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Sayagul’s thin, forked tongue slipped out between her teeth, fluttering in Shay’s direction. Not pleased in the slightest. With one final glare, the dragon scuttled up onto the dash to gorge, the smell of fruit and the sound of smacking teeth soon filling the vehicle.
“What’s his name?” Roman asked Shay. When she stared at him in confusion, he clarified, “Your Familiar.”
Her hands that were clasped in her lap tightened, just barely. She always seemed to keep her hands either tucked between her thighs or clasped in her lap, as if she didn’t want to touch anything. “Nugget.”
“I’ve never seen a white one before.” Most Familiars were black, with less than three percent of the world’s magic-born population having white.
Shay hummed. “You’re fishing, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“For information.”
“It’s only a question.”
“From the guy who said he didn’t want to talk.”
He grunted and stared out at the road. She was right—he was fishing. He couldn’t give a shit what her Familiar was called, but he did give a shit about those mysteries she kept so carefully buried.
“Roman ‘Grunting’ Devlin,” Shay said, watching the desert plants pass by the car. “Another name to add to my list.”
“Oh, you’re making a list, are you?” Roman said icily.
“I am. Roman ‘Grunting’ Devlin, Roman ‘Secretive’ Devlin, Roman ‘Teeth-Clenching’ Devlin, Roman ‘Glaring’ Devlin…” She gave him a cheeky smile, the sun that fell through the windshield lighting up the green of her eyes. “Shall I continue?”
With a black look, Roman reached for the volume on the stereo and cranked it.
Shay grinned with triumph. “Roman ‘Likes Loud Music’ Devlin!” she shouted, looking far too pleased with herself.
Roman ignored her.
And vowed to quit staring at those fucking tan lines and the dimples in her cheeks.
21
Zima
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
“These lobster rolls are so freaking good,” Ivy said, stuffing another bite in her mouth. “They literally melt on your tongue.”
They were in the district of Zima, an oceanfront neutral zone where people came to stroll the wooden walkway, bundle up in blankets on the rocky beach, or gather around bonfires. Darien and the others stood by the car and truck—all except Joyce, who sipped on a bottle of sparkling water in the passenger’s seat of the truck, door open.
“Want a bite?” Ivy offered the roll to Darien, melted butter dripping to the damp sidewalk. The rain had stopped, but it was cold as hell outside.
“No thanks,” Darien said, breath fogging before him. “I’m full.”
“Apparently, the pizza didn’t cut it for her,” Tanner said from where he leaned against the back door of the truck, arms crossed to keep out the cold.
“Guess I shouldn’t tell you about the cinnamon buns, then,” Darien said to Ivy, “or you’ll wind up in a food coma.”
“Cinnamon buns? Food coma?” Ivy’s brows shot up. “Not with my bottomless stomach.”
“I don’t know where she hides it,” Jack said. He slid a finger between her breasts. “In here, I think.”
She swatted his hand away. “Ewwww, there’s butter on your finger!” He merely laughed. “I know where you hide yours.” She poked him below the ribs with a manicured nail.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He pulled up his shirt. “My stomach is a washboard.”
