Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

GREYHALL CROSSING - GUINEVERE’S CHAMBERS

Nicholas’s eyes opened to the ceiling and his fated mate on top of him.

They were on the floor.

He blinked a few times as his memory came back in pieces.

He marked her. The wet heat of her mouth, the way she’d clung, the broken sound she’d made when his teeth sank in. His wolf taking control with the subtlety of a freight train and the restraint of absolutely fucking nothing.

Shit.

That was not how he wanted to do any of that.

His wolf offered zero apologies. The smug bastard had accomplished exactly what he’d set out to accomplish and would do it again given the opportunity.

His wolf was also making a noise that sounded an awful lot like purring which Nicholas was going to ignore.

He stood with her in his arms. She didn’t stir. His venom must have really knocked her out.

Everywhere their skin touched, sparks detonated. They were both glowing. But most importantly, he could feel her again. The static was gone. The wall was gone. The automated-response void that had been eating every signal he sent was gone, and in its place was her, faint but present.

The relief was so violent it almost made him sick.

He carried her to the bed and laid down with her still in his arms. For a full minute, he didn’t move. Finally he was getting to hold her. Finally he was feeling the steady thrum of a matebond that was doing what it was supposed to do.

He dragged his lips through her hair, breathing her in like a man who’d been drowning. Then he pressed his mouth to the top of her head and held it there.

”I’m so sorry, Gwen. I will fix this. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The words were quiet and absolute. None of it was her fault. This would be fixed immediately so that it never happened. He would personally make sure that her men forgot it.

His cock stirred hard against her thigh before he could stop it, and his wolf made a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through both of them. Nicholas clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. Even unconscious, she was wrecking him.

He ignored it. Forced himself to focus on the practical. He shifted beneath her, slow and careful, easing her weight to the side so he could sit up without waking her. Her cloak was still on.

The green Lunaris fabric was twisted around her shoulders and bunched at her back. He reached for the clasp at her throat and unhooked it.

That’s when he noticed the cut of it.

”Is this supposed to be a cape?”

She didn’t answer.

Then he noticed she was bleeding through her shirt and his vision tunneled. His hands hesitated above her tunic one second. Then his face hardened and the hesitation died. He hooked one finger under her collar and pulled it down just enough to see her back.

His wolf went very still.

Bandages.

The sight of the white gauze against her skin short-circuited every rational thought.

He pulled the back of her shirt up so he could get a better look, then froze. Lashes. Not all of them were even covered.

The bandages were hurried. It looked like she had done some covering on her own. The uncovered lashes were angry and raised. He traced the air above one of them with a fingertip, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the wound but not quite touching.

Rage was too small a word. This was older. Deeper. Someone had put marks on what belonged to him. He had already decided that person was dead two days ago. He knew she probably had them. But still, he had hoped he was wrong. And even with that, it didn’t make seeing them any less jarring.

His hand hovered, shaking, then settled with brutal care on the uninjured curve of her waist. Her body lit gold again immediately. Nicholas’s breath left him in a rough exhale.

Even unconsious, her body recognized him. Wanted him. The knowledge sank into his gut like a brand. He was never letting her go. Not for politics. Not for peace. Not for anything.

He smoothed the tunic back down with exaggerated care, then rested his forehead against the mattress beside her shoulder. One breath. Two. The scent of her filled his lungs until his cock ached and his fangs threatened to drop again.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them.

Nicholas: Damon.

Damon’s response was immediate and steady.

Damon: Nick.

Nicholas: I need security in front of her door and the Lunaris wing. Four men on each. No one in or out without my direct order.

Damon: Already done, Alpha. Do you want her things moved to your chambers?

The answer was yes. Immediately. Here and in Shadowfell. Right now. Forever.

Nicholas: Not yet. I also need a healer.

Damon: On it. How bad are they?

Nicholas: Partially healed, but still fresh enough to get infected.

The mindlink went quiet for three full seconds. Three seconds was a long time for Damon Tavian, a man who processed information faster than most men drew breath.

Damon: The Alphas are still in that chamber. Some have to leave tonight. What do you want to do?

Nicholas looked down at the woman passed out. He wanted to push the meeting to tomorrow. He wanted her in that meeting next to him. The political shitstorm waiting in that chamber felt distant and small in comparison.

But the facts were he had everyone here and he would be losing a third of them before midnight because they would be traveling home. They came here because he called it.

Nicholas: Tell them I’m on my way. Bring her Beta to the meeting.

Nicholas rolled his shoulders, felt the wolf settle into lethal readiness behind his eyes, and headed for the door.

He paused before leaving and looked back one last time. The sight rewired something fundamental in his chest. Whatever version of himself had walked into this wing still believing he could keep politics and possession separate was already dead.

The man who walked out was going to make sure the entire room understood the difference. Every Alpha would be clear on exactly who she belonged to and what would happen if they even looked at her the wrong way.

His wolf agreed with a low, vibrating snarl that never quite left his throat.