“I win it for no one but myself.”
“I only need it for a night. I will give it back to you when I am done.”
“Why should I?”
Her eyes flicked to his hips. On one side was his sword. On the other was his dagger. And in the middle was his…
Her avaricious gaze stayed locked on his groin. Wolfe took pride in the fact that his manhood didn’t so much as stir.
“I gave you the dragon slayer sword and dagger, did I not?” she reminded him, her eyes still outlining the shape of his cock.
“And I slew dragons with them,” he returned. “At your behest and in your honor. Your reputation grew because of it, even far beyond these isles.”
“You like killing dragons,” she said, as if this was counted towards an imaginary debt to her.
He shrugged one shoulder. He owed her nothing.
“Bring the Dragon’s Eye to me when you win it, and I will show you how to use it to find its owner.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Its current owner is Morgan Le Fay, lest I am mistaken,” he said. “And when I win it, I shall become the new owner.”
A tinkling, bell-like laugh bubbled out of her. A sound that made other men swoon with pleasure only served to raise Wolfe’s hackles.
“Silly slayer,” she admonished. “Its real owner is the dragon who lost his eye.”
Wolfe straightened reflexively at that, his attention fully engaged.
“Bring me the Dragon’s Eye, and I will use it to find the dragon you most desire to hunt and kill.”
Wolfe could hear his own heart pounding.
At long last, would he finally be able to track down the monster who ruined his mother?
But how would Guinevere know which dragon he hunted?
It didn’t matter, he determined. He’d rid the world ofalldragons if he had to.
“What about Lancelot?” he gathered enough wits to ask.
He was her Champion. And her dog. Everyone knew it. Wolfe could not understand how the King tolerated such blatant disloyalty from both his First Warrior and his wife. But perhaps Arthur was as enthralled by her as every other man in this realm.
It was her turn to give a delicate shrug.
“He will eliminate the other opponents, but he will not win this tournament.”
“Why not?”
Lancelot was a fearsome fighter. He was Arthur’s best. Wolfe had never faced him in battle. Their paths had no reason to cross. But the man’s reputation preceded him.
“Because the final round requires…particular skills, in which you are significantly better versed than my Lancelot,” Guinevere said.
Wolfe willed her to say more with an impatient glare.
Her lips curled in a wicked smile.
“Your last opponent will be a fire dragon.”