“I’m looking for someone, and I heard they’d been here a number of times in the last few months.”
“Lots of people come to Castle Moor, Keita, you know that.”
“And you know each and every one who does. So let’s not play games.”
The assistant held up a decanter of wine, but Keita waved it away. He offered the same to Ragnar, and after the long day he’d had he seriously considered having a glass until he saw Keita give a very quick shake of her head.
He dismissed the assistant with a wave.
“No wine, brother?” Reidfurd asked, watching him closely.
“No thank you.”
“Fruit then?” Athol held a plate of freshly cut fruit in front of Ragnar.
Hungry but knowing something could be slipped into food just as easily as wine, he shook his head. “You sure? These are from the trees surrounding the manor. I have fresh ones picked every day,” he told Keita. “They’ve become big hits with many of my guests.”
“No thank you,” Ragnar said again.
“As you like.” Athol dropped the plate onto the side table and sat back in his chair. “So, old friend, who are you looking for?” He seemed amiable enough, but as Keita opened her mouth to speak, Ragnar saw her change her mind about what she was going to say. He didn’t know why or what it meant, but she suddenly came out with, “Any Sovereigns been by?”
“Sovereigns? From the Quintilian Provinces?”
“Do you know other Sovereigns I’m not aware of, Athol?”
“Ahh, yes. Your sarcasm. One of my least favorite uses for that mouth of yours.”
Gods, she’d forgotten what an annoying twat Athol could be. And while that had not changed about him, something else had. She simply didn’t know what. But he made her uneasy when, at one time, he’d made her feel anything and everything but unease. So she handled him carefully, not taking his attempts at insult too much to heart and ignoring the Northland battle dog growling at Athol from his leather chair. Keita held up her hand to silence Ragnar and said to Athol, “I know, I know. My sarcasm always annoyed you as your tiny c*ck always disappointed me. These are things we’ve decided to overlook in the name of friendship.” Athol’s smile faded away, and Keita giggled and said, “I’m only teasing, old friend. You know that.”
“Yes. Of course.” Although he didn’t look too sure. “I’m sure a Sovereign or two has made his or her way into my home. I get many willing to risk much just for a night here at my manor. But you know I don’t share names, Lady Keita. People come here for private pleasure. Not everyone is as forthcoming as you about where you go and who you fuck.”
“I refuse to feel shame about who I f**k or don’t fuck, but that’s just my way.”
“Perhaps if you give me the name of this Sovereign you search for…”
“I have no name, but he would have been here in the last six months or so.”
“Well, you know, old friend, so many come…and come and come.” Athol glanced at Ragnar and said, “Old joke.” Ragnar’s response was to stare so intently at Athol that for the first time Keita could remember, Lord Reidfurd shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and not even because someone was nak*d and being whipped for his entertainment.
“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*ck 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 nak*d 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 nak*d 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.
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, nak*d, his c*ck 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.