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When Leif opened his eyes, it was dark. Very dark; he lay in a dense wedge of shadow, and there was a rustling sound overhead, a cold breeze chasing over his bare arms, and it took him a moment to remember where he was, and what had happened.
When he did – flashes of sunset light on sweat-slicked skin, the hot grip of a welcoming body, the scents of Ragnar thick in his nose, his throat, tug of possession, and lancing bright pain of satisfaction, finally – he braced himself for the sting of regret, expected a cold, hollow pit to open in his stomach. But he felt only lax and sore and sated. Around him, he heard the rustling of the leaves, and the whispering of the grass, and nearby, something soft brushing his arm, the shifting of clothes.
He blinked, and he knew his pupils had shifted to those of a wolf when the air lightened around him, the gradient of shadows and moonlight etching the alley of trees, and Ragnar at his side, seated on the grass, doing up the ties of his tunic. A quick glance down proved that Leif’s own clothes had been righted while he slept, so that had anyone stumbled upon them in the dark, they would have looked like two friends who’d settled down for a nap. Still suspicious, but not as damning as it could have been.
Ragnar tied off the laces, only halfway up, as was his way – and now Leif’s way, thanks to his wolf keeping him overly warm – and spared him a fast, businesslike glance. “Good, you’re awake. Someone’s coming.”
“Shit.” Leif scrambled upright.
Heattemptedto scramble upright, and all his muscles promptly seized up and knotted together, the pain and stiffness so acute and startling that it robbed him of speech. He had to close his eyes a moment, and breathe through it, and internally cursed his mortal form, and its slow healing…nevermind that it was healing far, far faster than a normal human’s would have.
Ragnar stood, and when Leif opened his eyes again found two hands offered to him. He took them, and let Ragnar haul him up. It was only a little agonizing, but then he was on his feet, and mostly mobile, and he didn’t make the mistake of batting away the supportive arm that Ragnar slipped around his waist. Together, they limped farther down the lane, and behind them, Leif heard the crunch of unstealthy, human footfalls, more than one pair.
“Who is it?” he asked when he could; if he was panting, neither of them made mention of it. “Do you know?”
“It’s two men and a boy – naught but a child.” He held a hand out at waist height to demonstrate. “The men are those jolly generals of Amelia’s: Connor and Reginald.”
The pain was easing as they moved, and Leif took a steadier step forward, sensation returning to the soles of his feet. He snorted. “You don’t like them.”
“Of course I don’t. I don’t like anyone.”
“You like Amelia.”
“Who doesn’t like a sensible woman with a sword and a fine horse? Be reasonable.”
Leif hesitated. “You like me,” he said, finally, and it felt like a daring statement. A risk. His heart leaped.
“Only some of the time,” Ragnar said, lightly, but his hand tightened in the nip of Leif’s waist, and the pheromones that swirled in the air around him sang with deeper feeling. “When you aren’t being a sheep-headed prince.”
Leif growled, without any heat behind it, and Ragnar steered them through a pair of tree trunks and out into an expanse of field, silver in the moonlight, its grasses untrimmed and rippling like waves at high tide.
They paused, and the breeze shifted, and carried toward them the scent of dragons.
Leif’s nape prickled. His wolf eyes spotted the dark humps of the beasts a distance away, bedded down in the grass, steam lifting off their scaled hides as the temperature plunged, the nighttime still full in the grip of winter. A single head lifted on a serpentine neck, and the red-gold eyes burned in the dimness, fixed on their position at the edge of the field.
Since he’d been turned, Leif had feared neither wolf nor bear, confident in his strength and ability to go toe-to-toe with any animal. The night screams of the lions in the Inglewood hadn’t bothered him a bit. But he wanted no quarrel with a drake. That was one fight a wolf couldn’t win.
He didn’t feel any sort of bond with them, the way the blood Drakes did, but he pushed nonaggressive energy toward them, and turned left, back toward the manor; stepped out of Ragnar’s grasp and strode forward on his own, only limping a little.
Ragnar followed a beat later, jogging to catch up. “They still give me the shivers,” he said, and offered an exaggerated one that ended in a lupine chuff. “The drakes, I mean. They look at me like they know every ugly thing I’ve ever done, and are judging me for it, wondering how I’ll taste.”
“I think you’re giving them too much credit,” Leif said, dryly.
“No, they’re not normal. They’re not likes a horse or a cow. They’re magical. They’ve got psychic powers, don’t they? Theyknow.”
“I don’t think they can readyourmind – if you have one.”
“Ha! I’ve got a cruel alpha, that’s for sure. And you don’t know whose mind they can read. Perhaps they’re reading yours as we speak, seeing all the nasty, lustful thoughts inside your golden head.” He poked Leif in the temple with a finger, and Leif swatted him away, suppressing a smile.
The breeze shifted again, and carried the scent of humans. It was as Ragnar had said: two men, Connor and Reginald, and an unfamiliar child who smelled of mud, and unwashed, grubby child hands, and of Connor. His son, Leif thought, straight away.
Leif smoothed his face, and a darted glance proved that Ragnar had done the same. They walked close beside one another, but were no longer touching…and so what if they were? A dark, fierce sense of defiance reared up inside of Leif. So what if he and Ragnar were familiar with one another? What if they’d fucked amid the sunset dapples like the wild things they were? That was no one’s business but their own, and damn any human who frowned and fussed over them about it. He would not bow his head in shame, not in front of any man.
Another glance revealed that Ragnar was smirking.
Ahead, the soft glow of a lantern appeared, swinging above the grass.
He sensed Ragnar’s ruff go up, despite the smirk, and pushed a wave of sure, alpha sternness out through his aura. Stiffened his spine, and gritted his teeth against the pain that caused.
