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“You should meet my mother.”

“Hm, maybe I will. Is she as pretty as you?”

As far as lines went, it was neither the boldest, nor the most creative she’d ever heard. But the way he said it, the bright spark in his gaze, left her toes curling and uncurling inside her boots. Her pulse was quick, but she managed to keep her face and voice neutral as she gave an offhand wave and said, “Oh, prettier. She has gold hair. Father’s side of the family is where all the red comes from. And here I am.” She flicked her braid over her shoulder. “Dark and plain.” She made the mistake of catching his eye, in time to watch his smile shift to a smaller, darker expression; less playful man, more wolf on the hunt.

“I wouldn’t sayplain, love.” His look promised all sorts of alternative adjectives, ones that left her clothes chafing uncomfortably against skin gone too tight, and too hot.

A small, reasonable voice in the back of her mind was shouting, unheeded, upbraiding her for being moved and flattered when she had never been prone to that sort of thing before. Mal had been the exception – the only exception, she’d thought. And even then, he hadn’t been so…arresting. She had loved Mal, loved him still, missed him like a lost limb, but their love had always felt like a comfortable, broken-in pair of boots, even at its most heated. It had never feltillicit. Never felt like a spark that had the ability to raze her down to nothing but ashes.

She looked away from him, and fixed her gaze between Shadow’s ears. “You’re too forward, Lord Ragnar,” she said, flatly, even as her throat tried to launch itself up her throat. Her face was flaming, and she hoped her blush could be explained away by the sun’s heat.

“Aye,” he said, amicably. To her relief, the flirtation dropped off his voice. “But it’s not ‘lord’ anything.”

She risked another glance, and saw that he watched the road ahead, fingertips ghosting over the torq at his throat, frown touching his mouth. “Not anymore?” she asked.

“No, never.” His lips twitched, a rueful half-smile. “I was chief, though. I was alpha.”

The look on his face, that wry, make-the-most-of-it take on loss, told her that he’d turned Leif – Leif specifically – on purpose. But that he’d never guessed he would be unseated by him. It was a fitting reverse of fortune, she thought.

“And now?” she asked, half curious…half vicious, because charmed or not, she couldn’t allow this man – this skinwalker, this traitor, this murderer – to think that she felt anything like softness toward him.

He glanced toward her again, hand falling to his side, expression shuttering so that she could read nothing of it. A startling withdrawal into himself – or, more likely, a dropping of an act. Which was the real Ragnar? The clown…or this shifty-eyed creature who walked alongside her now?

“Now,” he said, “I’m the beta.”

~*~

Leif ran on four legs, swift strides eating up the distance, the rest of his pack – save Ragnar – ahead of him, spread out to either side. He didn’t like running out in the open along the road like this; liked the shadow of the drake falling over them from time to time even less. Alpha – he wasn’t sure he’d get used to that name any time soon, especially not with his wolves grinning and cackling over it, Ragnar worst of all, insisting the coincidence was fate at play – flew high for the most part, surging ahead and then dropping back, monitoring his mistress, definitely, but serving as a lookout with a unique vantage point. Occasionally, though, he would swoop down lower, so that his shadow swallowed Leif whole; when Leif tipped back his head, he saw the drake’s head cocked, a red-gold eye beaming down on him like an angry sun, assessing him, judging him. Leif had told the others they wouldn’t be snapped up and eaten unless Amelia wanted them to be.

All the more reason to, as Ragnar had said, play nicely with the Lady of Drakewell.

It irked him that he was struggling with that.

Mere months ago, had anyone in Aeres, from kitchen boy, to visiting dignitary, been asked which of the two princes was the more mannerly and polite, all would have pointed to Leif, and they would have been correct. Rune was friendly – but too enthusiastic. Too youthful, and impulsive. The day the Drakes had first arrived at the harbor seemed a lifetime ago, now; Rune bursting with questions as they met the two redheaded, pale-faced strangers; Leif apologizing for his forwardness while he tried to contemplate marrying the shivering, frightened girl wrapped in the too-thin cloak.

Were they to act out that scene now, he had no doubt that he would be the rude one. With his surly looks, and his low growls, and his clipped responses, all his concentration going toward tamping down the wolf, rather than offering anything like welcome.

As they marched, as Leif ran out all his feral energy on four legs, moving from dusty road, to the cool shade of the forest, back and forth, sniffing, snapping at the occasional fly, he found that, oddly enough, he was able to turn loose of some of the constant tension he’d been carrying. He’d stayed human for most of their trip, walking with Ragnar. To keep an eye on him, he would have said…but mostly for the company. Because he still didn’t quite understand the way the other man seemed to draw his attention, over and over. He could have blamed it on the torq, on alpha responsibility, on distrust.He’s had his hand on your cock, an unhelpful inner voice said.And his mouth.

While the wolf ran loose, the human part of his mind was able to mull things over in a way he hadn’t been able to while he was fighting his wild, instinctual side. He leaped a creek, and plunged down a hill, sliding through leaf litter with a wolf at each flank, and internally, he faced a truth he’d been avoiding.

He was lonely.

His family wasn’t the largest, but it was closely-knit, and they’d lived out of one another’s pockets since he was a boy. Throw in Bjorn, and Birger, Magnus and Lars, Olaf, and the local farmers and builders, their falcon master, and horse master, and all his instructors growing up, and he’d rarely been alone.

But then he was turned. And he no longer understood how to be around everyone he’d always known – because he no longer understood how to be himself, and their concern and pity had been unbearable. His need for sex, the urge to mate was overwhelming at times, yes, and he needed an outlet for that, at least until the increased urge had stopped feeling so new…but he craved companionship, too.

Ragnar was filling that need – with hit-or-miss success. At times, he was genuinely fun to be around, and the moment Leif thought that was always the moment he recoiled from the notion, plagued by rage and guilt all over again. But he was stuck with him, for better or worse, and he was familiar. Familiarity could be the hardest vice of all to break free of.

But now, here, there was Amelia Drake, and his wolf wanted to sink his teeth into her nape and mount her, yes; but the man part of him, Leif Torstansson , prince and heir, thought they might actually get on quite well. That she could be a friend. If he could wrangle his own base instincts and behave like the civilized royal he’d been raised as all his life.

A hare burst from a clump of ivy and darted deeper into the forest. His two flanking wolves broke off with excited yips, and plunged after it.

Leif felt only the faintest pull toward the game, the prospect of meat, and hot blood on his tongue. They’d eaten only an hour ago, a flushed covey of quail, more bone and feather than anything, but the fresh game didn’t entice him as it normally would have. Now, he was thinking man thoughts.

He sent them a warning bark –don’t get lost, keep close– and then shifted.

It was still dizzying, shooting up to two legs, his vision changing, his claws becoming fingers and all his joints popping back into their usual shape. But he was more used to it, now, and didn’t need to catch himself against a tree trunk. He shook his hair back off his face, plucked a handful of leaves from the ends of his braids, and let his nose carry him back to the road, and the column of sweaty, marching men.