Last Dragon Standing

Now both she and Ragnar were trapped.

True, she still wasn’t talking to Ragnar—few had pissed her off as he had and he’d done it twice!—but getting the dragonlord of the Northlands killed while on Southland territory would not help Keita’s relationship with her mother. And, she’d admit to herself, she didn’t want him dead.

Groveling perhaps, but not dead.

“Return with me, Keita,” DeLaval told her. “Come home with me.

Just to talk.”

The man stood there, naked, his c**k hard and still covered in someone else’s bodily fluids, and he just wanted to talk. Really, all he was doing was once again showing Keita why she hated the clingy ones!

She knew she had to get out of this and get out of it quickly. Unable to shift, she and Ragnar were awfully vulnerable to those sharp weapons.

“Sinclair, luv.” She pressed her palm to his cheek. “I’d adore doing that, but I must return home first. We can meet later.” DeLaval’s jaw clenched, and Keita realized too late that she should have lied outright to him, if only to get him to take her beyond the damn gate. But instead of just another incident of DeLaval begging, groveling, and giving gifts until Keita walked away from him—which was what had always happened before—this would be very different. Especially with his men watching.

DeLaval’s grip tightened on her bicep, making Keita wince from the bite of it.

“Let’s discuss this inside,” he said, pulling her back toward the door while Athol watched and did nothing.

Keita quickly glanced around to see if there was an easy way out of this, but except for Athol’s assistant—who seemed quite concerned, but feared his master so much that he’d never intervene—she saw no one else willing to help a lone female and her monk companion, which was exactly what DeLaval thought she and Ragnar were. The noble had never known the truth about her—many human nobles didn’t. And they rarely connected her with the royal dragons living with the human queen of Dark Plains. Still, would no one in this damn place help her?

Then again, this was the kind of entertainment she’d heard that many of Athol’s guests lived for. Rumors she’d always dismissed because she’d never seen the proof of it—until this moment. Until she saw the look on Athol’s face as he coldly watched DeLaval try to drag her back inside.

Unlike DeLaval, Athol knew exactly who and what she was. Knew what Ragnar was, too, even if he didn’t know his title or bloodline. And Athol knew that this situation could easily go either way, depending on how well Ragnar could fight as human and how fast DeLaval could get chains on her.

If she’d known the truth about Athol, she would have taken delight in burning the building down around the elf’s head long ago. But it was too late for that now. Too late for regrets.

“Keita?” She heard the question in Ragnar’s voice; saw what lay behind the pious folding of his hands and bowed head. A dragonmage he might be, but one who knew how to use a sword, a battle ax, a pike—as dragon and as human. Knowing she wouldn’t have to worry too much about the Lightning did ease things up for her slightly. But only slightly.

“My men will keep you company, monk,” DeLaval told Ragnar. He yanked Keita again, but she’d dug her bare feet into the ground and refused to be moved. For she knew that once she was in that house, DeLaval would have all the help he needed to get her chained to one of Athol’s many performance stages.

DeLaval stepped toward her, his breath hot on her face. “I’ll kill your monk, my lady. And I’ll let my men have such fun with him before they do.” And sighing heavily, Keita knew what she had to do to end this—although she hated the thought of it.

Ragnar kept his eyes on the men holding weapons on him and on Keita. She refused to be moved, but that wouldn’t last long. Even more appalling, the lord of the manor stood by and did nothing. That would make sense if Keita could shift back to her dragon form and easily save herself, but Athol had already ensured that wasn’t possible. Leaving them both with only one option.

Keita lowered her eyes, her head dipping, and her body pressing into the noble who held her. Raising one hand from her waist, she pressed her palm to the noble’s face, fingers slowly trailing along his jaw, forefinger pressing against his lips until he sucked it into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Keita said, her voice very soft. “But I don’t like to be forced to do anything. You used to know that about me—and respect it.” She pulled her finger out of his mouth, and DeLaval blinked down at her, groaned, took a step back. Then his entire body began to shake, and he dropped to his knees, his hands around his throat.

His men turned toward their lord, and Ragnar caught hold of the arm of the guard closest to him. He twisted the wrist holding the sword until the weapon dropped into his free hand; then he twisted harder until he heard bone breaking from the wrist straight through to the shoulder.

DeLaval’s men returned their focus to Ragnar, but it was too late now.

He had a weapon and nearly two centuries more training than the ones who’d been ready to kill him on order. He tossed the man with the destroyed arm out of his way and gutted the male in front of him. Internal organs spilled on the ground, and Ragnar pulled the blade out, spun and took a head, spun back, went low—successfully avoiding the short sword aimed for his neck—and brought his blade up and into another guard’s groin. Ripping the sword out, he used his free hand to grab the throat of another guard coming toward him and crushed all those small neck bones until the man could no longer breathe.