A few awkward conversations were barely a hardship given how lucky she was to be gainfully employed in such a fashion. Another year of playing adventure guide to the wealthy and curious and she’d be able to buy a small homestead on the edge of the mountain range, big enough to be a sanctuary for any dragons who needed safe harbour.
Or any riders who would be willing to help care for wounded beasts in exchange for lodging. She didn’t expect to find many takers given she’d be in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
That was kind of the point.
“Where did you go to?” Inge’s soft question yanked Britt back to the present.
“I’m sorry.” She blinked, bringing her friend’s close face into focus. The cool, damp air had curled Inge’s hair and flushed her cheeks. “You’re lovely. It’s not you.”
“Dreaming about your farm?” Inge said that in a curious but still detached way, like she knew it was the answer but didn’t quite get why. She didn’t get it. None of them did. Britt told everyone about her dream, hoping she’d stumble into a patron, but so far, all she’d found were pleasant smiles and changes of subject.
“Of course. And how much fun it will be when you visit.” Something that would never happen, of course. Visiting the oldest monastery on the planet was as close to roughing it in The Outerlands as Inge would ever get.
“You are sweet,” Inge breathed. She leaned in for another kiss, then froze. Her eyes flicked from Britt’s face to something over her left shoulder, and Britt spun around, shielding her friend behind her back.
Coming around the bend toward them were two monks.
Britt relaxed and smiled. “Hello,” she called out.
The younger one pinked up. Oh. So they’d seen them kissing.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Excuse us,” the older one said gruffly. He met her gaze, then looked past her, down the path, before swinging his eyes back again. He looked…like something she couldn’t place. Not embarrassed like his younger companion. Not offended, either.
He looked vexed.
Like he didn’t know what to do in the situation.
Well, that made two of them. She stretched her spine, trying and failing to make herself as tall as him. Even if he didn’t have the advantage of the higher ground, he was a large man, taller than most and wider too, at least across the shoulders. The rest of him looked trim and lean beneath his boring monk garb.
Not that it looked that boring on him. Rough, woven, undyed fabric stretched across his chest and down his long, powerful-looking legs. A belt slung low on his hips made his torso look like an exaggerated V, and she could imagine—
“May we pass?”
Had she been stopping them? They were small women, and off the path and up against a tree?
Britt was glad she hadn’t gotten to the strip-him-naked-in-her-imagination step yet. This man didn’t deserve the deliciously wicked things her brain could do to the glorious muscles that were no doubt going to complete waste under his up-tight clothes.
She cocked her head to the side. She knew she was sending the monks a challenging look, but she wasn’t the prude who’d sworn off sex, and she thought she’d been alone with her friend. Inge hated thunderstorms and liked women—kissing her had been a reasonable distraction. “Are we in the way?”
“Errr…no. I suppose not.”
“Then yes, of course you may pass.”
“Right.” And still he didn’t move.
Oh, for the love of goddesses. She huffed and picked up Inge’s cloak, draping it around the other woman’s shoulders. “We are also heading back. May we walk with you? We might stop randomly to kiss each other indecently from time to time. Be warned.”
His mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.
This was going to be a very long week.
***
Hours later, Bjorn watched her, the dragon rider, move through the group, stopping here and there to chat. She hadn’t looked at him since he’d stopped her from having sex with her friend on the path.
They’d gone running ahead on the path, and despite her lewd promise, he and Mikka did not encounter them again until the entire party of guests were gathered in the dining hall.
If she was upset with him, she wasn’t projecting it.
In fact, she seemed completely at ease. The way that she was paying him zero attention was more like she’d actually forgotten about the earlier encounter.
He hadn’t.
She’d occupied every thought he’d had over the rest of the day. He’d rolled over every detail he’d noticed about her in his head. How different she looked from the wealthy guest she’d been kissing, for example. Unlike the other woman’s gown, the blonde had been dressed in a functional rider’s outfit—obviously prepared for the rugged environment.
How quickly some people forgot their planet was wild and untamed.
This woman knew.
He wanted to know why. He wanted to know other things, too, that he didn’t dare voice even to himself.
To crowd out those thoughts, the ones about her mouth and who she kissed—only women? men? monks?—he found himself imagining an entire story about her. As the dinner feast began—she as a guest, he as a server—he strained to pick up pieces of her conversations, matching them against the narrative swirling through his head.
She was indeed a rider, named Britt. Raised with horses, she’d first flown on the back of a dragon six years earlier. His heart tugged at the memory of his own first flight around the same time. He felt a strange compulsion to sit down beside her and share stories, but that would be foolish.
Dangerous.
So instead, he went back to the kitchen for a pitcher of water, and when he came back, he stuck to the far side of the room—although that didn’t stop him from eavesdropping.
“Will the storms interfere with flying?” one of the guests asked, and since it came from her general vicinity, Bjorn heard it through the din.
It raised alarm bells in his gut.
The question was just thrown out there, but none of the other monks answered and Bjorn wasn’t close enough to pretend it had been directed it him.
Yes, of course the storms would change their plans. Only a fool would risk—
“No, of course we can still fly,” Britt said with more authority than Bjorn was expecting. “The dragons love the mist, and they can get above it. The view is spectacular from the top of the mountain.”
From the top of his mountain? The one that nobody had ever been to?
He stopped in his tracks. He didn’t interrupt her, but he wasn’t moving, either. Depending on what she had to say next, he’d have to interject.
Whoever had worked with this group to set up the week’s schedule hadn’t been paying enough attention. For the safety of everyone, man and beast alike, Bjorn would make sure this woman didn’t do anything crazy.
Quietly, though. He couldn’t just leap into the fray.
As if she could sense his concern, Britt swung her head in his direction. He flicked his gaze away, pretending to check who needed more water, but when he looked back, pretending to be all casual-like, she was waiting for him.
The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable. You think I can’t do it?
What was she playing at? He set down the water pitcher and moved a bit closer. “Can I provide some assistance with flying plans?”
“No,” she said brightly, smiling, and something about the way her face lit up…it tugged at his gut in a strange way. She tilted her head to the side and her smile broadened even further. “We’re fine.”
“We do offer flying lessons…”
She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You think I need a teacher?”
He was pretty sure she needed a paddling, but that thought was entirely inappropriate and unhelpful. “Lessons can be geared to all skill levels. Even the most advanced—”
“Yes. That is what I am. The most advanced rider. Thank you, Fathe
r, but I don’t need any lessons.”
“Brother. I am not a priest.”
Her eyes flashed in annoyance. “Okay. My point is that I was hired by this group to be the instructor. So it would be unproductive for me to take time away from that to have a lesson with…you.”
The silent, pregnant pause said everything she thought about his flying abilities.
He took a deep breath. Perhaps they were both making rough assumptions here. “I didn’t mean you, necessarily. Perhaps I could volunteer my services as a support guide for tomorrow’s outing? What is your plan?”
Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t going to tell him, clearly. “Most of our party is staying here and working with the monks and the dragons.”
“Most?”
She pressed her lips together. She wanted to lie to him, he could see it in the way her gaze slid to the right. Again an urge rose within him to haul her into a dark corner and punish her—a complete stranger.
And he was goading her with suggestions of flying lessons.
He needed to excuse himself.
The silence stretched between them for a moment, then she gave him a slow up and down appraisal. “Some of us will—weather permitting—go higher.”
Before he could respond, someone at the next table over roared and crashed their mug down on the table. Mikka hurried over, and Bjorn didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Mikka bumped his shoulder, shoving him forward into Britt’s personal space. She didn’t move.
He inhaled deeply as he braced his core so he didn’t need to grab her to keep himself steady. Touching her would be a complete mistake, and from the shaky rise and fall of her chest and the way she stared at him, her dark lilac irises disappearing as her pupils dilated, he was pretty sure his secret was exposed.
It had been seven years since he’d felt this…no, he’d never felt chemistry like this. Like fate—
No.
Britt narrowed her gaze, her mouth tightening. She’d believe in fate. In gods aplenty and primal mating.
Beneath his belt, his balls tightened and his cock thickened.
He opened his mouth to say something—excuse himself, throw up a distraction, anything—but just then Mikka turned around to apologize and he just made things worse.
“Brother Bjorn flies well,” the other monk offered, completely oblivious to the taunting tension zinging back and forth between Bjorn and Britt.
“I’m sure he does, for a monk.” She smirked and crossed her arms, and even though Bjorn knew better than to be prideful, he saw red at the deliberate poke at his ability.
That’s what he told himself—that she’d just offended him. And he believed it enough to rile up in response, but it didn’t feel like she’d insulted him.
He held up his hand when Mikka started to protest. This was his quarrel with this woman, and he didn’t want to share it. It might be all they had. “Do you think we’re just going to let you all mount up and fly our dragons to the top of the mountain?”
“Your dragons?” She pushed to her feet and glared at him. “Let’s go outside and have this conversation in front of them. See how long you get to pull that possessive ownership routine before one of them nips you on your uptight ass.”
Language aside, she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t mean our dragons as in belong to the monks. More like ours, not yours. Of this continent and this mountain. Not for easterners’ consumption. He slowly stood and pressed his palms together, breathing calm deep into his chest. “Of course our flying beasts are not owned by anyone. But neither are they sporting animals. If you wish to harness something, may I suggest a donkey?”
“A donkey!” She stepped back, weaving around the table, and grabbed a mug of mead. Not hers, but she didn’t seem to notice the man grasping at his now lost beverage. “I’ll race you up this mountain, monk, and I will win.”
“A challenge is hardly necessary—” Bjorn cut himself off as she arched one eyebrow and pursed her ruby red lips at him. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and…
Flushed cheeks. Red lips. Bright eyes.
Mead.
She was drunk.
And his reckless disregard for the welfare of a guest was unbecoming.
Dropping his head in a polite bow, he closed his eyes, already sad it needed to be over. “Of course, my lady. We can make arrangements at dawn. And now perhaps we need more bread and roast pheasant?”
Ignoring her bubbling laughter, he turned and headed for the kitchen. Walking away from that sound of unadulterated joy was a surprising challenge. Equally hard was sending out more food with Mikka and sticking to washing up duty for the rest of the night.
Even in her challenge, she’d been…polite wasn’t the right word. Respectful. Pushy, opinionated, and with a galling lack of propriety, the dragon rider was still unerringly respectful—of the dragons and the mountain anyway.
The poor man who lost his drink probably wouldn’t think she was that nice.
On the other hand, as Bjorn snuck a look through the pass-through window between the kitchen and longhouse style dining room, he saw her moving from guest to guest, ensuring their mugs were full and their spirits high.
They might not live in the same world, but Bjorn still felt drawn to this woman as a kind of kindred spirit.
A race up the mountain would be ridiculous. He had nothing to prove. But time spent with someone who had passion for the wilds of The Outerlands?
He suddenly wanted that more than anything.
As his pulse picked up and his mind raced to catch up with the ache in his chest, he realized he was in a galaxy of trouble.
3
Britt’s first thought on waking was that her head hurt.
Then she remembered she’d insulted a monk the night before, and possibly challenged him to a race. With a groan, she rolled over and buried her face in the duvet.
Taking a deep breath, she blinked her eyes open again. Dawn was breaking and her room glowed with the purplish grey light of early morning.
She needed water, and then a healthy serving of humility, because she probably owed that monk an apology.
Climbing out of bed, she went to the small sink in the corner and washed up. With each splash of water against her skin, she woke up a little further, thoughts of the monk filling her mind.
It wasn’t unlike her to be fiery, but as the details of the night before flooded back, she felt different about Then she braiding her hair and pulling on leather riding breeches and a heavy tunic.
Riding clothes.
That didn’t mean anything. She didn’t own apology clothes.
She left her cloak in her room as a sign of good faith to herself that she had no intention of actually racing the poor man up the mountain.
In the dining room, some of the group had already gathered and were setting the table under the guidance of some of the brothers.
Not the tall one, though.
Suddenly irritated that she didn’t know his name or where he might be this morning, she distracted herself with talk of the plans for the day.
Their group had arrived two days earlier. A group of cultural leaders from Ny København, all ostensibly interested in learning more about The Outerlands and the dragons. The gentle beasts that populated the mountain range were at risk from alien poachers and encroaching tourism from Earthlings. In reality, when the storm drove the group from the capital inside after only one tour of the area on foot, most had been more than happy to drink mead and only give half an ear to the official topic of their trip.
And once The Monk, as she’d started to think of him, had started poking her again, she’d joined them, and with each sip of the honeyed alcohol, her tongue had loosened.
Not that her tongue was ever really held back. She’d always had a problem with speaking first and regretting it second.
But today she was going to be a professional and work as an ally with the monks to ensure the group got some hands-on flying time with the dragons.
Flying was the drag
ons’ most favourite thing to do, and miracle of miracles, they really enjoyed having a passenger when they did it. But there was a real danger that people might see the dragons as animals to be domesticated.
Britt wasn’t sure that anyone quite got how much the dragons understood—or how dangerous it would be to treat them like horses or donkeys.
Dangerous for anyone who thought they could be lord and master over the winged native fauna of the mountain range, but also for the dragons—as smart and strong and capable as they were to defend themselves, they didn’t have technology on their side. And to date, nobody on Midgard had been a threat in that regard. But that would change as tourism from Earth increased, and as their corner of space got busier and more connected to the intergalactic geopolitical quagmire.
Hence this political junket, encouraged by the king’s son, Reinn Ragnarson, who had always been a strong advocate for protecting native species, big and small. If his wife weren’t massively pregnant with their second child, they would have led this trip themselves, Inge had told Britt.
That was how she knew everything—told by someone else. She wasn’t in any inner circle. If it weren’t for her riding skills, she wouldn’t even be here, hoping for the storm clouds to break so she could soar to the heavens for the first time in three years.
“Britt!” Inge’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jerked her head toward her friend, standing by the outside door. “We’re heading to the stables.”
Stables. This was why she needed to hold her tongue and be patient—slowly build relationships with people who had influence, so when she finally did speak, they would actually listen. Dragons couldn’t be stabled any more than men could be, and trying would have similarly disastrous consequences. She understood where the language came from, of course. She’d grown up a servant’s daughter on a horse farm on the Artisan Flats, and there were many similarities—a penned enclosure, a building where riding tack and other supplies were kept. Even feed, but not because the humans were the dragons’ keepers, but because it was nice to give them a treat in exchange for the best experience of one’s life.
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