Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

”Maddox?” Blair called. ”The healer is here. So is Aldric. Are you in there?”

”One minute,” Maddox said, his voice impressively steady for a man whose legs had recently filed for divorce from the rest of his body.

He looked down at Guinevere, who was unconscious against his chest. She was also thoroughly unbothered by the fact that the cavalry had arrived and neither of them were dressed, dry, or in possession of a single credible explanation for the state of this bathing chamber.

First things first.

He shifted her carefully, one arm under her shoulders, the other bracing her ribcage, and eased her back against the marble slope of the tub until her head rested against the rim and her body was reclined, chin above water, breathing steady.

Then he adjusted her again because the first angle looked uncomfortable.

Then a third time because her head had tilted slightly and the image of her sliding under while he was arguing with Blair was going to give him a heart attack.

He cupped the back of her skull and positioned it precisely against the curve of the marble, testing the hold twice, making sure gravity was on his side before he released.

She looked peaceful. Beautiful. Serene in a way that communicated zero awareness of the chaos she had caused, which was the most Guinevere thing she had ever done.

”Stay exactly like that,” he whispered. ”If you move, I will lose my mind, and I’ve already lost most of it, so the remaining portion is all that’s keeping this kingdom functional.”

She did not respond. Excellent. Her cooperation was at an all-time high. Unconscious Guinevere was the most agreeable woman on two continents.

We mated four times. Now we cuddle. Send them away.

For once, the dragon was being practical. Maddox gave Guinevere one final look, confirmed she was stable, and braced both hands on the rim.

”Maddox, I can hear you moving things around in there. What is happening?”

”None of your goddamn business, Blair.”

”You are in the bath at dawn with your wife while a healer waits. I know this because I could smell it from the hallway.”

”My wife is not in this tub.” She was absolutely in that tub. ”She’s resting. Elsewhere. In a dry location.”

He pushed himself up out of the tub. His right foot hit the flooded stone floor and the floor said absolutely the fuck it would not be participating.

His leg shot out from under him. He grabbed the rim of the tub, caught himself for one glorious half-second of hope, and then his wet hand slid off the marble and the rest was gravity’s problem.

Maddox went down hard. Knee. Hip. Elbow. Full hydroplane. He hit the floor arms and legs spread in the most enthusiastic snow angel sending a miniature tsunami of bathwater under the door.

He lay there, naked, wet with the calm of a king who had hit rock bottom and was now excavating.

He then looked over at his wife, because priorities, and to his relief, she was still unconscious. That was as fucked as it sounded.

”I’m coming in,” Blair called.

”No you aren’t. I’ll be out in a second.”

He rolled onto his hands and knees. The floor was an ice rink.

How had this much water escaped the tub?

Every surface was wet, every tile was a traitor, and the distance between where he was and where his pants were might as well have been a continent.

He heard the metallic scratch of a pin in the lock.

”BLAIR. STOP. DO NOT pick that lock.”

”I’m not picking the lock.”

She was absolutely picking the lock. The scratching continued with the practiced ease of a woman who’d apparently been breaking into rooms since childhood and had never once been sorry about it.

Maddox scrambled. Crawled. One hand hit a puddle, slid, and his chin kissed the stone. He shoved himself upright on his knees, reached for the shelf, and three bottles came off it in a cascade that sounded like a chandelier.

”Fuck.”

Guinevere did not stir. She remained in the tub with her head resting perfectly against the marble exactly where he’d placed her, unconscious and angelic, while twelve feet away her husband belly-crawled across a lake like a man escaping a shipwreck.

The lock clicked.

”Blair, I swear on every god who ever lived, if you open that door I will marry you to Lord Raventhorn.”

The door opened.

Blair Drakencrest stood in the frame and received the full, unedited, director’s cut of the Dragon King on all fours, naked, soaking wet, in a flooded bathroom, surrounded by fallen bottles, with blood on his lip and green water creeping past her boots into the chambers.

To Maddox’s horror, she didn’t look away or scream.

”Blair I am naked. Get the fuck out.”

She ignored him. Turned her head forty-five degrees to the right, where Aldric and two Luminari healers were standing in the room behind her.

”What’s behind this door will ruin your respect for the crown.” She turned back to Maddox with zero fucks that he was butt ass naked. ”Get your ass up. Where is your wife.”

”I’m. Trying.”

”Oh I know. A river leaked from under the door. Thought you should be made aware.”

Maddox grabbed the edge of the tub. Hauled himself vertical. Only for his left foot to slip immediately. He caught himself on the wall. His right foot went next.

”MOTHERFUCK—”

He caught himself on Blair’s shoulder.

”Get your wet naked ass off my silk.”

”I’m DROWNING, Blair.”

”You’re in four inches of water. Stand up like a king or die like a fool. Pick.”

He let go, planting both feet wide on the stone. Turned. Grabbed the robe he’d brought for Guinevere off the hook, and tied it around his waist like a bandage. It was too small to cover him any other way.

Blair’s eyes dropped to the robe and she immediately crossed her arms.

”Is that MY robe on your dick?”

”It’s Guinevere’s robe.”

”I gave it to her, dipshit. And you are wearing it as underwear.”

”Yes. I am.”

”Great. Now I will be burning it.”

From the corridor, the old healer’s voice drifted in with the bored patience of a man who had outlived embarrassment itself. ”Is everything alright?”

”He’ll be ready in a moment,” Blair called over her shoulder. She looked back at him with the cold, calculating stare of a woman documenting a crime scene she would reference fondly for the next fifty years.

Then she glanced behind her at the bed in the chambers.

”Why are the sheets on the floor?”

”None of your business. Get. Out.”

”I’m going to go stand in the corridor and pretend the last ninety seconds of my life didn’t happen. And you are going to get dressed and open this door in sixty seconds looking like a king.”

She stepped back. Closed the door.

”Fifty-nine.”

Maddox stood in the silence of the flooded bathroom, wearing his wife’s stolen robe, bleeding from the nose, and reflected on the fact that he had held off a god, killed a man, survived a fae invasion, turned down more gold than most kingdoms would see in a century, and been outsmarted by a wet floor.

DIGNITY: Gone.

He found his pants on the chair. One leg in. His wet foot slid on the stone. He hopped, catching himself as the robe unraveled around his knees.

From behind the closed door, Blair’s voice arrived on schedule.

”Did you fall again?”

”No.”

”That was a fall.”

”It was the pants.”

”I’m keeping count, Maddox. That’s two.”

”Shut the hell up, Blair.”

Found his shirt. Pulled it over his head.

He looked at Guinevere and thought, Simple. I’ve got this.

Step One: Pull out of bath. Done.

Step Two: Towel. Mission accomplished. Soaked in the process as expected.

Step Three: Silk shorts? Done. Silk camisole? Done. Robe? Done.

Step Four: Getting her hair into a towel? The towel won that war.

He opened the door holding her.

Blair’s eyes went to Guinevere, then to Maddox’s soaking shirt. She inhaled through her nose, held it for three full seconds, and exhaled.

”Your shirt is inside out,” she said. ”And backwards.”

”I’m aware.”

He was, in fact, not aware.

”Why is your wife unconscious and soaking wet, Maddox?”