Gods.
I'm still dripping.
Not from sweat. Not just that, anyway. Every nerve is humming like a harp string, thighs trembling, throat raw from all the good noises I didn't muffle.
Exactly the way I like it.
Rough. Wild. A little undignified. Spit, slaps, and shoulder bruises. The kind of fuck that leaves hay stuck to your back and your soul feeling ten pounds lighter.
But do I let him see that?
Hell no.
I roll over, hair a mess, still panting, and catch sight of him—Årff. Yes, with the bloody umlauts. Leaning against a post, smug like he just conquered something. He probably thinks he did.
He's big, like all his kin. Broad shoulders, hands like hammers, and a cock that thinks it's the hero of the saga. And honestly? Tonight? It was.
But I'm not giving him that.
I grab my blouse—somewhere in the hay—and shove it against my chest like I've suddenly remembered modesty. Then I spot the coin he left beside my boot.
Twenty.
Fucking.
Copper.
I freeze. Then I flare up, because hey, I've got standards even if my back's covered in straw and bite marks.
"Årff!" I bark, putting on my full pouty outrage, hips cocked, hair sticking to my face like I just got dunked in soup. "Twenty copper? You serious?"
He blinks. Shrugs. Smiles that dopey barbarian smile like I'm going to swoon and forgive him because his beard glistens in torchlight.
"Oh no, no, no. Buddy—what you got was the premium package. The 'knees on your shoulders' package. The yell into my cleavage until the gods answer package. You think that goes for twenty copper anywhere south of the Glacier Tribes?"
He tries to say something. I raise a hand—nope.
"You were growling. Howling. You bit the beam above us. And I'm the one limping. So no, sugar-thighs, you tip accordingly."
He scratches his head. Digs into his pouch. Comes up with five more coins and a carved bone token.
I snatch them. Flash him a wicked grin.
"See? That wasn't so hard."
Truth is… yeah. I needed that. Needed to feel like more than a decoy, a tool in the Dragon's schemes. Needed to burn out some fire under someone big, dumb, and grateful. Something quick. Something filthy. Something mine.
The hay's still warm under me. My thighs are still sore in that glorious, well-earned way. Gods, he was a beast. Not in the poetic "oh he unleashed the fire in me" kind of way. No. More like he actually growled halfway through and cracked a support beam. Which, I'll admit, did things for me.
I'm halfway into tying what's left of my skirt when he speaks.
"Y-you… m'lady?" he rumbles, scratching at his beard like the thought hurt. "Name? Wh… what is?"
Oh gods.
Here we go.
I sigh and turn, tits still half out, hair a bird's nest of hay, sweat, and dignity long gone. He's staring at me like I'm made of moonlight and answers. Poor sod.
I smile sweetly. The kind of smile that means I'm about to lie through my teeth.
"Why yes," I purr, with the full theatrics, one leg elegantly cocked and my voice dripping with sarcasm so thick even a barbarian can smell it, "I am Duchess of Froufrou. Of the Nether Regions."
He blinks.
Nods. Dead serious.
"Mmm. Frou… frou. M'lady. Pretty name."
Gods give me strength.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly dislocate something. "Now buzz off, Arrn. Go raid some sheep. Or chase a goat. Or find a tavern to headbutt."
He doesn't even get offended. Just grins, all teeth and bruises, and lumbers off like I just knighted him.
I wait until he's halfway down the ladder before flopping back into the hay, arms behind my head, smiling like a sinner in church.
Duchess of Froufrou.
Why not?
Let him tell the boys he bedded royalty.
He earned the story. I earned the stretch.
Everyone wins.
The sky's just turning that soft honey-gold when I get back. Breeze cool against the sweat on my neck, skirt still twisted, one sandal missing, hair a haystack disaster. I'm humming. Some dumb song from a brothel in Lerida. Can't even remember the words. Just the rhythm. Bouncy. Saucy. The kind of tune girls sing when their thighs are sore for all the right reasons.
The cave's quiet. Smoky. Smells like scorched stone and impatience.
He's there—coiled up halfway between nap and disapproval, one eye cracked open, glowing faint in the dark.
"A barbarian?" he deadpans. Doesn't even lift his head.
I keep humming.
He snorts. "I can smell it."
I spin a little. Just to annoy him. "What do I smell like?"
"Cheap mead. Pine pitch. And testosterone-soaked self-satisfaction."
I wiggle my eyebrows. "Mmm. Musk of conquest."
He groans, dramatic as ever, wings shifting like he's trying to shake the thought out of his brain. "You're addicted, Saya. Just admit it."
I grin. "What can I say? Big hands, no inhibitions, very thankful. Man tried to tip me with a ham and a carved tooth."
He lifts his head now, giving me that look. The "I'm too old for this" look. The "how am I stuck babysitting this feral courtesan" look.
"Did you at least get useful intel?" he asks.
I lean against the cave wall, start unlacing what's left of my bodice. "Mmhm. Learned that his cousin is terrified of geese. Also he thinks I'm royalty."
"Not exactly strategic leverage."
"Don't care," I say, tossing a hay-covered stocking at him. "I needed it."
He exhales through his nostrils. Smoke curls up like a sigh.
"You're going to end up with barbarian fever. Or worse."
I flash him a wicked grin. "Well, if I die from too much fun, at least bury me with a view."
He mutters something in Draconic I don't catch. Probably a curse. Or a prayer.
Whatever.
I hum louder.
I stretch like a cat. Every joint pops, hips still singing praises to Årff the Hammer-Happy. I'm basking. Glowing. Filthy in every sense. And he's brooding, all coils and smoke and that disapproving squint like I just rubbed my scent all over his favorite treasure. Which, technically, I might've.
So I can't resist.
"Are you jealous?" I ask, all syrup and mock innocence.
He doesn't even flinch. Just curls his tail tighter and says, perfectly flat: "I don't care how you debase your flesh."
I cackle. "Debase? Twenty-five copper, a carved token, and a pickled egg. That's not debasing. That's called negotiating under pressure."
He doesn't laugh. Of course not. His voice is all gravel and disdain. "It's bad for the brand, Saya. You're supposed to be the virgin sacrifice. The golden innocent. Hard to sell that when you've apparently bedded half the horde."
I smirk, licking a finger and brushing some soot off my shoulder. "Ostragattans are not exactly our primary audience."
He snorts. "Try telling that to the village elders. Or the vizier of Vehl who thinks you're the reincarnation of the Maiden of Sorrows."
"Oh please," I wave him off. "That old goat tried to cop a feel during the offering ceremony. I played the part. Cried on cue. Looked to the skies. Wore the white veil. Chaste and trembling. Meanwhile, his guards couldn't stop staring at my thighs."
"You should be trembling," he grumbles. "At this rate, I'll have to rebrand you as the Whore of Prophecy."
I toss a rock at him. Miss on purpose. "Catchy. Put it on a scroll. Bet it sells better."
He groans. "You are infuriating."
"And flexible," I add, smug as sin.
He closes his eyes. "Why do I even keep you around?"
I grin and flop down into the nest of blankets and coins we call a bed. "Because I'm entertaining. And I know all the best marks. And let's face it, you like me messy."
He doesn't answer.
But he doesn't kick me out either.
Which, in dragon terms, is basically love.