Last Dragon Standing

“But you wouldn’t mind if we look around, would you, Athol?” And she made sure to pout just the tiniest bit. “Please?” Keita watched the elf’s every move, how he breathed, what his hands did, if parts of him twitched. She watched it all so that when he replied, “Of course not,” she knew he was lying. He did mind. Too bad she didn’t care.

She clapped her hands together. “Excellent!” All Keita said to him before they started off on their journey through Castle Moor was, “Eat and drink nothing. ” Ragnar knew being poisoned was only part of her worry. She also didn’t need Ragnar taking some aphrodisiac that had him writhing on the floor like a big cat.

With that warning given, they went from room to room, and floor to floor—searching for what, Ragnar still didn’t know. Yet he soon stopped thinking much about that as he became distracted by all that was going on around him. He hadn’t seen so much f**king in one place at one time since he’d participated in a mass sex Magick ritual several decades ago. And although all the sex around him had his c**k hard and his eyes fastened to Keita’s perfectly proportioned ass with no hope of relief, he was still glad he’d followed his instincts and come with her. Like the wolves who’d snuggled her tail the previous eve, the males in this place were drawn to her.

They’d pull their wet or oiled cocks out of orifices and prowl right over to her, hands reaching, mouths open.

She handled each male—and some females—easily, though. With a smile and a wave or a shake of her head or by yanking someone naked and good looking in front of herself to distract those who wanted her attention.

She dismissed another eager male from her presence and looked around the large first-floor ballroom they’d reached. If she saw all the sex going on around her, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead her brow furrowed over eyes that studied everything.

That’s when Ragnar recognized something in Keita’s gaze that he’d only seen in a few others. His mother, Dagmar, and a few of his cousins.

And that something was cold, ruthless calculation.

“What are you hoping to find?” he asked.

“My aunt.”

Perhaps, but Keita wasn’t merely searching for her aunt—she was searching for answers. Answers about her aunt, yes, but more than that. It was a subtle difference, but still enormous in its complexity.

Ragnar looked around him. “Here? You hope to find Esyld here?” She huffed, hands going on her hips. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Although Ragnar had no intention of walking into that trap, Keita held her hand up as if he’d been about to. “Oh, no. I bet I can guess. Only a whore would come here, right? And unlike me, my aunt is not a whore.”

“I never said that.”

“So my aunt is a whore?”

Wait. “And I never said that.”

“So then only I am a whore and Esyld is a saint?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

Keita “humphed” at him and walked off. Ragnar moved to follow, but a young woman dropped to her knees in front of him.

“A monk,” she purred, leering at him. “What a naughty treat.” She reached for his robes, and Ragnar caught her hands, terrified he wouldn’t make her stop once she got her hands on him. He was just a dragon—not a saint.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “No touching.”

“Are you shy?” she teased.

Shyness wasn’t his issue—and something told him he’d never leave this room if he told this woman he was a shy monk—but losing sight of Keita as she went around a corner definitely was.

“Not shy. Cursed.” Her eyes lit up over that, too, so he quickly added,

“Cursed with disease. A contagious one.” She jerked her hands away, and Ragnar stepped around her and followed Keita.

He could see her down at the end of the hall, where a naked male had hold of her arm. But unlike before, where Keita had eased her way out of those awkward situations, this male wasn’t releasing her. And, even more disturbing, he yanked her toward and out the back exit door.

Head lowering, Ragnar followed and burst through the same door, but he stopped short—had to with all those swords pointed at him.

“And who’s this then?” Lord Sinclair DeLaval demanded when Ragnar came charging out that back door like an angry bull. “Another lover?”

“An innocent monk,” Keita soothed. “Nothing more.” Gods, what a mistake DeLaval had been. Twelve years and the human still hadn’t let their one night go. She didn’t see him often, but when she did, he tried cajoling, gifts, and charm to get her back. Anything to get her to return to his bed. But one night had been enough. It wasn’t that it was bad.

In truth, it had been an enjoyable night—if she remembered correctly. Yet the ones who insisted on clinging after it was over always made her nervous.

And this was why.

Keita smiled at Sinclair, but her gaze was focused on the gate behind him. Right now neither she nor Ragnar could return to their true forms or use any of their natural gifts. Athol ensured that because he didn’t like any surprises at his manor. Yet once past that gate, nothing could hold the two dragons back. The problem, however, was getting to the gate. DeLaval, as a noble, was allowed by Athol to bring his small contingent of guards inside the manor as protection. And because DeLaval paid so well, he had free run of the place. Now that she thought about it, Keita realized one of the many reasons she’d stopped coming to Castle Moor was because of DeLaval, and his needy, desperate ways. But she’d been so focused on her aunt, her mother, and the damn Lightning, she’d forgotten about DeLaval altogether.