He can tell.
He can feel my reaction.
Because that's what incubi DO—they sense desire, feed on it, probably can read exactly how thoroughly his transformation has affected me.
"Stop talking!" I demand, the words emerging with desperation I can't quite hide. "Don't even exist right now. I can't think straight."
The admission probably shouldn't escape my lips, but my brain has apparently abandoned any attempt at filtering words through dignified consideration before speaking them.
His laugh is rich and low and does absolutely nothing to help with my concentration problems.
A roar cuts through whatever response he might have been formulating.
Mortimer.
The dragon's massive form approaches our position, wings beating with powerful rhythm that creates wind currents I can feel even from this distance. His scales catch the hellish light from below, glittering with beauty that speaks to his heritage even in the midst of chaos that is happening below.
The others are visible on his back—four figures holding positions among the ridges of his spine, each one carrying evidence of the ordeal they've just survived.
Mortimer draws close enough for landing.
Koi lowers me with care that his earlier teasing didn't suggest he was capable of—my feet finding purchase on scaled surface that carries the particular heat of dragon flesh. The texture is strange beneath my bare soles, somewhere between leather and stone, warmth radiating from beneath in patterns that speak to the fire that lives in Mortimer's blood.
I step out of his arms the moment I'm stable.
"Change back!" I huff, the demand emerging with force that I hope communicates how seriously I need him to stop looking likethat.
His smirk only widens at my obvious discomfort.
But his body responds to my command—or chooses to respond, which might be the more accurate phrasing. Dark magic swirls around his form with patterns that carry shadows and starlight intertwined, power wrapping him in a cocoon of transformation that reverses what he became.
When the magic fades, the cynical prince has returned.
Shifted features that never quite settle. Height that's impressive but not impossible. Wings vanished entirely, incubus nature retreating behind Fae presentation that's apparently his default state.
"Aww," he pouts, tone carrying theatrical disappointment. "We could have had some fun first."
Before I can respond with the verbal violence his comment deserves, Nikolai's voice cuts through.
"You're an incubus dark Fae hybrid."
The statement carries shock and accusation and the particular horror of someone who has just assembled puzzle pieces into a picture they didn't want to see.
"Fucking hell," Nikolai continues, silver-blonde hair whipping in the wind created by Mortimer's continued flight. "How did that fucking happen?"
Koishii's smile carries edges that suggest he finds the question amusing.
"Would you like the explicit version or the PG-18 version?"
Zeke's calm voice provides correction that seems almost automatic.
"It's called PG-13."
Koishii laughs—the sound carrying genuine amusement rather than the manic quality of earlier.
"Neither version is PG-13," he assures Zeke, shifted features arranging themselves into something approaching conspiratorial. "You seem to take your time in that department, but I suppose you have nine lives. Sex is a sacred ritual for felines, unlike the rest of us who thrive on horny cycles."
His attention shifts, apparently deciding that teasing Zeke isn't satisfying enough.
