Ragnar: Dragon Lord of Wye

by Nancey Cummings

The Aslan Opera was as far from a lounging around in skivvies situation as she could get.

  Priya tried her best not to gawk at the obvious wealth on display. Well-heeled males and females from multiple planets wore finely tailored clothes worth more than the Dashing Canard.

  The opera house gleamed. Sleek and modern, the simple environment complimented the elegance of the audience. Fortunately, the crowd leaned toward understated elegance and not gaudy displays. Priya’s little black dress wasn’t as fine or expensive as the other outfits on display but she didn’t stick out.

  Priya drifted through the crowd. She picked up a drink at the bar and clutched it like a lifeline. If anyone questioned her presence, she’d smile and sip. Smile and sip.

  Despite her fluttering nerves, no one paid her any mind.

  A bell rang. The crowd drifted out of the lobby and back to their seats. Intermission was over and she was no closer to spotting Prince Ragnar, let alone seducing him away to a quiet corner, than she was to sprouting wings and flying away.

  Priya downed her drink. No sense moping. She’d try again after the show.

  A shiver went down her spine like eyes were watching her, a predator stalking her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She turned around slowly, trying to locate the source of her unease.

  Recognition sparked in her when she found him. Dressed in a fine tailored suit that highlighted the lean, muscular physique, hair coiffed just so in that rakish, careless manner, facial features even and jaw strong, he radiated power and control. She knew Prince Ragnar was handsome. She just never realized it was the kind of handsome that drew in all the light, like the stars were made just to illuminate him.

  No one had a right to be that attractive.

  How naive was she to think someone like that would ever speak to her? Better to go home now while she still had her pride than risk making a fool of herself.

  Then, the impossible happened.

  “Hello there, pretty one. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Ragnar

  Ragnar stalked the most alluring scent. Faint but cool, like fresh turned earth in the spring and green, growing things, it called to him.

  “Don’t wait up for me,” he told Korven.

  “Seriously? Can’t you take a night off from chasing females?”

  Ragnar gave his cousin a toothy grin and a thump on the shoulder. “You don’t need me for the rest of the night. You and your mate can’t wait to dive into those tedious details that bore me.”

  “Not everything can be a non-stop party,” Korven said with a frown.

  “Tonight, it will be. Can you not taste the air heavy with the scent of a beautiful female? I hunt.”

  Ragnar prowled through the crowd, chasing the scent.

  He was on fire. His shoulders throbbed, sharp and burning. He hadn’t hurt this bad since he scaled the cliffs of Chalmon. His shoulders, arms, back and thighs ached the day he climbed the sheer cliff face above the raging water of the Chalmon. This was different. He did nothing to earn this pain. He was warm. Too warm. He loosened the collar of his shirt. The many layers of his formal clothing now seemed impractical. Did it matter that the suit was tailored to his form when it constricted him? Ragnar would almost believe he had the Fever but why would it manifest now, ten years too late, and here?

  The audience flooded the lobby during intermission. The crush of people continued to sour his mood and ratchet up his frustration. He could hunt the scent that called to him in the crowd, which was not the issue. The issue was all the smiling people wanting a word, wanting to glad hand him. He issued a warning growl and ignored those who wanted to steal his time. This was important; he knew it down to his bones. There was a fire in his blood, ignited for the first time and he had to find the female who called it forth.

  A bell chimed. The crowd vanished.

  He found the female, the source of the alluring scent.

  She stood alone, like a fawn in the forest, and for a moment Ragnar thought he had found a mythical creature from the deep forests of his home province. Her fine and delicate feet were clad in white spring blossoms. They cushioned her steps. Green leaves wrapped around her calves, stopping just at her knees.

  She wasn’t the tall and slender type Ragnar normally chased after. Terran, she was significantly smaller than him, but possessed a sturdy frame and generous curves. The black dress highlighted where her waist nipped in and the intoxicating flare of her hips. Her breasts threatened to spill out of her dress and that’s exactly what Ragnar wanted. Long, chestnut hair spilled down in loose curls over her shoulders. Creamy complexion. Dark eyes.

  He couldn't believe the males in her family let such a perfect creature wander out in the world when predators like himself prowled.

  Ragnar glanced at her hands and then down to her feet. Her nails were painted a bright scarlet. Terran females had no scales to rub color onto but they coated their blunt claws with paint. It was a baffling habit he first noticed with the Firestar’s pilot, but he liked it. He liked the color on her. She should be wearing less clothing and more colors. No clothes. He’d rub the colorful powder directly onto her creamy skin and only he could admire the way she’d shimmer.

  His arm snaked around her waist as he pulled her toward him. She did not resist him; the curves of her body soft against his hard planes.

  “Hello there, pretty one. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  His lips claimed hers without hesitation. There was not a moment where he was not certain this female was for him. She was every sweet thing all at once and yet the single best thing he’d ever tasted.

  She responded immediately, opening to him, tongue entwining with his.

  His hands glided up the back of her thighs, under the fabric of the black dress, and cupped the ample curve of her ass. He lifted her, pressing her to the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist, fitting perfectly against him. This was his mate. He found her, finally. The rumble of satisfaction grew louder and louder until her eyes snapped open.

  Her eyes were a soft and warm deep brown and completely Terran with that odd, round iris. His lips found the pulse point in her neck and licked.

  Her hips bucked in response. So eager. He couldn’t fight his grin of appreciation.

  He rubbed against the damp fabric of her panties, amazed at her eagerness, and pushed the thin barrier to one side. He stroked her silky folds, circling the sensitive nub. She arched against him, sucking in her breath.

  “Someone will see,” she protested.

  “There is no one here.”

  “Not here. I know a place.”

  He set her down, her body sliding along his. She gasped as he licked his finger clean, the taste sweet but he wanted to drink directly from the source.

  “Delicious,” he said and she colored that charming pink, tugging down the hem of her dress, as if passionate, disheveling kisses were commonplace for her. The thought soured in his mind. He did not want to picture her with other males. She was his mate, his precious treasure, and his dragon possessively hoarded every smile and glance from her.

  She was his. He would not share. He’d lock her away if necessary.

  She led him down a corridor, through double doors, and then down a service corridor. They were in the guts of the station now. He vaguely recognized it from one of the many tours Adelle had insisted upon. He had no idea where she was taking him but they had gone far enough.

  She paused outside a storage room. Security investigated what looked like a crate. She turned to him and asked, “Would you mind coming back to my ship? It’s not much but it’s private.”

  “You invite me to share your nest?” This female was bold.

  “No, I just want a little privacy.”

  If his mate wanted privacy, he was all for it. “A ship, a room, your nest. Take me there.”

  Ragnar paid little attention to the journey. All his concentration was focused on her hand holding his, leading the way. They stumbled into a little ship. As the ramp closed, Ra
gnar wasted no time gathering her in his arms. He’d waited long enough to taste his female.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. He almost didn’t feel the sharp sting as she kissed him.

  Blackness.

  Chapter Three

  Ragnar

  Fire burned in his blood. Hot and cold all at once, Ragnar thrashed on the bed. His shoulders screamed. His chest heaved. His head pounded. His entire body ached as if he had just received a well-deserved thrashing in the training arena. He was hot, feverish, and the same thought drilled into his head directly between the eyes: mate.

  Her scent surrounded him. The complexities of soap, shampoo, perfume, natural sweat and the fading musk of arousal was imbued in the bedding. His cock grew hard in response. As he swam into consciousness, he realized this was her nest.

  His female brought him back to her nest. She was a bold, pretty thing. If only he knew her name.

  Ragnar sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

  Satisfied he would not disgrace himself and vomit up the copious amounts of wine he had drank that evening, he opened his eyes.

  He was in a cabin. No, not a cabin. He tilted his head, listening to the moderate hum of engines. There was a kitchenette to the left and a table and padded bench to the right, along with a steep stairwell. This was the living quarters of a small ship, far from the normal accommodations of a locked room or a cell he’d been given for ransom attempts in the past. That is, if the female planned to ransom him.

  Of course she did. She lured him to her ship and drugged him. He remembered quite clearly the puncture at the back of his neck. What other reason could there be?

  Staggering to his feet, unexpected movement on his back caught him by surprise. Ragnar touched his shoulder, his hands came away bloody. In the cleansing room, the mirror revealed the problem.

  His wings had grown in.

  Blood stained, his shirt hung in tatters. Still slick, his wings stretched out, brushing the walls of the rooms. That small sensation made him suck in his breath. He reached behind to touch the leathery membrane. Molted scales still clung to the newly formed wings.

  A Wyer of royal blood, called a Wyvern, developed wings gradually and they would be revealed after molting of scales, not appear in a single night, or however long he had been unconscious for. Still, wing development coupled with elevated temperature meant one thing: Ragnar was experiencing his first Fever.

  Finally.

  The female. She had to be the reason. She called forth the fire in his blood.

  He really needed to know her name.

  Ragnar stripped out of his ruined clothes and tossed them in the sani-unit, along with the bloodied bedding. The shirt was beyond saving but his pants were merely blood soaked. Molting and wing growth was dirty business. He climbed into the shower to clean. Water pouring down his back and across his overly-sensitive wings was agonizing but it had to be done. New wings were always touchy. His own sisters moaned for weeks because the air moving across their young wings hurt. With the worst of the gore rinsed away, he finished up quickly. Unused to controlling his wings movements, he kept bumping them into the walls of the shower. The faster he got out of this torture chamber the better.

  He needed to dull the pain and rummaged through the cabinets in the kitchenette. No first aid kit supplies or medication were to be found but he did discover a bottle of Fremmian viski, a liquor. Good enough. He took a swing directly from the bottle, letting the fiery liquid course down his throat and mask the ache in his body.

  He needed to assess what the female had planned for him and he needed to make contact with Derix or Olver on the Firestar. He plucked off the metal insignia of Wye from the collar of the ruined shirt and stuffed it into a pants pocket. He’d been in this situation many times before. Well, never with the Fever and never with such a delectable captor, but the protocol remained the same. First, determine location. Second, determine intention. Third, make contact with the Firestar. Fourth, negotiate. Very rarely did negotiations include violence. He hadn’t been abducted in more than a year, not since Korven had come out as the true prince and “Prince Ragnar” was demoted to plain old Ragnar. So, his abductors either had outdated information or they just really liked his pretty face.

  He heard voices at the foot of the stairs. Ragnar crept to the stairwell, listening. His pretty abductor may have outdated information but that did not mean she wasn’t dangerous, or working for dangerous people.

  Priya

  “You what?” Gracious laughed on the view screen. At her.

  Her cheeks burned bright red. “I have a trade. Prince Ragnar for my family.”

  More laughter. “Oh, kitten. You don’t have a trade. You have a major crime.”

  “His ransom is easily worth twice what my family owes you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. She didn’t want to beg.

  “You didn’t do your research very well, did you, my little criminal mastermind?”

  A message came through on her tablet. Priya peered down at the news article Gracious sent. “But that makes no sense. I did my research.”

  Ragnar wasn’t a prince at all. He was a minor lord or some such thing. The real prince wasn’t a prince anymore. He was exiled by the Wyer queen a year ago. The male she lured to her ship and drugged was worthless.

  Worse than that. He could report her and have her arrested. Then who would save her family? No one. No one else would care that the Barbers toiled away on an unfair debt to a thug and could be sold at any moment to anyone with enough credit.

  “What am I going to do?” Her hand fluttered to her throat. She hated this feeling of helplessness, of not having a plan.

  “My offer still stands,” Gracious said.

  Priya visibly flinched.

  “Am I that abhorrent?”

  He was an attractive male, well built and strong. He did not have a reputation for being cruel to his women. She just didn’t trust him or like him. The thought of his tattooed hands touching her… No. There had to be another way.

  Priya made herself shake her head and look him in the eye. She wouldn’t stroke his ego and assure him of his attractiveness.

  “Work for me then,” he said. Priya opened her mouth to protest his work. He continued, “I can always use another pilot. I’ll even let your family go if you stay in my compound.”

  “I’d be trading myself for them.”

  “You were willing to trade Prince Ragnar for them.”

  The furious blushing returned. True enough.

  “At a pilot’s salary, you’d be working for…” He did the calculations on his claws. “About twenty-three years.”

  Half her life. She’d be forty-six when Gracious let her go. If he let her go.

  “Of course, you’d earn significantly more in my bed.”

  Her stomach threatened to turn at the thought. Twenty-three years of his leers and clumsy grabs or time in his bed. She didn’t know which was the worst option.

  “Why me?” she asked. Gracious had women. They strutted around the colony like they were royalty. If he fancied new blood, he could easily acquire a new dolly. He was powerful and wealthy and attractive in a dangerous way. He wasn’t hurting for female companionship, so why her?

  “I want to see the fight in your eyes,” he said, making her skin crawl.

  “I need to think about it.”

  “My next offer will not be so generous.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She ended the connection.

  There wasn’t anything to think about. She didn’t have a choice, not really. She just needed to pick her poison.

  A shadow moved at the top of the stairwell. Her prince was awake.

  Her stomach did another nervous flip. She needed to return him to Aslan Station and pray he didn’t press charges. But if he did, that sort of solved her problems. She couldn’t be expected to save her family or warm Gracious’ bed if she were in prison.

  Really, prison? Was that her best opt
ion now?

  No, she’d think of something, even if she had to trade herself for her family. She said she’d do anything to save them and anything meant all options were on the table.

  “I’m coming up now,” she called up the stairs, “in case you weren’t done eavesdropping.”

  Chapter Four

  Priya

  The shadow moved back from the top of the stairs. Still wearing the black dress, Priya carefully made her way up the steep steps. Her shoes just weren’t made for the non-skid safety treads of a starship.

  She held her stunner loosely in her right hand. She didn’t want to use it but she would. What did she have to lose now? She was already a kidnapper, might as well add assault to the charges.

  At the top of the steps, a flurry of green movement and the wind of wings, then she was disarmed and pressed belly down on the bed.

  “How many others,” Ragnar, not a prince but a regular male, demanded. He held her arms behind her back and applied pressure, not a dangerous amount but enough to make his point. He didn’t want to hurt her, either. For the first time since her family was snatched, she felt hope. If he didn’t want to hurt her after all she done, she could talk her way out.

  “How many others.” He twisted her arm just enough to make his point.

  “None! It’s just me. Just me.”

  The pressure eased and Priya scrambled onto the bed, drawing her knees up as best as the dress would allow.

  Ragnar was shirtless. She couldn’t help but stare. His muscles looked… stars, unreal. He looked sculpted. And he now sported wings. Those were new.

  The wings took up a great deal of space, blocking some of the overhead lighting, and looked tender. She wasn’t sure if that was the correct word. They didn’t seem to move quite right, like he was still getting the hang of them.

  The bedding was clean. The blanket had that fresh out of the sani-unit smell. He did her laundry?