Four men. Eleven seconds. Nicholas wiped his blade and continued down the stairwell without comment.
The man was good. There was no denying it. A king who had earned every ounce of his power and was still humble enough to not let you know it. Guinevere filed that observation away next to the other hundred she'd made tonight.
He stopped where three corridors branched, chin lifted, nostrils flaring, pulling scent from the air. "There are wolves in this Keep. Not my men."
She was a wolf living in a dragon Keep during an attack that included wolves. The political math on that was ugly in every direction.
She met his eyes. "Not ideal."
"No, it's not."
His wolf was not as calm about it.
We take her from here. Home with us. Ours. Mate.
