside, like he’s done it before and is fully comfortable rummaging around through Jeb’s belongings. He retrieves a rectangular glass bottle and removes the stopper, taking a pinch of dried herbs and sprinkling them over the sizzling eggs.

That smells fucking delicious.

“Do you really not like eggs?” I ask him. “Not even scrambled?”

Arrik tucks a new blunt into the corner of his mouth like he’s working at a greasy diner on the edge of a swamp. “Six years in the human world and my masters trying to show me their domestic skills.” He slices open the Earth-brand package of bacon with a sharp kitchen knife. “It’s always eggs. I started waking up early and making my own shit.”

Imagine being one of his unsuspecting masters and thinking your scrambled eggs might be the ticket to making him stray from his wishing ways.

“Breakfast is all I’m good at too. My other meals are usually just sandwiches. Or nachos. How about French toast? Would you eat that? My mom always made ours sloppy.”

For the first time since entering this kitchenette, Arrik allows himself to truly look at me, and for or a brief moment, it’s like he’s recovered a lost family heirloom. “Make me Marcy’s sloppy French toast, Master.”

My stomach takes a hit over the way he says it.

I distract myself by checking in on Velis. Luckily, he’s doing much better on the mimosas than he was on the crepes. I abandon the mess he made, sliding to the free burner and waiting for Arrik to ignite it for me because I lack the magical touch needed to do so.

With Velis on one side, knuckles tight as he muddles up fruit, and Arrik’s arm close on the other as he shakes the bacon around without a second thought, I focus hard on the timing of my egg-drenched toast, tipping the underside up to take a peek of the bottom, ignoring the pheromones coming at me from all sides .

I feel particularly squat and particularly average situated between the two of them.

I stack glistening toast onto a plate, butter melted all over from the pan, with cinnamon, sugar, and conjured syrup drizzled on top because Jeb only ordered the basics.

Velis hands me the mimosa he just made for me—which turns out to be more champagne than juice and is definitely spiked with something that doesn’t exist on the home planet—and I hand a second to Arrik.

“Strange choice,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”

“Dolly was craving it.”

I was. Days ago.

“It’s Vel’s birthday eve morning,” I say.

“That’s not worth celebrating,” responds Arrik, cutting into a stack of messy, drippy, sweet, and gooey French toast with his fork while sliding a plate across the counter at me to provide the runny, poppable eggs he prepared. Nothing fancy. But pretty perfect.

“Holy fuck,” he says with his mouth full of his first bite, then to Velis: “Have you had these before?”

“All the time.”

Arrik drags his gaze across me, then begins downing the plate in large bites.

Soon, they’re both standing there with empty plates waiting for me to dish up more. They both eat a lot. I kind of don’t mind this. I’m generally a feminist, non-wifey type, but every so often, it feels good to be a little motherly.

Especially when they’re both paying such close attention to what I’m doing, like this is a rare scene they don’t want to forget—sock-footed in Jeb’s kitchen, making them both breakfast and getting just a little buzzed on magical mimosas.

The longer it goes on, the more their bickering turns to collaboration, as Arrik talks through the equations he’d like to try to get around the red barriers of fate, and Velis runs through how much he’s planning on telling the prince .

“The less he knows, the better,” says Arrik. “It’s good he’s already indebted to you for what his cousin did to Master.”

That’s better. I prefer when they get along. I prepare to snuff the burner flame, but Arrik’s plate is back, washed clean.

Wow. How much energy did he exert this morning, and what was he doing?

“It’s not for me.” He waves me off when I try to pass him the filled plate. “Beckham.”

“Jeb fed him,” Velis protests.

“I think Master should take it to him anyway.”

Vel’s mood shifts. “Absolutely not.”

“You said he’s magicless. You’ve got him in a cage. What’s he going to do?”

“Grab her through the bars and hold her hostage? Try to emotionally scar her with his words? Do you need more?”

“See, I don’t think he will.” Arrik leans back against the counter. “He’s been calling for her. He told Jeb he misses her. If he’s experiencing emotion again, it’s possible he’ll want to impress her. It’s possible he’ll want her to like him.”

“Based on what?”

“My own experiences?” Arrik says it like it’s none of Vel’s business, and seriously enough that it causes a noticeable reaction in my stomach.

Meanwhile, Vel’s jaw is stern. “I don’t like it. But it’s your choice, Dolly. What do you want to do?”

“Beckham is chaotic.”

“Yes,” says Arrik, almost like he condones the behavior.

“And I hate Beckham—”

“There you have it,” says Vel.

“But it’s not a bad idea. If we’re going to try getting the journal back from him today, now’s as good a chance as ever.”

Velis exhales slowly through his nose. “The door stays open.”

Fine by me. I really don’t want to be closed in with that fuck.

So, holding a plate of extra sloppy French toast like a Fat-Nat’s waitress, I follow them to the end of the hallway where the oldest, nastiest triplet is being held prisoner.

“Let me go in first.” Arrik says when we reach the study door. “I’d like to issue a warning.”

“I’ll join you,” says Velis.

Jeb passes them in the hall, sees them both blocking me from the study door, and rolls his eyes dramatically. They all have that expression in common.

I wait outside the room while Velis and Arrik go in and threaten —excuse me, warn Beckham not to fuck with me. Three minutes later, they allow me entrance, stationing themselves outside the door like sentinels.

The study has a wall of books, a desk, a fireplace, and not much else.

Except for an enormous magically constructed cage where Beckham is perked up, sporting a five o’clock shadow that’s darker than usual and one of his typical ‘nice guy’ outfits. He looks like the kind of guy you’d see on podcasts talking about how there are no more good girls left.

You’d never think he was a prisoner by the smirk on him. “Hello, Master.”

“Beckham.” I give him the greeting he’s been clamoring for. “We thought you might like breakfast.”

The wicked side of his mouth stretches. “Don’t lie to me, Master.”

“It’s not a lie. I made it for you. Everyone else was done eating, I was about to turn off the burner, and then I made these. Meaning they were made especially for you .”

His eyes dart to the plate of sugary bread now steaming, thanks to one of the djinn lurking in the hall—though it was lukewarm before stepping foot in here.

He tips his head. “Have a seat, Master.”

“I’ll stand.”

“I hear you’re off to see that djinn reader in Valreleria, the city of blue. ”

“We are.”

“To perform a mating test?”

I’m not sure how much they told him, how much he overheard, how much he’s gleaned, and how much he’s guessing.

But I’m not great at manipulation, and honesty really does serve best in most situations.

“Yes.”

His eyes lock onto mine, that creeper grin fixed in place. “With Arrik?”

I set the plate of French toast near enough for him to smell, but he doesn’t so much as blink. “Velis too.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, every word, every breath so carefully calculated it makes my skin crawl. “You know what I always tell my masters? Life is short; give in to your darkest desires.”

“I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”

“Your denial game is strong, DJ.”

“Don’t call me that, Beckham.”

Arrik’s the only one who ever calls me that, and it feels wrong coming from his twisted twin’s mouth.

Beckham’s voice drops, his hidden agenda starting to show. “Your plan is all well and good, DJ. But don’t you think you’ll need a control for this little experiment?”

My breath hitches.

“For all we know, you could be a carrier. Of soulmates. Maybe you test positive with everyone,” says Beckham.

Turns out he’s overheard a lot.

“We can take Jeb,” I say, grabbing for an easy solution.

“He literally can’t leave this apartment.”

Oh. Right. Shit.

And Beckham’s been bonded to me more than once, even. He’d be a good test.

“I’ll take my breakfast that you made for me now, Master.” The villain settles into a chair next to a cot in his gold-barred cell, leaning forward on his knees with a dark, predatory intensity that makes me step back.

“You’re right. It’s a good idea, Beck. But having zero regard for anyone else means you’ve earned no trust. We can’t let you out into the wild. We’ll figure something else out without you.” I turn to leave him.

Desperation hits my back: “You’re not going to beg for the nymph’s journal?”

“I think the only way we’re getting that journal is if you offer it willingly. I’ll trade you for delicious French toast. Only and final offer.”

He stays silent. I move toward the door—

“ I saved him for you. Would you like to know why? ”

A shiver runs down my spine, like spider legs creeping over my skin, as Beckham’s voice slithers into my ear.

“ Your face. Before and after. It’s all I can think about. From deepest sorrow to quenching relief. ”

Unlike Arrik, who looks down without lowering his chin, Beckham’s eyes fix on me from below, that predatory stare as dark as ever, sapphire eyes glinting with indulgence.

“Take me with you, Master. And I’ll give you the journal you desire. I promise.”

“Your word is worthless.”

“My family has deep connections with core negative magic. Maybe I know a thing or two about evading fate. Take me with you, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Damn it.

“I’ll take my breakfast now, Master,” he says, smug satisfaction practically oozing from him, reigniting that all-too-familiar urge to slap him.

“I think we’re done here,” Velis says, suddenly beside me.

He’s not going to be happy with my next move.

“I think we should take him,” I say.

“Master,” Velis groans .

But Arrik, I think, gets it. He’s leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, giving me the space to decide.

“I know. He’s the worst,” I tell them. “But we don’t have much time, and we need to rule out theories fast. Whether I’m a soulmate to everyone or if I have some freaky connection to your family—or if it’s because of double bonding. He said he’ll give us the journal if we bring him along.”

“Not ‘us,’” Beckham corrects. “You.”

“I really appreciate when people keep their promises, and I find it very disappointing when they don’t,” I reply.

His mouth falters, like the thought unnerves him.

This compulsion—something new for an ex-genie of mine—is severely off-putting.

Arrik kicks off from the wall. “She’s right. It’s a solid idea. And if he messes up, we’ll have an excuse to kill him.”

“Fine,” Velis concedes.

“And if I play nice? Does that mean Master will be my new mother too?”

There is a long, long pause as Beckham’s words sink into the ears of every djinn in the room.

“Dolly, give us a moment,” Velis says, his voice low and controlled.

I watch as they begin closing in on him, both of them exuding a clear ‘warning’ intent. It’s an intimidating sight, seeing the two of them close ranks on Beckham.

“Heat up his breakfast when you’re done,” I say, pressing the button to close the door behind me, shutting out whatever comes next.