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She recalled Oliver’s letter, his news of the prince, Leif, who’d run off with his wolf pack, able to shapeshift, full of a new bristling, lupine aggression. A wolf prince headed her way, alongside a traitorous wolf cousin not to be trusted.
Was this them?
She didn’t know. But she stepped forward, bent at the waist, to make herself smaller, and held out her hand. Wiggled her fingers. “Hello, there,” she said, and chose not to smile, in case these two were more wolf than man, and took her bared teeth as a sign of aggression. “Hello. I’m Amelia. Amelia Drake.”
Belatedly, she considered that offering her real name might be foolish; if this wasn’t Prince Leif and his cousin, but some dark, Selesee spy instead, she’d just painted a target on herself. With her other hand, she felt along her hip, but her sword wasn’t there, not even a knife.
Damn.
The two wolves turned their heads to regard one another, communicated in low chuffs and snorts. The darker one ducked his head, and then shook it with a sneeze. The lighter one flicked his ears back and forth a few times, and then turned back to her. And then started toward her, slowly.
Amelia held her breath, gaze shifting between the two of them. Would the second one charge in at the last moment? A twofold attack while she was defenseless? Or was her worry needless?
The first one stalked closer, closer, grass crunching quietly beneath his oversized paws. As he neared, she caught the wild, musky scent of wolf, like a hide brought back from the hunt, before it had been cleaned.
Amelia nearly snatched her hand back, sure it would soon be seized in fierce jaws – but at the last moment, as the wolf closed the final distance, sniffing audibly, she got caught in the blue of its eyes, and found she couldn’t move. Could only watch, tensed and breathless, waiting to see what might happen.
A cold, damp nose touched her knuckles.
A flash of light blinded her, and the air filled with a sound like ripping sailcloth.
Amelia lost her balance, and toppled backward with a shout of alarm. Landed hard on her backside in the grass.
A man stood over her, tall – very tall. Taller than the men in her company, it seemed, his broad shoulders blotting out the sunlight. Bare, gleaming muscled arms, and a fur coat collar, and a tangle of golden hair. A short-trimmed beard, and a locked jaw, and those same blue eyes, burningly intense, brighter than anything else in this dreamscape.
He was beautiful and terrible. His gaze held her fast as a snare, and a shudder started up deep inside her, rippling out in resonant waves that left her fingers digging into the tangles of grass beneath her.
He was a man, but he gazed on her as an animal would, puzzled by her presence…by her humanity.
He tilted his head, and when he spoke, his voice was low, and deep, undercut by a growl. It sent another shudder through her. “Amelia Drake?”
She wet her lips – his eyes tracked the movement – and managed to counter with, “That’d make you Leif Torstansson , then.”
A flicker in his jaw, and a faint lift of his brows. Surprise, she thought.
She said, “Oliver sent word you were coming.”
He frowned. “I–”
Amelia woke up.
Her eyes snapped open, just as a high, undulating call echoed away outside the window. The drakes.
Dizzy and out of breath from the dream, she flipped back the covers and staggered out of bed and across to the window. Out in the field, a dark shape fell from the sky, black silhouette against the gray-green of approaching dawn. A drake – Marigold, she thought, based on the size, and it was Alpha down below, head lifted, as he called for her once again.
She landed, and they fussed together, a moment, Alpha chastising her.
Amelia let out a breath and slumped down into the window seat. Marigold winging away on her own wasn’t that unusual.
The dream, though…meeting Prince Leif…now there was somethingfarfrom usual.
She rested her temple against a bit of window molding, and tried to rub the goosebumps from her arms. He’d been so intense, so unreal, like a character from a fairy story: the strapping Northern warrior come to slay a monster.
He was out there, she thought, gaze lifting to the tree line. Out there heading her way. Would he be less intimidating in person…or more so?
~*~
In a thicket of wild roses, at the base of an oak tree with spreading, cradling knobs of roots, Leif sat bolt upright, hand tightening on the fistful of hair he’d fallen asleep holding. Face-down across his legs, Ragnar grunted and whined and tried to bat him away.
