Chapter 86: Declining the Offer

The whole group makes its way back through the village toward the chief’s house, evening settling gold and orange over the rooftops, lanterns already being lit along the main street in anticipation of whatever’s coming next.

Braska walks heavily bandaged but in visibly good spirits, shoulder to shoulder with Lucien, while the rest of the team and a trailing line of his own soldiers follow behind, still buzzing with the last of the arena’s adrenaline.

Wolf-kin of every shape and size greet them warmly as they pass, praising Lucien for an incredible fight, commending their chief in the same breath for holding his own against something that the Beast Mother had clearly blessed very thoroughly. One elderly wolf-kin man bows so low his nose nearly touches the dirt; a pair of children trail after them for half a block, reenacting the final blow with exaggerated growls and flailing swings, one of them insisting loudly that he’s going to grow a mane just like that someday, the other arguing hotly that he saw it first and gets to claim it.

A vendor presses a skewer of roasted meat into Lucien’s hand without being asked, refusing payment with a firm shake of her head. Another tosses a garland of dried flowers over his shoulders, more amused than reverent, muttering something about finally having a story worth telling her grandpups.

“I’ve never met a man like you before,” Braska says, glancing sideways. “Wolf or not.”

“I’m not really from around here,” Lucien says, grinning.

Braska chuckles. “I noticed. Wherever you’re from, it must breed absolute madness to produce a man like you.”

“That’s simply how I am.” Lucien shrugs, easy. “I thrive on chaos. If there isn’t any lying around, I’ll happily make some.”

Braska barks out a laugh. “I like you. Mad men like you are usually the ones who end up changing the world.”

Kamiko chuckles from behind them. “I told him the exact same thing.”

Brina, walking beside her, hasn’t said a single word since the stadium. She’s lost somewhere deep in her own head, replaying the moment on an endless loop, the lick, the way he’d looked at her like he genuinely meant to devour her whole, and how the thought had lodged itself somewhere between her throat and the space between her legs, refusing to leave either one. She tugs at one sleeve, then the other, entirely unable to settle her own hands, her tails twitching constantly at her side.

He nudges her once with his elbow, gentle, and when that gets nothing, tries again with a small wave of his hand directly in front of her face. “Hey,” he says, finally breaking her out of it entirely. “You okay? You’ve been really quiet.”

Brina flushes the instant his eyes land on her, warm and openly concerned. “I’m fine,” she stammers, already sliding around to put Kamiko firmly between them.

Lucien tilts his head, confused for exactly a second, and then a slow grin of dawning understanding spreads across his face as he watches Brina peek at him from behind Kamiko before quickly averting her gaze elsewhere.

Serenith catches it, glancing between the two of them, wings twitching once, eyes firmly fixed on Lucien.

He straightens up and struts back in beside the chief, looking entirely, insufferably pleased with himself, a new spring in his step that has nothing to do with the injuries still knitting closed beneath his shirt.

Serenith sighs, drifting along above the group with her arms crossed. “He’s impossible.”

Inside the chief’s house, they all gather back around the same long table, the trophies on the walls somehow less intimidating now than they’d seemed on the way in, softened by firelight and the general easing of tension in the room, the mood considerably more jovial this time. Braska’s soldiers are already trading exaggerated versions of the fight amongst themselves, each retelling adding another few inches to Lucien’s new form and another few teeth to the blow that ended it. Wine and food arrive in waves, and the chatter finally settles as Braska rises from his seat, goblet in hand.

“To Lucien,” he announces, voice carrying over the whole table, raising his goblet high enough that firelight catches along the rim. “A true man. A warrior. A leader. Ambitious, strong, and willing to put his own life on the line for what he believes in, for what he’s already claimed.”

Lucien rises with his own glass, aiming for humility. “Thank you. Genuinely. You’ve helped me understand myself, and my gifts, better than I ever expected to tonight.”

Braska waves that off. “It’s an insult for the winner to compliment the loser.” A pause, considering, one finger tapping thoughtfully against his goblet. “I’ll allow it, this once.” His soldiers snigger behind him until he snaps his jaw sharply in their direction, silencing the lot of them instantly.

He gestures then toward the two women seated at his side, and they rise, sauntering forward like seduction given physical form, hips swaying in practiced, unhurried rhythm. Lucien’s face breaks into an entirely too pleased grin.

“Tradition,” Braska explains, “grants the winner the loser’s mates.”

Lucien looks the two women over slowly, appreciatively, then glances toward Serenith, unimpressed and watching him with open, knowing suspicion, and smirks straight at her.

He sighs, mock-mournful. “Alas. My culture forbids me from bedding another man’s women, even when he wills it so generously.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I must, unfortunately, decline. However much it genuinely pains me.”

Braska’s brow furrows. “You don’t strike me as the type to turn down a beautiful woman.”

“I’m not,” Lucien says. “But I’ve already claimed one.”

He turns toward Brina, smoldering, smirking wide.

She yips, flushing red all over again, eyes going wide and flat at once, ears pinning back so hard they nearly disappear into her hair. Kamiko notices, biting her lip as she watches Brina fold in on herself with pure, helpless shyness, one hand rising to hide behind a napkin that does absolutely nothing to hide her face.

Lucien claps his hands together, all business again in an instant. “There is something, though, I’d love the Shadowfang tribe’s help with.”

Braska sips his wine, eyes narrowing with interest, setting his goblet down slowly like a man bracing himself for whatever comes next. “I’m listening.”

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