Jagger almost jumped. Grlind hadn’t spoken to him yet this evening but was now bending around Jade’s back to do so. “Sir?”

  “Just Grlind. Look, the Storm King choosing an orc means you all gotta work hard at making better alliances to defend the kingdom against attacks from outside, right?”

  Jagger knew that. Everyone was always on edge about trolls and ogres possibly joining forces, for instance. He gazed over at the latter. He hated ogres. As if sensing his thoughts, one stared back at him and made a cutthroat gesture. Charming. Not.

  “Right?” Grlind repeated.

  “Right. And, of course, I’ll do my best to help.”

  “That’s real sweet o’ya to take it like that.” Grlind’s face stretched into a big green smile.

  “It?”

  “The prophecy, that says ya gotta marry one of the wyverns to cement their alliance with us!” The clap Grlind landed on Jagger’s shoulder nearly had him on the floor. “That’s what Jade’s announcing now, to start the wedding celebrations off with,” he continued, leaping up to pull out Jade’s chair for him, because Jade was getting to his feet.

  “What?”

  Jerrick stood, and Jagger tried but failed to interpret the look on his father’s face. “But…” he tried again, and anything he might have said was lost in the Storm King’s proclamation about a wyvern-royal adjacent pact, one that might have been saving the kingdom, but that was effectively ruining Jagger’s life.

  Chapter Five

  “Sylph, I said I’m sorry!” Brick apologized again, but nevertheless threw the remaining contents of the bucket over the air elemental. “At least it’s warm water, right?”

  He was genuinely regretful that he’d tricked Sylph into his room and flung half a bucket of water over it. No—he was sorry that he’d had to do it. But if he hadn’t, hadn’t ensured that Sylph was too weak to dematerialize, the elemental would have vanished from his room and gone straight to Cerise. For all his mother had married into the Ruby Throne, she was its head, its momager, and as soon as Cerise had joined the family, Sylph had begun reporting to her and doing her bidding.

  Brick rushed into the adjoining bathroom and soaked a towel in water, again making sure it was warm. He wrung it out until it wasn’t dripping, then retraced his steps into the bedroom and placed the towel over Sylph, as if he were covering a loquil bird in its cage, tricking it into stopping talking. “Sorry,” he whispered, opening his door quietly and sneaking out.

  Brick was doing more than creeping out of his room—he was leaving the palace. And he wasn’t just slipping out to clear his head—he was, well, running away. He’d been speechless after learning the fate his family had planned for him. More so, when Scarlet had let slip the arranged marriage was being announced that evening, and he had faked a bad headache to get out of the feast and to be left alone in his room.

  Sylph had taken his place in the Great Hall—literally, taking on his essence to embody him. The replication was temporary and basic, something like a solid image, but it would have appeared Brick was present among the Ruby Throne. And they’re all about appearances, aren’t they? His thoughts were bitter.

  Moving slowly, a result of wearing two sets of clothes as a means of carrying a spare outfit with him, he crept down the smaller, more rudimentary stone stairs from the tower, the flight used by servants. Fitting, as that’s all I am to them. No, that wasn’t fair. He loved them, just as they did him, and he should do his family duty. Well, he would.

  He might not be intending to perform the task they’d mapped out for him, and he was leaving his home, but he could still work for them, like a roving ambassador or diplomat, creating goodwill and trade and deals from afar…once he’d learned how to. From however far his new life took him. And who knows, on my travels, I might meet someone…

  Fine, so he had no doubt he’d mess that up, as well, like he did everything, but it was still better than being handed to some old man as a bribe. A guarantee. Or whatever they wanted to call it. Funny, he’d never have thought his mother was a pimp, but… “You think you know someone,” he muttered, trying to feel better in the dark and on the twisty steps.

  Oh, thank the gods, he’d reached the bottom. He made his way along the short passage, guessing from the noise and scents he was near the kitchens. His stomach roared. He’d skipped dinner. Maybe he could take a little something to be going on with. And something for the journey. And breakfast. Before the thought had finished forming, he’d grabbed a big rectangular basket from a pile on the floor, hefted it onto his shoulder to hide his face and hip-bumped open the swing doors to the kitchens.

  “How dare you come in here!” yelled a man in an apron, swinging a ladle at him as soon as he set foot inside. “With that? All refuse and waste is taken out of the kitchens to the midden by the blue door, there! How many more times do you lack-wits need telling?”

  “Not their fault, Claune.” Another apron-wearing man patted the first’s shoulder, thankfully not with the hand that was holding a sharp knife. “The townsfolk we had to take on while the place is so full just don’t understand fancy palace ways.”

  “What, fancy palace habits like not mixing food and trash?” yelled Claune.

  “But the basket’s empty,” Brick replied, his voice rising from its usual baritone to end in a squeak when he thought about disguising it halfway through.

  “Then fill it and take it out!” Claune screeched, stamping a foot.

  Hunched over, Brick followed the man’s pointing finger to the far wall and a huge vat of vegetable peelings, eggshells and scraps. He copied another helper in dipping his basket in and scooping some up, then scuttling outside. Through the blue door. On his way, he snatched at what he hoped were apfels…only to discover they were onions. Oh, minotaurs’ horns! He couldn’t even steal food right. Despondent, he headed off, turned back to dump his basket of waste then set off again.

  At least he’d gotten out of the palace. Now all he had to do was shift and work out where he was by the light of the moon, so he could fly out of this kingdom and start a new life. Right, he’d just shift and— He couldn’t shift. No matter how much he tried.

  “Oh, pixies’ foreskins!” he whimpered, clutching his head that felt as though an iron band was tightening around it. “What—?”

  Magic. He’d forgotten about all the magic sprinkled around this place. This palace. Well, he was a wyvern shifter, for fuck’s sake! A big tough royal wyvern shifter who could power through and—

  “Gahh! Sorry!” he apologized to the night for the tremendous fart he’d let rip and that was even more stagnant-marsh scented than his belch of earlier.

  He rummaged in his pocket for his meds, and his fingers closed around the onion he’d pilfered. Maybe that was stopping him? Why had he kept it, anyhow? He threw it into the air and drop-kicked it away. “Ooh, sorry!” he apologized again, this time to whatever creature of the night he’d hit and that screeched its pain. “I’m not normally a good shot.”

  Yeah, that’ll soothe its feelings, Brick shithouse, he berated himself. With his luck, the animal was a treasured pet of some royal menagerie, who’d go rushing back to inform on him. Brick raced for the front of the palace and the route he’d come in by earlier. He’d simply retrace his steps until he was out of magic range, then shift and start the next Chapter of his life. What could go wrong?

  He got lost. “It looks different in the dark!” he whined to no one in particular, stumbling. Why did it have to be such a cloudy night? Suddenly, as if granting his wish, the moon eased out from behind its cover of clouds. Brick exulted. There was enough light for him to see a meadow. Oh, it was where they’d had luncheon, earlier! It felt like days ago.

  He trudged on and came to a crossroads he thought he remembered. The main part of the town was probably that way, and the kingdom gates that way. Unless it was the other way round. He turned, so he was facing the same direction he had been when he’d arrived this way earlier, but that didn’t make things much clearer.

  If his family were looking for him, daylight would make it easier to find him, particularly if he were wandering round in circles. What he needed was someone who knew the lay of the land and also knew a shorter and quicker way out of the elf lands. An elf guide, in short. And he knew where to find one—that tavern he’d glimpsed down that way! A new spring in his step, he hurried off into the more populated streets.

  Two women were leaning against a low wall at the end of a paved street. Brick cudgelled his brains to recall the name of the inn. Oh yes. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Cock,” he asked.

  “No cock here, just pussy,” replied the older-looking one, with a lick of her lips. She studied him. “Ooh, wish I was the Storm King—I’d change for you.”

  “Leave off, Cameth,” the younger one said. “It’s just down there, see. Follow the music. Yeah, you’ll find what you’re looking for there, hunk.”

  Brick wondered if she were psychic. All that magic about in the air here must be doing something to people. “Thanks!” He set off.

  “Tell Hust that Hayling sent ya,” she called after him.

  Hust. Hayling sent me. Brick repeated the names and instruction to fix them in his head and obediently followed the sound of fiddles and the thump of drums, to arrive at the wooden tavern. Two-storied, it was bigger than he’d remembered from the quick glance he’d gotten from the carriage earlier. A spicy meat and gravy aroma sneaked its way out of the open windows, making Brick’s mouth water, and a sour beer smell escaped when a man stumbled out through the doors to stagger into the street.

  The drunken man knocked over the free-standing board that advertised today’s fare, and Brick helped the man to his feet, then righted the sign. Jackalope pie in spelt-wheat-beer gravy was today’s dish. Even the words looked delicious. The colorful drawing of the fruit platter the place also served caught his eye too. But he wasn’t here to fill his stomach. He pushed open the doors and went in.

  The music was being made by a group of musicians in the middle of the room, and Brick went to join the people standing there, stamping their feet and clapping in time to the jolly tune. An elderly couple were dancing, spinning each other around faster than their age would have suggested possible. Brick applauded them and joined in the cheering and whistling for the music-makers when the song finished.

  He weaved his way to the long bar counter. “Hust?” he called, when the noise died down enough for him to make himself heard.

  A broad-shouldered man, his plaited beard grayer than his long hair, looked up, a goblet in one hand and a cloth in the other. “Yeah?”

  “Hello. I, erm, I’m looking for an elf. Someone who knows his way around, to show me. I’m new here. Oh, Hayling sent me,” Brick finished in a rush.

  “Hayling? Say no more.” Hust tapped his nose. “Up the stairs, first door on the landing.” He slung the cloth over his shoulder and pointed with the goblet.

  Calling his thanks, Brick crossed the tavern floor and walked up the wooden staircase. First door. He opened it, thinking afterward he should have knocked, waited for an answer. But he didn’t, just walked in…and stopped.

  Because the most beautiful man he’d ever seen was lying on the bed. He was long and slim, with shapely arms and legs. He had an old-fashioned-looking mustache and small beard that probably had some fancy name Brick didn’t have a clue about.

  His dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and humor. His curly, dark shoulder-length hair fanned out onto his pillow and he was wearing sexy leather clothing, including a long duster coat and leather breeches.

  It could have been any of those things that caught Brick’s attention, but what he couldn’t tear his gaze from and that had his mouth watering far, far more than the tavern’s pie could ever, was that the man’s breeches were undone, and he had his cock in his hand.

  Chapter Six

  “Don’t be shy,” Jagger called to whoever was at the door. He knew the picture he made, lying with his pants open, his billowing shirt framing his body as he gave lazy pulls on his dick. “Unless that’s what does it for you.” He wasn’t that into roleplay, but if the man who’d sought him out wanted to indulge some ‘wicked elf ravishing poor little me’ fantasy, Jagger could get behind it. Or on top of it. Whatever. “I can’t do much with you over there though, so…”

  He trailed off when he got a look at the man who wanted an elf. The huge man, a stranger, his face kissed by the sun and his eyes shining gold. Shifter, Jagger could tell, in the kingdom for the celebrations, no doubt. What type of shifter was more difficult to say, with all the physic and remnants of spells clouding him, but Jagger wasn’t about to demand a species certificate. He was here for a good fuck, the best way to forget the palace and all that came with it.

  He’d fled the Great Hall as soon as he’d been able, without so much as a glimpse of his ‘intended’. Oh, he’d tried to get one, but the wyverns’ table had been hazed in some shielding magic—did the youngest, his groom-to-be, have zits they were ashamed of? And so here he was, his usual haunt, where he never had to wait long for a companion to fuck the hours away with. Someone like this, a stranger, probably curious to discover if what they said about elves was true.

  Well, no, there’d never been anyone quite like this. This sexalicious tall and broad stranger, who got even more blood pumping to Jagger’s cock, what with the way he filled out the…two sets of clothes he was wearing. “Cold?” Jagger inquired.

  The guy shook his head. No, Jagger bet he was as hot as he looked.

  “Got a name to go with that gorgeous bod?” Jagger slid from the bed, unable to take his eyes from the stranger.

  “Bri— Sim. Sim,” the man answered.

  “Well, Sim, let’s get you naked,” Jagger said, stripping Sim as fast as he could. “Why so many clothes?”

  “Because I’m stupid,” Sim answered, his face turned down.

  It intrigued Jagger. He bent a little to get his face under Sim’s. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” he whispered, his mouth against Sim’s ear. He gave it a lick, seeing as he was there, pleased when Sim shivered where he stood. “I think you’re sexy as fuck.”

  He wondered why Sim looked surprised at that. He must know how edible he was, with that strong, handsome face and the way he peeped up from under those thick bronzed-gold lashes that framed those seductive yellow-gold—gods above and below—slitted eyes!

  Sim stood, never taking his gaze from Jagger’s as he undressed him to discover all that solid, thick, tan muscle inch by inch and, when Jagger tore open his pants, a massive cock and full balls.

  “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” Jagger breathed. “Or more accurately, I’m going to enjoy you. And I guarantee this’ll be the best fuck you’ve ever had. Take that off.” He’d left Sim in an undershirt, and now leaned back to track the flex of Sim’s muscles when he tugged off the garment. “What is that?” Fascinated, Jagger pointed at the golden ring through Sim’s right nipple.

  “Piercing.”

  “Through the flesh?” Jagger came close to see. “What…? Why?”

  Sim flushed an even sexier duskier shade. “I was drunk. Out with my friends. It’s—”

  “Sensitive?” Jagger picked up the thought somehow, and his eyes widened at Sim’s nod. “Can I—?”

  “How about you undressing as well?” Sim interrupted. “And tell me your name?”

  Name? He had one, he was sure, but Sim bending to pull down his pants then bending more to yank them off, showcasing a spectacular ass that would make a unicorn weep, sent his mind blank. Jagger took himself behind Sim to feast his eyes a little more on those taut, firm yet ample spheres.

  Sim’s build and physique told the tale of an active life, but Jagger couldn’t see him farming or fishing. More like he was a guard or warden, charged with the safety of whatever delegation he was in the kingdom to accompany, but then again, Jagger wasn’t exactly interviewing him for a job. He could think of a few positions he’d like Sim in, though. A few gaps he could fill…

  Jagger shrugged out of his shirt, his body heating with arousal.

  “Well?” Sim asked, spinning around to face front again.

  Jagger had no objection—this view was mouth-watering too. Literally. He could almost taste that thick cock, feel it flattening his tongue already, and the mere thought had his blood rushing to his own boner, pumping it bigger than it had ever been before. “Oh, yeah,” he muttered, taking his pants off, pleased when Sim’s gaze burned him.

  “What’s your n—?”

  “Murstyn.” It came out automatically. He generally used the names of the older, more dried-up councilors with strangers, so they’d go back to their lands and spread tales of how well-fucked Hareth had left their ass, or how much Jomb had loved eating them out. He was doing the court a favor, he’d always reasoned. “Now can I?”

  He didn’t wait for answer but fondled the gold hoop piercing Sim’s flat nipple, delighting in the hiss Sim gave at even this relatively innocent contact. Jagger turned the ring in a circle, feeling how the metal warmed as it passed through Sim’s flesh. Doing this brought his finger and thumb to the nub itself and he rubbed a thumb over it. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “Not enough,” Sim replied, and his words, uttered in that deep voice, hit Jagger like a lash.

  Manticores bite me… Jagger tugged at the hoop, pulling it away and stretching the nipple, first with his fingers then with his teeth. He used his tongue tip to almost flip the gold circle, pushing it flat against the skin above Sim’s nip instead of letting it hang below. Keeping it there, like a frame, he poked his tongue through it to tickle Sim’s nub. Sim threw out a hand, catching at the tall chest of drawers to steady himself, and it made his muscles bunch nicely.

  So nicely, in fact, that Jagger thought he’d better check them out, should smooth his hands over Sim’s thick chest with the perfect dusting of hair, and the sculpted planes of his shoulders. Maybe even draw his nails down his warm skin a little…

  “That’s what you like.” Sim seemed pleased at his discovery. “Chests and arms.”