Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
A.D. slowly begins to back up towards the entrance, impish expression unyielding. “Should I have Gene bring down throatsicles for dessert or will all the alcohol be enough?”
“You’re a dragonhole, you know that?”
“I do,” he loudly laughs. “My Fated Mate makes sure to tell me that shit at least once a day.”
Ptur glares, purses his lips, and spews a stream of white fire A.D.’s direction.
More laughter occurs during his dodging, but no additional poking takes place.
Probably for the best.
I can’t imagine roasted sibling is supposed to be on the dinner menu tonight.
“How do you do that?” the question slowly sashays its way off my tongue while my stare focuses on his thin lips that mine are anxious to be on top of. “And how do you turn into a dragon? And how is my mom an orc? Does that mean my dad knows, too? Is he an orc? Or a wizard? Or like…I don’t know…a skinny black Thor? Oh! And how does Gene float? And how-”
“How about you give me a moment to arrange a picnic space for what is about to be the strangest conference you’ve ever encountered?”
Our eyes meet once more on a headshake. “That’s quite the assumption there, Mr. Draak.”
“I am simply coming to the obvious conclusion based on the line of questioning you just spewed, Miss Pennington.”
“You could multitask.” The suggestion is followed by him making his way my direction, aiming for the area behind me. “Talk and prepare the space for our continued discussion. That would technically be more efficient.”
“Technically, so would allowing Gene to cook us a meal, but I won’t be doing that, either.”
“Are you aware that you are a master of avoidance, Mr. Draak?”
“Are you aware that you are a master of persistence, Miss Pennington?”
“I very much so am.” Watching him continue to move is done in fascination above all else. “You have to be in my line of work. I know I make this shit look easy…,” mirth in my tone sparks the tiniest chuckle, “but trust me, it’s far from it.”
“That I believe.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that I love what I do?”
He reaches for a blanket from the bottom shelf without replying.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m one of those people that’s always gushing about what she does for a living?”
No response.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I find it odd that you—the face, the brand, the head of the board—don’t love what you do?”
Faltering in his movements briefly occurs.
“That I find it disheartening that you don’t love running this company nearly as much as I love being a part of it?”
Ptur grabs a couple of pillows once the bedding is secure in his grasp.
“I think the only thing I find even more depressing is that you don’t relish in the responsibility of being the one person everyone in your family can rely on without a second thought.”
His body sharply turns my direction. “My feelings regarding my enjoyment—or lack thereof—for work or the underappreciation I feel in reference to my brothers who treat my caring about whether they went to the dentist or acknowledge the countless concert tickets I’ve given them does not matter.”
“It does.”
“It. Doesn’t.” The slight tilting of his head is attached to the furrowing of his brow. “Because regardless of if I love any of it, it’s what I have to do. It’s my duty to preserve our legacy in all aspects.”
“You hate it.”
Surprise from my bluntness stutters his speech. “I-I-I take total pride in honoring those that came before us.”
“Oh, you really fucking hate it,” I lightly laugh while shaking my head.
“I…I…I…never said that.”
“You don’t have to say everything, Ptur. In fact, you say so much by being so careful with what you do say.”
“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“It makes perfect fucking sense, and you hate that it does.”
He lowers his jaw to begin to argue yet decides to resume setting up for dinner instead.
On his way past me, I make another assessment, “You weren’t always this… conscientious, were you?”
Ptur places down the first pillow while retorting, “And what makes you think that?”
“The way you like to spar with me.”
It’s impossible not to see the faintest smirk cross his lickable lips. “Perhaps you’re special.”
“Oh, I’m most certainly special, Beanstalk.”
He immediately shoots me a mirth-filled glare.
“In fact, something tells me that this dragon shape ink stain—which looks exactly like you in your other form—is further proof of just how special I truly am.”
His Adam’s apple nervously bobs.
“Am I right?” Arrogance has me grinning from ear to ear. “You know…again.”
Ptur slowly shakes his head, amusement resuming its place in his expression. “You know you won’t always be right, don’t you, Pint-Size? Like at some point—statistically speaking—you have to be wrong.”
“Of course.” I move closer to grab the other end of the blanket he’s in the process of struggling to spread out. “I’m just not yet.”