Baby Genius: Daddy Is the Dragon King

The corridor carpet was thick, so plush that my heels sank into it, and the softness seemed to spread up into my legs until they too went weak.

A wave of heat churned in my stomach. The edges of my vision began to blur, and the wall sconces along the hallway swam dizzyingly before me. That glass of champagne Fiona had handed me—there was definitely something in it.

Bracing myself against the wall, I barely managed to stay upright. At the far end of the corridor I could just make out a pair of double doors, solid wood, left slightly ajar, a faint light leaking through the gap.

Almost on instinct I kept moving toward it, pushed the door open, stumbled inside, and quickly locked it behind me.

The room was large, but only a single floor lamp beside the sofa was lit. Heavy curtains were drawn tight, sealing off the glittering night outside completely.

There was a peculiar scent in the air—the crisp coolness of leather, laced with the woody sweetness of nutmeg. It was thick, almost overpoweringly so, yet unexpectedly it tamped down the nausea roiling inside me.

"Who told you that you could come in?" A man's voice came out of the darkness—low, carrying an unmistakable warning.

I slumped against the door, gasping in great lungfuls of air, and still I couldn't seem to breathe.

The drug was taking hold faster than I'd expected. My clothes clung to me with sweat, and the discomfort was suffocating.

"Help me," I forced out, my voice already rasped down to nothing.

I heard footsteps approaching. In the dim light I saw a man come toward me, then stop right in front of me.

"Get out," he said. His voice was deep, and strangely pleasant.

I had almost no control over my own mind anymore. Recklessly I pressed myself against him, both hands gripping his arms.

The feel of him was odd. Through the thin fabric of his shirt his muscles were unusually hard, and there seemed to be some kind of rough texture to his skin as well. Was this some special costume for tonight's masquerade?

I gave my head a shake. I could no longer think through such details.

"I'm so hot… so hot…" I pressed in another step closer, burying my face in the crook of his neck. That faint fragrance immediately enveloped me, and I couldn't help drawing in a deep breath—which only made the fever under my skin burn hotter.

His body went rigid for an instant, his breathing turning heavy.

"You've got a death wish?" he ground out through clenched teeth, the words seeming to reverberate straight from his chest.

I didn't flinch. Instead I held him tighter. The drug had utterly demolished my reason; only instinct remained, driving me to get closer to him.

Suddenly he seized my shoulders and slammed me back against the door, with startling force.

My back struck the hard wood, and the dull pain jolted me awake for a single second.

In the dark I couldn't make out his face. I could only feel his ragged breath washing over the side of my face, a tingling, prickling sensation that made me want more.

"Last warning. Get out."

I couldn't even parse what his words meant. I simply rose onto my toes, found his lips with unerring precision, and kissed him hard.

The man paused for only a second before he turned the tables, his sheer presence crashing over me like a flood.

The temperature kept climbing, until the very air around us seemed about to catch fire.

He was rough, driven by some kind of wildness he couldn't control. The sound of fabric tearing was jarringly loud in the silence of the room.

Before long he swept me up by the waist and threw me onto the wide, soft bed. The mattress sank deep beneath me as he came down on top.

It was possession of the most aggressive kind. His skin was shockingly hot; every touch felt like a brand searing into me.

I ran my hands over every inch of his skin, and thought I felt some strange ridges there—but by then reason was no longer mine at all, and I couldn't tell what they were.

Every driving thrust of his was so powerful. I cried out wildly, sinking under, drunk on the scent of him, clinging to him and refusing to let go.

That night, time stretched on without end.

The next morning, sunlight slipping through the gap in the curtains woke me.

I pushed myself up off the mattress and sat there, every part of me screaming with a sore ache, my legs heavy as if filled with lead.

I turned my head. A man lay beside me, his brow bone deep-set and strong. Where the morning light slanted in, the fine down on his face was gilded with a pale gold edge. The hard, cold lines of his features had softened in the light, and tiny flecks of brightness clung to his lashes.

The chaotic memories of the night before flooded back like a rising tide—the masquerade, Fiona's scheme, the flight down the corridor, and the loss of control in this room.

Biting my lip, I forced myself up off the bed despite the ache and gathered my clothes from where they lay scattered on the floor. My dress had been torn open at one seam, but it would just barely do.

At the door I hesitated, then dug the limited-edition hundred-dollar commemorative coin out of my clutch and set it on the nightstand. Call it a service fee.

Out in the corridor I pulled on my coat, and my fingers closed around something hard in the pocket. I drew it out: a black shard, its edges sharp, with a faint metallic sheen and a fine, delicate grain to it.

Some decoration that had fallen off his costume last night?

I stuffed it back into my pocket, thought nothing more of it, and quickened my pace toward the elevator.

Fiona. This debt—we'll settle it slowly.

…

Pittsburgh mornings were always overcast, and for me, mornings in this city were something I hadn't known in five years.

A grating shriek of twisting metal came from the kitchen. Carrying my coffee cup, I walked over to find that Leo had wrung the frying pan in his hands into a perfect twist, like a length of braided dough.

"Mommy, the egg's burnt," Leo said, blinking those big, innocent eyes.

This is my adorable second son. Since he was little he's been impossibly strong—and he can command fire at will.

I set my coffee cup down, took the ruined pan from him, and dropped it in the trash.

"Leo, we had a deal. You can't just use your strength like that."

"I only wanted to flip it over," he mumbled, hanging his head, wronged.

In the living room, my eldest, Max, sat cross-legged on the carpet, lines of code scrolling madly down his laptop screen.

"Mommy, the firewall on that Osborn Group you're interviewing at is even flimsier than I thought. Walked right in, easy," he said without looking up, his fingers hammering the keyboard fast enough to blur.

"Get out of there, now." I went over and closed his laptop. "No hacking into other people's systems. We came back to Pittsburgh to look into what happened to your grandmother, not to make trouble."

This one is a little monster too—not only freakishly intelligent, but gifted with powerful mind-control abilities.

My youngest, Mia, clutching her rabbit doll, padded over to the windowsill and laid her small hand on the leaves of a withered potted plant. Green spread along the veins, and within seconds the dead pothos was alive again.

"Mia, that's not allowed either," I said, rubbing my temples with a headache coming on.

Mia's healing power is strong enough to change the world—and on top of that, she can see a certain range of the future.

And these three little ones are the gift heaven gave me on that single night, five years ago.