Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

Once upon a time there was a dragon king who decided the best way to assert dominance was forehead kisses at six-second intervals while his brother, who was arguably one of the smartest dragons in Velkaris, took the bait every single time.

The walk from Maddox’s chambers to Kael’s was five minutes. Maddox turned those five minutes into psychological warfare that Kael walked into, knowing exactly what was happening, and did it anyway.

The motive was not territory, not strategy, not honor, not the fate of kingdoms.

No, it was much more petty.

It was which emotionally unstable dragon got to carry the princess.

Kael kept stealing glances over his shoulder at the woman unconscious in his brother’s arms. Each glance earned him the same thing: Maddox pressing his lips to the top of her head the way a dog pisses on a fire hydrant. Territorial. Public. With full eye contact to make sure the other dog knows what just happened.

Kiss.

Kael looked forward like that would save him. Changed his mind. Snapped his head back.

Kiss.

Forward.

Back.

Kiss.

The pattern was simple. And yet.

”Stop kissing her every time I look,” Kael snapped.

”I’m comforting my unconscious wife, Kael. The timing is coincidental.”

”You are kissing her every time my head moves.”

”Quit moving your head.”

”You’re doing it on purpose.”

”Everything I do is on purpose, Kael. That’s the difference between us.”

Kael’s dragon rumbled under his ribs so loudly that two servants down the corridor heard it, exchanged the universal look for absolutely not, and vanished down another hall.

”I have been resurrected, in battle, and stranded in a wolf kingdom this week and THIS is the thing that’s going to make me lose my shit.”

”Sounds like a you problem.”

Kiss.

”That one was unnecessary.”

”Every kiss I give my wife is necessary. Some are urgent. Some are preventative. That one was maintenance.”

”I will throw you through a wall, Maddox.”

”You’ll have to take her first. And you can’t. Because I’m holding her. And kissing her. At the same time.”

Kiss.

”That one was a medical necessity. Needed to check her temperature,” Maddox stated.

Ryker watched the Dragon King, a man who commanded a continental army, kiss a woman and call it medicine with a straight face only for Kael, a bad motherfucker and ex war criminal, to respond with a noise that should’ve come with a sippy cup.

Neither brother appeared to give a flying fuck that their High Marshal and High General were right behind them.

Ryker leaned towards Sterling. ”Quick temperature check. Are we invisible or do they genuinely not care that we’re three feet behind them watching this?”

”Both.”

”Outstanding. The two scariest men I’ve ever met are having a kissing tantrum.”

”Keep walking.” Sterling kept his eyes forward with the discipline of a soldier and the suffering of a hostage.

”Oh, I’m walking. I just want it acknowledged that we are watching something that will haunt me forever.”

Griffin fell into step beside them, forehead freshly wrapped from headbutting a torch sconce like it owed him money, followed by a frozen-river dip which knocked him out cold for a full day. The bruise had graduated from purple to a yellowish green that made him look like a banana that had seen combat.

”How’s the head?” Ryker asked.

”Oh, it’s great,” Griffin answered. ”The ladies love a wounded warrior. This bruise is doing numbers.”

”Numbers with who? You’ve been unconscious.”

”Two healers. Both concerned. Both touching my face like they couldn’t get enough.”

Sterling shot him a sideways glance. ”Are you sure they weren’t just checking your head?”

Griffin grinned with the unearned confidence of a man who thought a threesome was incoming because two healers kept dropping hints.

”Oh, I am very sure. They went slow. Insisted on checking my temperature and pupils too. Obsessed with me, really.”

If the hallway had a highlight reel, Griffin’s speech would be the last clip before the tone shifted to a true crime documentary.

Kael’s hand found the handle with the confidence of a man who expected to walk into his own room. The room had other plans. The room had been planning this for days and the room was ready.

The moment the door opened, Kael froze.

His dragon made a sound that roughly translated to ’where the fuck is Gerald’ in dragon.

Kael didn’t answer. He couldn’t because the entire room was white.

Correction. The room was aggressively, deliberately, intentionally, offensively, and comprehensively white. White paneled walls with light blue and navy accents. New bookshelves that were empty because his books were reorganized on them by color, not alphabetized or organized by category. Navy curtains framing the windows like the room had applied to be a fucking yacht. A white bed frame with white linens and a navy throw that looked like it cost more than most soldiers’ annual wages.

The room had not only applied but been accepted, fast-tracked through processing, and was currently sailing under a flag that read ”Blair Was Here” in invisible ink that everyone could see.

That’s when he noticed it.

Gerald was gone.

The rug. HIS emotional support rug. The one with the dead animal head that had been staring at guests from the floor since he went brown. Gerald had been through it all. Gerald had been the single most reliable piece of furniture in Kael Ashenvale’s life.

Gerald never judged. Gerald had never once given him shit about his life choices. Gerald had absorbed spilled whiskey, boot mud, and one incident where Guinevere woke up without her memories and all the lamps shattered, and Gerald didn’t comment because he was a goddamn professional.

And Gerald was gone. Replaced by what appeared to be a cloud that no man would put in his room with a giant navy anchor on it.

”No.”

One word. It dropped the way no drops when a man walks into his house and the walls have been swapped like he wouldn’t notice.

”WHAT. THE. FUCK. HAPPENED. TO. MY. CHAMBERS.”

Each word was its own sentence. Each sentence was its own crime scene.