Deal With Her Dragon Read online

  “But for you… well. I was intrigued.”

  His gaze slides down my body as if I’m a rare treasure on display for appraisal—one which he’d like to add to the list of his possessions. I feel an answering warmth between my legs even as I struggle to contain my embarrassment. No man has ever looked at me this way, not even my ex.

  Especially not my ex.

  And he’s not making fun of me. Far from it. Ragnarr Thoringr looks like he wants to eat me up.

  Slowly, and with great enjoyment.

  Now I know what a lovely, buttery, flaky pastry in a bakery shop window feels like.

  “Nothing to say, after all that?”

  A hint of a smirk, and it occurs to me that I haven’t said a word yet. I feel like a mouse hypnotized by a snake, but I fight to keep an appearance of confidence. Remember—everything hangs in the balance.

  “How rude,” Ragnarr comments lightly.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was teasing me.

  “And yet you worked so hard to summon me. I might be insulted.”

  Heat rises in my cheeks.

  “My name is Emelie Odenberg,” I say, a bit too loudly.

  I clear my throat, keep my chin high.

  “I’m a witch. That’s my familiar, Whimsy.”

  I gesture vaguely at the fluffy black cat, still watching us warily from some distance away amongst the trees. His green-gold eyes flash neon with reflected light.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, and I thank you for coming. I called you because—” I hesitate, in awe of his unearthly beauty. He looks every inch a god. “Because I need a boon granted.”

  It sounds feeble even to my own ears.

  He laughs in one short bark. I frown up at him. I have to strain my neck to do so.

  “I am not in the habit of granting boons,” he says. “You have heard of dragons before? Or perhaps the rumor nowadays is our generous penchant for philanthropy?”

  “I mean—” I break off in frustration. “I performed this ritual, I called you, because I need money. Desperately.”

  I look up into his eyes, pleading.

  “You’re a dragon. I know the dangers—at least, I think I do. But you’re my last hope. I’ve tried everything else, mundane and magical. There’s nothing else left to try, no one else to turn to.” I pause, choking back tears.

  I swallow hard. My dry throat makes a clicking sound.

  “My business is about to go under, and I’m desperate. I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t have to. You don’t understand, I’ll do anything to save it. It’s the only child I’ll ever have. I’ll give you any—” I catch myself. “Almost anything.”

  I swallow again.

  “Please, I need your help. Please.”

  Ragnarr stalks closer, footsteps silent and light as a hunter’s. He circles me like prey, inspecting me from all angles. His eyes never leave me, and his nostrils flare. He’s scenting me. His body radiates heat like a furnace, and in the cold air my body leans into it, a flower hungry for the warmth of sunlight.

  “I am a dragon,” he says, quirking a white-blond eyebrow at me. It does funny things to my insides. Gods, he’s beautiful. “Rich beyond imagining. What can you offer me that I do not already have? What can you add to my hoard that I do not already possess?”

  The evening breeze sends me a hint of his scent: woodsmoke and amber resin, with a rich touch of something spicy. Cinnamon. He smells delicious: pure, wild, masculine. I feel my skin tingling in response, but I push aside my body’s reaction to his and try to focus on the matter at hand.

  It’s far more difficult than I expected.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what you want.” I feel stupid.

  I’d planned on just bargaining with him if it got to this point. Offer him a financial share in So Mote It Bee as a return on his investment. That’s what dragons want, right? Stock options? Net worth gain?

  It only now strikes me that this was an immensely stupid thing to think. Why didn’t I come up with a better plan? Of course he would say this. Of course he would. But what more do I possibly have to offer him? Was my coven right? Does he really want my soul, after all? A sick shock of panic courses through me like a roll of thunder.

  Ragnarr raises a large hand, strokes my cheek. Lets it drop to my shoulder, trails his fingers down the soft expanse of my arm. It feels like a spray of hot sparks skittering deliciously down my skin. I shiver. My nipples harden. I swallow hard.

  “Don’t you?” His breath is warm and sweet, like toasted cloves and spice.

  I make a little noise in my throat, suspiciously like a moan.

  The dragon’s eyes sharpen, focusing on my lips. His powerful left arm snakes around my waist, pulling me into him, his bare chest pressing hot against my breasts. The hard ripples of his abs feel like leaning against a sun-warmed stone wall, and despite my fear, I soften against him. I can’t help myself. His warmth is irresistible in the cool evening air.

  I fight to keep my wits about me.

  “I’m a forty-one-year-old divorcée,” I say. “I don’t think I have anything someone like you would want.”

  Nothing is quite what or where it should be, I want to add, my ex’s cruel words echoing in my soul like they had been for years.

  Thanks a lot, gravity. Thanks a lot, faulty uterus. Thanks a lot, cinnamon buns… you delicious little bastards.

  I err on the side of tact.

  “I’m no tiny young thing,” I say, pulling back from him. I have to tilt my head all the way back to meet his gaze. “I mean, look at you. You’re—You could have any woman you want.”

  I’m happy with my body just the way it is, but still—part of me can’t possibly imagine why he’d want me. Supermodels would tear each others’ hair out just to get a taste of him. A flood of shy embarrassment surges over me. All I want to do now is hide. I feel the old shame eating away at me like acid, a hint of tears burning behind my eyeballs.

  He leans down, whispers in my ear. His warm breath tickles the baby hairs at my temple.

  “I want you, Emelie Odenberg.” A pause. “All of you.”

  The words shoot through me like electricity. I can’t help myself. I close my eyes, press my cheek against his hard pectoral, inhale the spice of him deep into my lungs. His arms wrap around my body, holding me close. The cold seems like a bad dream, far away. I feel the hard ridge of his arousal against me, but he does not force himself on me. This reassures me, a bit of my insecurity and fear melting away.

  The dragon pulls away and looks down at me. His expression is inscrutable. He extends his hand to the air, and I watch with curiosity as a large coin-sized circle of polished silver materializes out of thin air, dangling from a fine golden chain wrapped around long fingers. The disc is imprinted in bas-relief with his personal motif of intertwined dragons.

  “My bargain is this,” Ragnarr says, the lilt of his accented voice deep and resonant. “I’ve imbued this token with the power of my hoard, and the power to grant a handful of wishes—to be paid for, in advance of each, with an equal amount of payments. In the currency of my choice.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what the catch is. The growing heat between my legs is surely my answer to the question of currency. At least, that’s what I find myself hoping for.

  “A handful?” I echo.

  He shrugs. “Three or four—or maybe two if they’re especially big. The disc will wax from silver to gold in increments as its power is used. But I warn you, häxan—” he stares down at me, and I can only guess at the hungry machinations working behind those gorgeous blue eyes.

  “One may not take or partake of a dragon’s hoard without risking becoming a part of it. If your wishes are too large and the token turns completely gold, you are mine.”

  His eyes hold my own as his fingers close around the disc possessively.

  “All of you. Body and soul. Totally. Forever.”

  Ragnarr places the clenched fist beneath my chin, tilt
ing my face up to his. My eyes drop to the full softness of his lips. I am holding my breath.

  “You may make smaller wishes to avoid that circumstance, but their effect will also be smaller. Thus, as in anything in life, to the boldest come the greatest returns.”

  I contemplate this. His incredible heat against my skyclad body keeps away the evening chill. It’s all I can do to not drape myself around him like a cat. But I don’t know what becoming a part of his hoard means, nor do I particularly like the sound of it.

  “Emelie!” Whimsy yowls. “Don’t!”

  An urgency in my familiar’s tone begs me to drop the whole thing. I frown. I’d almost forgotten he was watching, and a pang of guilt wracks me.

  Will I forget everything important to me if I accept? What unseen dangers are wrapped up in this? It sounds too good to be true.

  “Do you accept?”

  The dragon’s eyes are fixed on my face. He expects my answer here and now.

  I feel pressured. Anxious. But what can I do? I don’t have any other choice, and I have no room to bargain. I’ve always been more of an artist than a businesswoman anyway, which is why I’m in this whole damn mess to begin with.

  This bargain can—will save me, and it’s why I’m here in the first place. I can’t have gotten this far only to walk away at the last second. Not with so much at stake. That would be madness… wouldn’t it?

  “Will you warn me ahead of time if the wish will be too big? So that I can scale it back—? Um, no pun intended.”

  He looks annoyed. He probably hadn’t expected any conditions from me at all. From the look of it, Ragnarr also doesn’t seem to appreciate my joke. I sigh.

  “Ja,” he says. Yes.

  “And will you tell me what the—the currency will entail ahead of time?”

  As much as I think he’s crazy for wanting me, I’m not an idiot. I know how men are. It’s not hard to guess what he’ll ask for—but I don’t want to be caught completely unaware.

  “I will.”

  “And in exchange, my business will be saved? Completely, no caveats, no tricks? I have your word on that?”

  I’m trying my best to remember everything I’ve read about making deals with supernatural creatures and the need for hammering out tiny details, but gods, his body feels so delicious against mine… and it’s the best I can do.

  Fy fan, I’m only human.

  “By my father, I swear it, Emelie Odenberg. You have my word as a dragon.”

  I look up at him, caught in his gaze like a bird pinned under a cat’s paw. I swallow hard. Nod.

  “Then I do,” I whisper. “I accept your bargain.”

  From the nearby copse of trees, Whimsy makes a noise of utter disgust.

  The dragon smiles in triumph, his eyes slitting, flashing hot blue sparks. The circle of unearthly light surrounding us flashes brighter for just a moment.

  He slides the disc’s chain over my head and around my neck. As it slips into place between my bare breasts, he turns my face up to his. His gaze is as intense and hot as a forge.

  “Mine,” he growls, taking my mouth in a passionate kiss.

  It’s like being caught in a wildfire.

  Ragnarr tastes even better than he smells, like brown sugar with a hint of vanilla smoke. His tongue traces the curve of my upper lip, his body tensing as he feels me melt into him.

  His tongue dips deeper, dueling with mine, tasting me, exploring the depths of my mouth. My fingers slide against the hard muscles of his back.

  His fingers dip into the deep curve of my waist, tracing, exploring. His huge body is hard and lean against me.

  “Lilla häxan.”

  It’s odd, but I actually do feel little compared to him.

  “So beautiful,” he says, enormous hands skimming my curves. “So round. Skin like cream.”

  His words go straight to my pussy, a bolt of electricity that sensitizes everything in its path. My nipples are rock-hard against his chest. I’m loving the feel of the rough hair on the delicate skin of my breasts. It’s decadent.

  His palms cup the globes of my ass, tracing the shape of each cheek. My backside fills his hands.

  “Soon you’ll let me taste you,” he says. “Drink your honey.”

  A moan escapes me. I nod. Right now, I’d agree to anything.

  “Such a luscious round ass. So sweet and soft.”

  He gently squeezes it, relishing the feel of my flesh. I’d expected him to be rough with me, but his gentleness surprises me, heightens my arousal.

  He picks me up as easily as I’d pick up a kitten, guiding my legs to wrap around his tight waist. His hands support me under my ass without a hint of strain, and I sense he won’t drop me. Would never drop me. My arms twine around his neck, the tender skin of my inner elbows pressed to the heat of him.

  My mouth is full of the exotic taste of him. I open up to him like a flower, accepting his fire like life-giving sunlight. I’m filled to the brim with him, but I want even more.

  The cool wind picks up long strands of my hair, teasing them against my overheated skin. Every breath I take is spiced with the scent of him. My body trembles against him, and I’m aching to feel him inside me. The thick ridge of his cock is pressed along the soft crease between my pussy and thigh, so hard I can feel it pulsing even through the butter-soft leather of his trousers.

  The dragon eases me gently down to the ground, the soft earth a natural mattress beneath me. He buries his face in my neck, laving the sensitive skin with his hot, rough tongue. I’m quivering beneath him. My breath comes in ragged gasps.

  I need his touch. Need to be tasted. Need to be loved. My body longs to open up for him, a rosebud eager to bloom.

  “Are you ready, häxan?” he growls. “Are you ready to make your first wish?”

  3: Emelie

  Two weeks earlier

  “Welcome to So Mote It Bee Meadery,” I said, smiling at the tour group as I welcomed them into the old wooden farmhouse housing my business.

  “Sweden’s only all-female, all-witch owned and operated meadery. I’m the co-owner and head mazer here—which, by the way, is the proper term for someone who makes mead, just like ‘brewer’ is to beer.”

  The group was smaller than the average had been even three months before, but ever since the recent economic downturn, that had been the general trend. But beggars can’t be choosers. I was just happy there was a group here at all.

  I led them to a group of bay windows facing out toward the archipelago. Even though the location was a long drive out from the city, our view was spectacular. I never got tired of it.

  “See the line of little red barns out there?” I pointed across the fields. “That’s where our neighbor keeps his goats and chickens. He’s also our apiarist and takes care of our bees. The hives live on top.”

  “Why do they live on top? Isn’t it harder to get the honey from up there?”

  “It keeps the flightpath of the bees up high, so there’s less chance of people being bothered by them. It also helps the bees stay healthy and safe. But it’s only April, so it’s too early yet for this year’s honey. We usually do our first harvest in late June, around the Midsummer holiday. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the fermenting room.”

  The group trailed me through the kitchen where the back-of-house staff were unenthusiastically prepping for the dinner shift. As usual, we were short-handed. I hoped the evening’s service wouldn’t suffer.

  We tramped down the wooden stairs to the front basement room. To greet us, a large orderly flock of white fermenting buckets ranging in size from fifteen to a hundred liters sealed with tightly-fitted lids and airlocks sat bubbling away. It was a cheerful little chorus of blub-blub-blubs everywhere. The sound always made me happy.

  “Here’s where the magic happens,” I said with pride. “Just like with bread, when you ferment mead, yeast eats sugar and produces alcohol and carbon dioxide. Having an airlock on top lets gasses escape while keeping the whole batch
inside sterile and safe from infection. That’s what makes the airlocks bubble, the release of gas during fermentation. And each bucket is a different batch.”

  The group strolled through, curiously inspecting the different translucent buckets. Hints of color ranging from pink and burgundy to pale amber and deep brown shone through each bucket in a muted rainbow.

  “A traditional mead is extremely simple at its core: just honey, yeast, and water. Yeast lives naturally on flowers and comes along for the ride when the bees go collecting, which is how a wild-fermented mead can get its start. Mead is one of the oldest alcoholic beverages known to man, and was probably discovered many times throughout prehistory. But for best results, nowadays we can use science to help nature along.”

  I opened a cabinet, displaying a mad scientist’s array of powders in neatly labeled jars.

  “Even just twenty years ago, the science of mead-making was much less advanced. We knew a lot less about the nutrient requirements of yeast, which is why mead sometimes has a reputation of not being very good, judging from old recipes.”

  “I tried making mead once,” said one woman. “It wasn’t very good. This was in the seventies, though. Is that why? Those old recipes and no nutrients?”

  I nodded.

  “A hungry, nutrient-deficient yeast is a grumpy, unhappy yeast. Unhappy yeast protests and lets us know by making a lot of bad smells and flavors that could stick around in the end product for many months, if not years. So by treating the yeast properly, you ensure a happy yeast and a better beverage with a faster turnaround. My main goal as a mazer is to keep the yeast happy by using the particular wine and beer strains most likely to produce a good mead, as well as feeding those yeast strains properly.”

  “It all sounds very complicated,” said an older man.

  “It’s a lot to keep track of,” I admitted, swiping an errant strand of hair out of my face, “so I take a lot of notes. But it’s a little like keeping livestock. Yeast is a living thing, so you need to treat it with love. I know I don’t do well without yummy food and a nice warm bed to sleep in.”

  The group smiled back at me.