“I’ll bid!”
Arla’s expression lit up with shock and approval.
Myrtle passed her the glass of that delicious pink drink.
“Here, dear. It’s for extra courage.”
The bidding went back and forth, numbers climbing. The other woman eventually dropped out, looking disgruntled. For one triumphant second, Sylvie thought she had him won.
Then a calm female voice rang out from the back of the pub.
“I will bid.”
The number she called was outrageous. A loud murmur rippled through the room.
The hammer fell.
Sold.
Sylvie stood frozen.
Not only had she lost—she had publicly declared her interest in the town’s most intimidating dragon-man and been outclassed by a wallet.
So much for subtle.
Vera turned to her, smiling.
“Never mind, dear. I have something for you.”
She pressed a folded napkin into Sylvie’s hand.
“A traditional dragon recipe,” Vera whispered. “For this to work, it’s like a good romance—it needs fire.”
Before Sylvie could respond, a werewolf stepped forward from the crowd, grinning.
“So,” he puffed his chest, “you bid on the dragon—and you lost.”
He smirked.
“It’s your lucky day, princess, ’cause I’d do much more for far less.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm.
“How about a little walk, sweetheart? It’s a full moon. I can show you the town and maybe find a quiet corner to discuss your… tastes.”
He reached out again to touch her arm.
Suddenly the air shifted.
It went hot and heavy.
A massive shadow stepped between them.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Rhavor said, his voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and I’ll turn you into a Pomeranian—with broken legs.”
“Relax,” the werewolf said, raising his hands. “Only offering a lady some local hospitality.”
“Go offer your hospitality to someone else,” Rhavor growled.
