Wyoming Dynasty (American Dragons Book 10)

by Aaron Crash

Chazzie laughed, and damn they were hammered. Steven had thought he’d get to see drunk Aria the night before, but she’d stayed sober. The drunk twins were almost as fun.

  “Sex is so awesome!” Chazzie screeched.

  Steven winced. “You might want to keep your voice down. You have four mothers around, and if you wake up their kids, it won’t go easy.”

  Pru leaned forward. “That’s just it.” She swallowed, and Steven hoped to God she didn’t throw up on his shiny rented shoes. “Steven, the sex, it’s to make babies. I want to have a baby with you. I’m gonna do tanaquil, and get super horny, and we can have a baby. A boy, I bet.” Then Pru started to cry. “My own baby boy. Oh, Chazzie!”

  “Oh Pru!” And there was no way the very drunk Chazzie wasn’t going to start crying. “I don’t want to have a baby, but I’ll be the best auntie for you. I promise!”

  “Auntie Chaz?!” That made Pru wail.

  It wasn’t long before the two were holding each other, weeping, and Steven knew it was time to escort them back to their McMansion on the west side. He got them up to Chazzie’s room, where they thought they’d have sex. After some kissing, he stepped back to take off his tux jacket and shirt. He couldn’t figure out the stupid button things, so he pulled it over his head. When he looked down, both of the twins were passed out on the bed, gone from the world.

  Which was sad. “Too drunk to fuck,” Steven sighed. “I thought that only applied to men. I guess not.”

  He put the shirt and coat back on and left them both snoring.

  Outside, the sun broke over the eastern horizon, bathing everything in light. The ever-present Wyoming wind had grown chill, and Steven smelled snow. Black clouds clustered on the western horizon. It would be fun to have snow again.

  He thought about what Pru had said, about having a baby with him. She wasn’t alone. Skylar wanted to have another baby, one that wouldn’t be lost to the endless wars that had plagued Dragonsouls for millennia.

  And then there was Zoey, who hadn’t come right out and said she wanted to get pregnant, but it was clear that it was only a matter of time until she wanted a rug rat of her own. She’d make a great mom—that kid wouldn’t have any processed sugar or high fructose corn syrup until his first sleepover.

  Other wives would want babies, without a doubt, including Aria, who had talked about giving him a son—that was the hope because male Dragonsouls were rare.

  A son. A boy. Steven felt anger hit him. Collidium had thought about going after his son, and if anyone came near his family, Steven would burn down entire galaxies to protect his own. And thanks to his Morta core, he could do it without a trace of guilt.

  He walked into the main house. There he found Sabina with Reggie in the great room, holding their sleeping daughter. Aria and Tessa sat on either side of the Latina Magician. Mouse was across the way, looking tired, but full. She’d eaten pretty much all night. Why was she so hungry?

  Steven took a minute to look at his wives, the first four of fifteen. He was married to fifteen women. The idea made him happy and left him smiling. More would join them. At some stage the Three Queens from Australia might want to wear his ring. And he’d be going on date nights with potential candidates. He already had a full life, and yet, it was bound to get bigger—not with war, but with sex.

  Steven pulled up a footrest to sit next to Sabina and their daughter. He laid his hand on the little body of his baby girl.

  He looked into Sabina’s eyes, colorless for now.

  Tessa put her head against Sabina’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Aria leaned back, and she closed her eyes, and soon, there were three sleeping girls on the couch.

  “Family,” Steven said softly.

  “Family,” Sabina agreed. “This is your dynasty, my Prime, mi amor, my Steven. This is your legacy. Safety. Love. Freedom.”

  Mouse came over and slipped her arm across his shoulder. “I’d like to tell you something, Steven. Can we go into your room?”

  Sabina grinned. She obviously knew what Mouse was going to tell him.

  He thought he knew, though it confused him like nothing else.

  The Latina Magician let out a happy sigh. She too closed her eyes, to catch some sleep with Reggie, Aria, and Tessa.

  Mouse led him into his bedroom. She sat down on the bed and pulled him close. She kissed his belly and looked up at him. “The Stair is fucking dangerous, Steven. This world might be peaceful and safe for now, but we both know it can turn to shit at any minute.”

  He thought of the Creator Destructor, whatever Collidium had been, and the possibility of other villains showing up, including the lost Mulkred, wielding Excalibur. It was all possible.

  “We’re happy now, Mouse,” Steven said. “We have to be grateful for any minute of peace we can get. We’re okay, and Sabina says we’re going to stay okay for a long time.”

  Mouse hugged him, and she buried her face into the shirt covering his stomach. She turned to her head to the side to talk. “I’ve had a rough go of it in this life. Drinking helped numb the pain, for a while, but I was never happy until I hooked up with you and your crazy fucking wives. Did you get the drunk twins to bed?”

  “Hey, don’t talk bad about your sisters,” Steven teased, caressing Mouse’s hair.

  They were quiet for several long minutes.

  Mouse sighed. “The point is, I found happiness. Fuck, for the love of biscuits, you might even call it joy, like in the wedding vows. And if I can find joy, anyone can.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  She leaned back and raised her eyes to his. Mouse’s eyes shined with tears. “I started on the tanaquil. I figured it would take a bit, so I didn’t tell you, and we were so busy, and... and... then we had our victory sex thing, and then... I...” She swallowed. “I want as many people as possible to feel the joy I’ve felt with you.”

  Steven knelt and gripped Mouse’s hand. She held his hand just as hard.

  “I’m pregnant, Steven.” She tried to fight the tears, but that was a battle she was never going to win.

  Steven wasn’t going to win it either.

  And then they were kissing, and laughing, and crying some more.

  This was his dynasty. This was his legacy. Safety, love, and freedom.

  Patreon

  THANKS SO MUCH FOR reading Wyoming Dynasty (American Dragons Book 10). While I would love to write more AD books, I’m taking a break for now, though Steven and his Escort have a way of worming their way back into my writing life.

  I’ve started a Patreon page, and when an American Dragons idea hits me, I’ll be posting short stories there, starting with the birth of Regina Drokharis. That will be a kind of prequel story, though in the future, I plan on taking up where AD10 left off. That’s the thing with Patreon, though—if the fans want a specific story, I’ll write one, however spicy.

  Patrons will also get updates on my latest work, rough drafts, the sketches that turn into cover art, and the cover art itself. These goodies will include non-American Dragon projects like The Princesses of the Ironbound and The Son of Fire.

  It’s been my lifelong dream to become a professional novelist, and the American Dragon series helped make that a reality. I hope to share more of my journey with you as I continue to write books people love.

  Sign up here at www.patreon.com/aaroncrashbooks.

  Thanks again!

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

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est Epic, Urban, and LitRPG Fantasy around!

  Word-of-mouth and book reviews are crazy helpful for the success of any writer—or in, in our case, Publishing Company. If you really enjoyed reading about Steven and his crew, please consider leaving a short, honest review—just a couple of lines about your overall reading experience. You can click here to leave a review at Amazon, and thank you in advance: Wyoming Dynasty.

  Looking for more from Aaron Crash, and need it right this minute? Check out: Barbarian Outcast (Princesses of the Ironbound Book 1). Or keep reading to take a sneak peek.

  The lands to the South are full of depraved women driven mad by forbidden sorcery. Now that sounds like fun for a barbarian from the Black Wolf Clan.

  THE BARBARIANS OF THE frozen north live to fight, drink, hunt, and screw, and Ymir is a true son of the Ax Tundra, until a demon curses him with magic. Orphaned by battle and banished by his tribe, Ymir heads south to Old Ironbound, a university where the rich and well-connected learn to master magic. Will Ymir’s traditions and pride lead him to failure? Or will the centuries of knowledge—and the lusty human, elven, orcish, and dwarven noblewomen—give him limitless power?

  Either way, while his days are all about studying and scheming, his nights are filled with wild sex in the beds of beautiful women. Because in the lands of the South, there are few men, and those Southern women have needs.

  Disclaimer: Barbarian Outcast is a steamy slice-of-life harem adventure in a magic university on another world. The sex scenes are explicit but don’t get in the way of the story as it slowly unfolds. Enter a brand-new world from Aaron Crash, the bestselling author of the American Dragon series.

  Chapter One

  YMIR STRODE UP THE red road, which had flattened out after a series of switchbacks that climbed through scrub. The red bricks were scorched from time and fire. Where he was going was an old place. Or so the man at the Winterhome inn had told him. He didn’t know anything for sure. This whole land was strange and troubling.

  Down the stretch of road was the fortress at the top of the cape. A mighty central citadel stood in the center of four round silver towers blackened with age, fire, or both. The fortress was surrounded by a red wall the same color as the road.

  The big man, weighted with gear, pondered his fate.

  Ymir’s father, Ymok of the Black Wolf Clan, didn’t much like stories. The clan king didn’t quote from the Sacred Mysteries of the Ax very much, but when he did, he always drove the same thing into his son’s head.

  When you strike, strike hard. Always use your full strength in whatever you do.

  And that was what Ymir planned to do. He was tall and muscled, his hair the color of wet tundra wheat. He stood on a red brick road under a cloud-strewn sky near the ocean. So far, there was sunlight, though it felt cold.

  Ymir was alone.

  Ymir was cursed.

  There was only one place where he could repair the damage done to him, and damn the Ax, he was going there, and nothing would stop him.

  He was determined to strike, and strike hard.

  He adjusted his pack, his battle ax, and the carcass of the deer slung across his shoulder. Most of his pack was filled with the bear fur that had kept him alive on the long journey from the North. He had two full wineskins and a full quiver. His bow was unstrung, the string waxed and stowed.

  He’d gotten up early after sleeping in a farmer’s field, surrounded by alien trees, far too big to be natural. They’d failed to hide Ymir’s prey, and he dropped the animal with a single arrow. He’d hung his kill overnight from one of the strange trees to bleed out. On the Ax Tundra where Ymir grew up, trees were rare. Here, they grew into the sky and were so thick he couldn’t get his arms around one of them. The deer he’d killed was a small buck, only a few points on its antlers. Still, even if the animal were full grown, it would be scrawny compared to the elk herds that kept the tundra clans fed.

  The deer wasn’t skinned yet; he could do that later. He might even make more clothes for himself since his elk-leather shirt and pants were stained after his months of travel. It was a long trip to the Sorrow Coast Kingdom from the tundra of the northern lands.

  While he walked, he fingered the shaft of his double-bladed battle ax. He had it strapped under his pack. He’d forged and assembled the weapon himself with the help of his grandparents. While Ymir’s father wasn’t moved by the stories, his wife’s parents began every morning and ended every night whispering passages from the Sacred Mysteries of the Ax.

  Ymir didn’t think he’d need his big blades. If he found himself in a fight, he had his hatchet hanging from his belt by a leather thong.

  A crowd of people stood around a tall yellow gate—like the red brick road, the gate was scorched, as were the high walls the same color as the road. The silver stone towers only grew taller as he approached. He smelled the ocean, and he smelled the women. There were so many women, all in their finest dresses, showing legs, and cleavage, and hair nicely combed. A few men stood with arms folded, but not many. So the stories were true—the South was full of women.

  Ymir grinned. Perhaps coming to Thera wouldn’t be as unpleasant as he first thought.

  He lost his smile as the wound in his heart pinched him. It wasn’t the curse; no, it was his shame. Outcast. Alone. Without family or friends or battle brothers. Ymir had rarely been alone in his life. Three months of walking alone hadn’t given him a taste for solitude.

  These people, however pretty, were not his clan. He knew how they would see him. He knew how they would treat him; the world didn’t have much mercy for strangers, especially strangers from the North.

  The whispers started as the crowd let him pass through so he could get to the gate. Most spoke in a language he didn’t know. Others, though, spoke in Pidgin, and he’d learned that language early.

  From the women:

  “Such a big man. And handsome.”

  “Agreed. Eyes so dark. Hair like dirty gold. I wonder what else is dirty.”

  “Young. I thought the barbarians were all old.”

  From the few men:

  “Look at that ruffian and his deer. I’d bet you a silver sheck he eats it raw.”

  “No one would take that bet for a silver. For a copper? Sure.”

  “I wonder if he fucked it before he killed it.”

  “No! After!”

  Laughter followed. That last exchange was between two fishermen with barely a tooth in their heads.

  Ymir chuckled at the joke. Men seemed to speak the same wherever he went.

  Perfume from the women greeted him. Their sweet smells were so different from Ilhelda’s, but he couldn’t think about her—that hurt. He’d never heal the wound in his heart if he thought of her.

  A long table with a flowing scarlet tablecloth blocked the entrance. The fabric flapped in the breeze. The big yellow-painted wooden gates were thrown back against the blackened red wall. At the table sat a human, an elf, and a dwarf, all older than him but not so old as the two fishermen.

  Behind the three stood a woman with bone-white hair and almond-shaped gray eyes, marked by age. Her ears were lost in her frosty locks, so he couldn’t see if they were pointed or not. She wore a red robe with a bright starburst on the front. Standing silently, she watched him. She carried herself as someone who had power and enjoyed it. He tried to guess her age and couldn’t. She seemed like a young woman who had been born an old soul, the body of a maiden and the soul of a crone.

  Even that description wasn’t right. She seemed ageless. Was it because of her skin color or the shape of her eyes? He didn’t know. He’d never seen anyone like her before.

  Behind her, the courtyard was empty save for two green-skinned women, their armored breastplates bowed to accommodate their tits. They stood with hooked, long-bladed spears next to a passageway blocked by a spiked gate. Orcs. Those guards were orcs.

  Ymir hid his shock. These were the first Fallen Fruit people he’d ever seen. Of course, he knew about the other races of T
hera, but part of him had been skeptical. Could there be pointy-eared forest dwellers? Or craggy-faced bearded men, living underground, as wide as they were tall? And what of the green-skinned warriors of the wide steppes? Were they as savage as tales told?

  It seemed so. Ymir’s world had widened, unbearably so, ever since he first walked down into the dank cave of the Lonely Man, who hadn’t been a man at all. He swallowed at the memory of shadow and flame, darkness and destruction, and so much more. That had been months ago, when spring snow still clung to the tundra.

  His eyes went to the three at the table. The elven woman had silver-colored hair and steely-blue eyes. A piece of jewelry, like a silver vine, covered her left arm from her hand to her elbow. On her right ring finger was a gray-and-black ring, which glimmered slightly.

  The elf frowned at him. When she spoke, her Pidgin had a strange accent, stately and precise. “StormCry is down the road. You seem to be lost.”

  Ymir grinned. “I’ve never been more lost. Yet, I know where I am, and I know what I want. Today is the first of September, the day of the Open Exam. I will take the test.”

  Seated beside her, the human woman squinted, her smoldering green eyes marked with wrinkles. Salt lines streaked her pepper-black hair. She, too, had a ring on her right hand, a mixture of blue and white. Next to her stood a wall of water rock, also known as coral—or that was the Pidgin word for it. The big slab of dripping stone was odd, standing next to her, with crabs scurrying from hole to hole.

  The dwarven man grunted laughter through his braided auburn beard. His eyes were a dark brown. His ring was green and brown. “Well, bless my stone heart, I’d have thought I’d seen it all. You don’t have the dusza for the task, boy.”

  Ymir thumped the deer carcass onto the table. It was getting heavy, and he wanted to make a point. “I don’t know what dusza is. I do know I have a cock, a big cock, and that will give me entrance. You hold the Open Exam for men, isn’t that right?”