Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

Diplomat row. Political theater by day. Fuck-fest circus by night.

There were exactly three types of people still awake: the hidden, the horny, and the hammered. Guinevere was walking past all of them.

The air reeked of sweat, sex, and spilled ale.

To her left, a dice game had drawn a large crowd, gold changing hands like a game of hot potato. A topless woman was dancing on top of a warrior, shaking her breasts vigorously in his face.

To her right, a rider Guinevere recognized was spanking a moaning woman while she rode him reverse cowgirl with a second woman on her knees in front of them. Next to them, two naked women were riding a soldier. One was doing the actual riding, while the other was pressed behind, hands freely playing with her breasts.

Threesomes. Guinevere knew the concept. And now she had that visual burned in her retinas. Wonderful.

Straight ahead, a tent flap hung open. Bodies moved together in a loud, messy rhythm. A redhead was in the middle of three men. Sucking one, while riding another, and being taken from behind by a third.

Guinevere blinked, face heating, and tore her eyes away. She did not even know that was possible.

Her rescuer continued moving through the camp completely at ease like he owned it, which told her he was high-level in one of these houses or wearing a costume.

She followed half a step behind, hood up, cloak pulled tight so no one could see her face. Her pulse hammered the longer they went.

She wondered if Blair knew about this or if she had been living under a rock this last week.

A thought crept into her mind: this was normal for Maddox.

She boxed that thought before it could spiral and mentally shoved it off a cliff. Nope.

The nameless stranger she was following made one more left, before stopping at a tent a bit further from the others. It had a Solandris sigil and was the largest.

Noted.

He held the flap open, and she entered.

Multiple people were inside. But two men caught her eye instantly: Renwick Lunaris and Beta Draven.

Her father’s head moved a quarter inch to the right and stopped. But she already understood. The tent had people, he was here in stealth.

The man she followed through the camp raised one hand. The tent froze, then immediately emptied without a word. The discipline was military-grade.

He commanded Solandris warriors, which meant he was either a relative, or Third in Command, because Guinevere already knew Solandris’s mage was his Second. She also noticed that the Master Mage was in this tent and not at the War Council, which meant Lord Solandris specifically wanted him here.

The last guard ducked through the flap without looking back. The canvas fell shut behind him, and the tent contracted to five people and a lantern.

”Father.”

Despite everything, she missed the only parent she had left, and the missing overrode the armor.

She crossed the distance and hugged him.

Renwick went rigid. His arms stayed at his sides for a full second, before his hand came up and settled on the back of her head. He held it for two seconds, then he released.

She drew back and turned to Draven, whose face was doing something his training manual had never covered.

”Beta Draven.” She smiled, genuine and warm, the smile she gave people she was glad to see and meant it. ”It’s good to see you.”

She hugged him too. Draven, to his credit, handled it with the composure of a large dog being hugged by a toddler: motionless and confused.

”You as well, Princess,” he managed.

She lost her mind at some point between the jester-mirror-bathing-chamber incident and now, and had fully accepted that. Hell, if Cassian were here, he’d get a handshake if he played his cards right.

RULE 22: If he skips giving you his name, you skip the question. That shit is never an accident. Introductions are trades. He’s not selling, you’re not buying. Anonymity always has a hidden cost, and you let that motherfucker compound.

The Master Mage was sitting at the table, studying Guinevere with an intensity she could feel. She knew his name was Marek. But he didn’t know she knew that. To him, they were strangers and the fact neither he nor the man she followed had introduced themselves was interesting.

”Please take a seat, daughter.”

Renwick’s voice had no warmth.

She wasn’t expecting it.

A meeting starting off on that note, at this hour, in this location, with this level of secrecy, was a meeting where emotions were a liability and information was the only thing on the table.

RULE 23: When a bastard pours you a drink before the talking starts, you take the goddamn glass every time. It’s a prop and a measuring stick.

The man she followed crossed to a side table, uncorked a bottle of whiskey like this was his tent. That sealed it. Only a relative would be that casual, not a Third.

He set glasses in front of everyone and kept the last for himself.

She picked it up without blinking. After that open-air sex education, whiskey sounded great. Why not sip something that burns a hole through the esophagus on arrival?

RULE 24: Get the pricks to tip their glass early. It tells them you’re on their side, and it tells you who has the biggest dick. Watch the order. The last motherfucker to meet your toast is the one actually running the table.

She raised her glass. ”To family reunions in the dark. May the secrets be worth the hour.”

It was bold.

Draven raised his and drank like a man who had been waiting for permission.

Renwick’s eyes held hers for a fraction of a second, then he raised his glass.

The man who she suspected was Solandris’s relative raised his next. The corner of his mouth moved by a millimeter.

Marek tipped his glass last.

She drank. The whiskey hit her chest like a small, warm explosion. She set the glass down.