Baby Genius: Daddy Is the Dragon King
941 Views · Ongoing · Pearl
"Iris — what secret are you keeping?"* The cold-blooded, savage drakon president pinned me against the wall, his eyes full of a dark fire slipping its leash. *"I've spent all this time hunting for the masked woman from five years ago — so why… why is my head full of nothing but you?"
I pressed a hand tight over the drakon scale in my pocket — the one I'd lifted off him back then — and backed away with a dry little laugh. "Boss. Don't fall for me. I'm bad luck for any man I marry, and I've got three kids hanging off me…"
Five years ago, set up by my stepsister, I ended up tangled with him for one night — then left a hundred-dollar commemorative coin on the nightstand and fled. Call it a service fee.
Five years later, chasing a case, I slipped into his company as a lowly little assistant, three freakishly gifted drakon babies in tow.
He's torn clean down the middle — hunting for the one great love he lost, and craving the woman right in front of him. And my three superpowered cubs? Behind his back, day after day, they're out there raving it up all over their own father's minefield, running a betting pool on when, exactly, the deadbeat dad will finally recognize Mommy.
Until the day he kicks my front door open — and walks in on the cubs in the living room, roasting chicken wings over their own fire-breathing.
The man stares at the gold-red drakon scales surfacing on the children as their tempers flare, yanks me hard into his arms, and grinds the words out through his teeth:
"These are the 'kids hanging off you' you told me about? Not only do they look like me — their powers are identical to mine?!"
I pressed a hand tight over the drakon scale in my pocket — the one I'd lifted off him back then — and backed away with a dry little laugh. "Boss. Don't fall for me. I'm bad luck for any man I marry, and I've got three kids hanging off me…"
Five years ago, set up by my stepsister, I ended up tangled with him for one night — then left a hundred-dollar commemorative coin on the nightstand and fled. Call it a service fee.
Five years later, chasing a case, I slipped into his company as a lowly little assistant, three freakishly gifted drakon babies in tow.
He's torn clean down the middle — hunting for the one great love he lost, and craving the woman right in front of him. And my three superpowered cubs? Behind his back, day after day, they're out there raving it up all over their own father's minefield, running a betting pool on when, exactly, the deadbeat dad will finally recognize Mommy.
Until the day he kicks my front door open — and walks in on the cubs in the living room, roasting chicken wings over their own fire-breathing.
The man stares at the gold-red drakon scales surfacing on the children as their tempers flare, yanks me hard into his arms, and grinds the words out through his teeth:
"These are the 'kids hanging off you' you told me about? Not only do they look like me — their powers are identical to mine?!"


















































