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He’d never heard an outsider say it, least yet a woman.
The voice said, “Stand down,” and the drake snorted loudly, and pulled back. It – he – settled, half-crouched on its haunches, and the armored knight – the woman – swung gracefully down off his back and landed with a crunch of leaves and a chiming of armor. She reached up with one hand and patted the drake’s shoulder, who in turn craned around to nose at her, crooning an inquiring sound.
“Yes, it’s all right,” she said. “Be a good boy, Alpha.”
Alpha. The word sent chills down the back of Leif’s neck, but it wasn’t meant for him.
Ragnar’s laugh was more of a cough. “Heh. The bloody dragon’s named ‘Alpha.’”
He hadn’t spoken quietly, and the woman turned to face them. She gave the drake’s nose one last pat, then reached to unbuckle and draw off her helm. A dark braid spilled over her shoulder, and her face, once revealed, was familiar.
Ragnar sucked in a sharp breath that became a hiss.
Leif felt as though he’d been slapped again. It was her: the Amelia Drake from his and Ragnar’s shared dreams. The fine features, and high cheekbones, reminiscent of her sister, but sharper, harsher. Her eyes were the same blue as the other Drakes, vivid in the shaft of sunlight she stepped into, and her lips were painted a false red that made him think, absurdly, that she’d bitten someone.
She flicked her braid over her shoulder with a toss of her head, and strode toward them, helm under one arm, other hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
Ragnar was still wheezing, but Leif heard his attempt at a deep inhale; sensed his interest. Had he been on four legs, his tail would have been wagging.
Leif growled at him under his breath – and tightened his hold around his waist. He smelled terribly of blood, and his grip on the back of Leif’s tunic was weakening by the second.
Voices sounded behind them: a man saying, “Hold, hold your fire!” Another calling out, “My lady! My lady, they are magicked! Take heed!”
When she’d nearly reached them – close enough for Leif to smell her sweat, the herbaceous soap she’d used to wash her hair; her skin, and the dirt under her nails, and the paint on her lips, and thefemininityof her, more alluring than any of the women he’d shared with Ragnar on the road – the dark- and light-haired men swooped in on either side of her, bracketing her. The blond threw an arm across her middle, barring her path, and Leif bared his teeth; that little bollocks shouldn’t be touching her.
Ragnar chuckled again…but it turned into a whimper, and he tucked his face into Leif’s neck, whining quietly in pain.
It took every ounce of self-control, every shred of Leif’s remaining humanity to stand rooted, holding Ragnar, listening to the clumsy crash of men walking toward them through the brush, when all he wanted to do was shift to four legs and start tearing out throats.
The dark-haired man said, in what he must have thought an undertone, “They’re…I don’t know. Enchanted. Cursed. We watched those two turn from wolves to men.” A nod toward Harald and Vidar, who now stood a hundred feet away, both man-shaped, huddled together, Vidar’s teeth bared. “And that one” – Leif this time – “is big as a barn and meaner-looking than your drake. Stay back, Amelia.”
Amelia. He’d known it was her – of course it was her, who else could it be? – but that confirmation, the sound of her name, struck him hard and left his insides tightening. Anticipation? Anger? Lust? He couldn’t parse it. But he wanted her closer, as badly as he wanted the others gone, and for that man to stop touching her.
A low, guttural growl that didn’t belong to any wolf rippled through the clearing. The drake. When Leif tore his gaze from Amelia Drake, he found her dragon watching him with narrowed, red-gold eyes. Suspicious.
The woman –Amelia– sighed, recapturing his attention. She brushed the blond’s arm away. “Stand down, boys.” Then she looked straight at Leif. Their gazes locked, and a low, insistent humming started up in the back of his mind. His skin itched and prickled worse than ever. He envisioned his wolf pacing circles inside him, snarling and whimpering in turn, wanting out. His wolf wanted her, more fiercely than he’d wanted the paid girls, a basic, stomach-churning want that could render him dumb and stupid if he didn’t fight it with all he had.
He swallowed, and he couldtasteher scent, now, as she started walking again. She tasted likemagic.
“It’s all right, Connor. Reggie,” she said, head only half-turning to speak over her shoulder as she moved, her attention fixed squarely on Leif. “Prince Leif and I have already met.”
In a dream. A dream in which all his senses had been dulled by distance, and by the oppressive magic of that other plane. Now, though, now she was filling his nostrils, his lungs, hishead.
She took another step, and another. The humming got stronger, louder, his wolf more insistent, his wolf feral–
And then she arrived in front of him, boot heels clicking together, chain mail chiming as she settled. She tipped her head back, now that they stood close, to maintain eye contact. Her pale throat was bared, unguarded, as though she had no idea the danger she was in…or wasn’t worried about it. She had a dragon, after all. Had them surrounded.
She presented the portrait of confidence…though he could smell the flicker and static of her nerves; could hear the rapid tattoo of her stressed heartbeat. He thought perhaps he imagined the hitch in her breath, and the faint trace of feminine interest on the breeze that wrapped her scent all around him like a suffocating quilt.
“Hello,” she said, and then shifted her helmet around, and offered her right hand. “Lady Amelia Drake. Duchess of Drakewell. And you must be Prince Leif. Sorry about your man.” She tipped her head toward Ragnar, who’d gone eerily silent save the rough saw of each breath.
Leif started to respond – and then realized that he’d forgotten how. The wolf was right up in the front of his mind, using his eyes, drinking her in with his nose, and he couldn’t begin to formanywords – let alone civilized ones.
Her gaze sharpened, as she stared at him…and it was a stare that went on and on, as he struggled, and grappled, and for the life of him couldn’t manage to voice any of the things he was thinking, most of which involved getting her on her back.
Finally, he eked out a croaky, “I…”
And Ragnar coughed blood all over her boots, and fainted.
