Savage Satisfaction

Lila
Dubois

They belong to him, their lives the
price of the protection he provides. William, Lord of Eahrington, is a modern
man living a medieval life. For centuries his family has secretly protected
Europe’s werewolves and werefalcons. Once each generation a falcon and wolf are
sent to Eahrington, pledged to spend their lives as his Hunting Pair.

Scared by his past, William locks werewolf
Christoffer and werefalcon Mirela away like animals. His fears are confirmed
when the falcon savagely attacks him. Help comes from the enticing Christoffer.
William must learn to deal with his unexpected feelings for Christoffer while
trying to tame the beautiful Mirela. He’d intended to master them, but what’s
between them is too complex to be controlled. Destined to be together forever,
their only hope at happiness is to learn to love one another, but first William
must overcome his past.

Inside Scoop:
Contains m/m and ménage scenes. Don’t
pretend you don’t like them!

A
Romantica®
paranormal erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

He did not fear the forest. He was, both literally and
figuratively, the lord of this land. William stood in the stirrups, stretching
his legs. His horse, a pretty gelding, huffed out a breath and bent his head to
snuffle the grass. When William clicked and tugged the reins, the gelding
lifted his head. William dropped down in the saddle, adjusting his seat and
turning the gelding with his heel. The horse picked its way along a wide path
through the woods. The ground was soft and William wouldn’t risk the horse’s
legs by having him run. The path they traveled ran along the chain-link fence
that circled the deer park. William could see a few deer amongst the trees, and
when the path led them out of the wood onto the open manicured lawn he could
see more deer fearlessly nibbling the grass.

He clicked his tongue and his horse broke into a trot.
Posting in his saddle, he kept one eye on the deer. They’d acquired a new buck.
He’d been hit by a car and, after the vet at a local wildlife hospital treated the
animal for a broken leg, he’d been brought here, where he would live the rest
of his life on protected lands.

William trotted up to the horse stable between the fence of
the deer park and back gardens of the servants’ houses. The gamekeeper, a man
named Edward whom William had known all his life, came out of the stable. Andy,
Edward’s young nephew, held William’s reins as he dismounted.

“Afternoon, my lord,” Edward said. “Did you enjoy your
ride?”

“I did, thank you, Edward.” William patted the gelding’s
neck as a reward. The horse was standing perfectly still as Andy removed the
bridle and slipped a leather head collar in place. William kept his eye on the
young man, who hadn’t been on the estate long. William did not like new people
on his property. Andy led the horse to the hot walker to cool down, the bridle
and reins looped over his shoulder. The horse, who stood at almost sixteen
hands, towered over the boy.

“How is young Andy?” he asked Edward.

“He’s doing well and loves the horses. I must thank you
again for letting him come. And of course for helping my Ed.”

“Ed will be a fine doctor,” William said, stripping off his
gloves and slapping them together. William had funded a scholarship to send
Edward’s son of the same name to university. Young Ed had been the horse
caretaker, and Andy had come to live with Edward to take Ed’s place.

With a nod at his servant, William climbed into his Land
Rover and returned to the manor house, using the track along the edge of the
deer park before cutting across the grass. He skirted the walled, manicured
garden and bounced onto the drive that led to the house. He could have picked
up the road that passed in front of the stables and his servants’ houses, but
then he would have had to stop and open the massive gates that guarded the
start of his long, winding driveway. It was quicker to come across the grounds,
though no one but him was allowed to do such a thing.

William slowed, coming around the last curve. The trees that
lined the drive, which was winding rather than straight, hid the house until
this last curve when it rose up, pale and mighty. It wasn’t an old house,
dating back no more than a few hundred years, but it stood on the ruins of a
fortress William’s ancestor had built in support of William the Conqueror.

The house was large and square, with symmetrical rows of
windows. It was built around a central courtyard, where once merchants would
have assembled to sell their wares to the lord. He drove through the large arch
in the front wing, parking on the stones that had once been the floor of the
fortress.

He climbed out of the car and headed into the house. His boots
echoed on the black-and-white tile floor of the foyer, the sound changing to
thumps as he started up the dark wooden staircase that wrapped majestically
around three walls of the two-story tall foyer. The portraits that graced the
cream plaster looked down as he climbed. At the top of the stairs he passed a
mirror and stopped.

He was grinning.

He never grinned. It wasn’t becoming of the Lord of
Eahrington.

William wiped the smile from his face, letting it return to
its normal stoic lines, but as he turned away the grin returned.

Tomorrow they would arrive. He would take his place in the
history of his family. He would not make the mistakes his father had made—he
would never forget that they were animals, even if they masqueraded as humans.

* * * * *

Christoffer watched from the trees as the dark-haired man
dismounted his horse and slid into a car…a very nice car. When the dark-haired
man drove off, Christoffer slid down the tree, lean muscles flexing under pale
skin. The deer lifted their heads, scenting the wind. They took off, fleeing
the scent of a predator, haunches flexing as they ran.

Christoffer stiffened, his body rigid with the need to
chase. He knew what it would feel and taste like to have a deer’s haunch
between his teeth. The herd—it must have been fifty deer—disappeared into the
trees.

He relaxed, tension draining away. As it did his weight
rocked back onto his heels, his hips cocked at an angle. He rubbed his temples,
trying to rid himself of his headache.

Remembering what had caused the headache had Christoffer
grinning. It had been years since he’d been to London, but the clubs were as
good as he remembered. Drunk Englishwomen and Englishmen were great fun. Last
night he’d partied with a pretty Scottish boy with an accent so thick Christoffer
had been able to taste it.

Maybe they hadn’t been able to understand each other—the
Scottish boy thought Christoffer’s Norwegian accent adorable but hard to
decipher—but they’d had a very good time.

The lord, for that is who the dark-haired man must have
been, was nice to look at too, though he didn’t seem like the kind to drink
enough to be fun. Christoffer made his way to the place where he’d left his
bag. It was a good thing he’d had his fill of fun last night. This place was a
two-hour walk from the closest club. The tiny pub he’d seen in the village
didn’t count.

The seat of the Lord of Eahrington, situated in the
picturesque English countryside, would be a miserable place for someone of
Christoffer’s disposition to live. No fun, no excitement—just trees and grass
and some deer that he probably wouldn’t be allowed to kill. Luckily he didn’t
plan to be here long enough to suffer real boredom. He’d serve his time, pay
lip service to the lord and then sneak away.

The whole thing was barbaric. Maybe in the past his pack had
needed the protection the Lords of Eahrington had provided, but those days were
long dead. The tradition of paying tribute was ridiculous.

It had been five generations since his family had been
called on to offer the tribute. It should have been Christoffer’s sister. She’d
been raised knowing it was her family duty, and she’d studied England, its
literature, its history to prepare. But then she mated and got pregnant. She
couldn’t leave her cubs or the man she’d taken to mate.

It had fallen to Christoffer to give up his life and offer
himself as payment for continued protection.

He settled onto the forest floor, closing his eyes. He was
as safe in the middle of the woods as he would have been in his own home. Even
as a human he smelled like wolf, the apex predator in most of Europe.

Christoffer smiled to himself as he thought about his
family’s tearful goodbyes. His father and grandfather’s lectures on what a
sacred duty this was had fallen on deaf ears. His pack didn’t need this lord or
his protection anymore, but rather than argue with his family he’d agreed to
come, knowing it would be a great adventure and a chance to visit London on his
father’s dime.

Very few things really needed to be taken seriously.
Christoffer had lived his life believing this, and so far it had served him
well. With a smile he lay back, looking up through the trees. This was a nice
enough place, even if it was quiet. He’d enjoy taking a run through the deer
pen.

After an hour-long nap in the warm sun, he woke up and
stretched. Deciding it was time for some fun, he stripped off all his clothes,
carefully removing everything he had on including a silver ring with his
family’s crest—a snarling wolf head, of course—and stored it in his bag.

Crouching on hands and knees, he called forward his beast.
He called forth the loam of the forest floor and the bite of cold wind on the
nose, the hot scent of the chase and the burn of tired muscles.

A wolf with pale-blond legs that darkened to a gray back and
muzzle stretched, his front paws flexing, nails digging into the soft ground as
he lowered his chest and raised his haunches.

The wolf lifted his nose, scenting the wind.

* * * * *

Mirela held her head steady as her aunt affixed the crown to
her head. Pins dug into her scalp. She winced.

“Are you scared?”

Mirela looked at the reflection of her cousin’s face in the
mirror. “No, I’m not.”

Mirela saw her aunt exchange glances with Mirela’s second
cousin, who was packing Mirela’s small trunk.

They didn’t believe her. She was pitied by everyone in her
family. To most of the Romany there could be no worse fate than leaving their
people. Her family was more reclusive than most because their magic set them
apart. Prejudice against them ran high, even in these times people called
modern. The Romany communities were scattered, insular and always suspect. The
safest place was with family, with the community, but Mirela had to leave them,
to go out among the people who wouldn’t understand her.

The persecution of her people was a part of every culture in
Europe, and many Romany families had been lost—especially those who, like her
family, were not entirely human. Her family had been called witches, burned at
the stake, sold as slaves and nearly become extinct.

But many years ago, more than a lone man could count, they’d
found a savior, an English lord who’d come to their defense. Her father’s
mother’s version of the tale said the lord defended them because a Romany woman
saved his daughter from a wild boar by swooping from the sky and gouging out
the boar’s eyes. Her mother’s mother said the lord loved the Romany woman
because the English both love and fear those things they don’t understand and
cannot name.

That protection had saved them from extinction—Romani and
Travel families had been and still were hunted. Those who were human could, if
they had to, find ways to exist in the cities. Mirela’s people could not. They
needed places to make camp away from prying eyes, and where they could fly
without fear of hunters. The Lord of Eahrington owned land all across Europe
that they used, traveling from protected space to protected space. But it was
not free. Her kind paid in flesh and breath, because each Lord of Eahrington
was given a member of the family as tribute. Even now the English didn’t have a
name for what her family was. They would say impossible, and use their science
as a shield between their minds and the truth. There had been a time when a
young child of no more than ten would have gone, but as laws changed they
couldn’t do that without attracting the attention of authorities.

At the age of twenty, Mirela was to be this generation’s
gift. From the time she was small she’d known her fate. While other girls
tittered behind their hands and imagined what it would be like to marry, Mirela
had known she would never have that.

The gifting ceremony, which was now only a few hours away,
would be the closest she would ever come to a wedding. Her parents had given
her a dress much like a wedding dress. The tight bodice showed off her breasts
and tiny waist while the giant skirt rustled with each step she took. A tiara
of rhinestones sat atop her head and her makeup was heavy and dark.

But unlike a normal wedding gown, hers was the darkest black
instead of brilliant white.

Her little sisters and cousins all wore pink dresses, made
just for this ceremony. Her whole family had traveled from the south of Spain,
where they’d spend the winter, to England. They were staying in a small country
inn. As far as the innkeepers knew they were preparing for a wedding.

“You’re beautiful,” Mirela’s mother said, resting her hands
on Mirela’s bare shoulders.

“Thank you, Mama,” Mirela replied, speaking the Romany
dialect of her mother’s people. Her mother was Kalo, the traveler or Romany
people of Wales, while her father’s people were from Spain. Mirela’s parents’
marriage had been arranged, a way to settle an argument between her mother’s
and father’s peoples. Mirela’s mother’s and father’s families possessed
powerful magic and many years Mirela’s father’s family had been paying the blood
tribute to the Lord of Eahrington.

Her father’s family grew tired of bearing the cost alone,
and Mirela’s mother was sent to marry one of the men and give birth to a girl
who would be the tribute payment to the lord—Mirela.

The years had etched lines in Mirela’s mother’s face. It was
the way of their people that the woman left her family to join her husband, but
for most that was not a far trip because extended families stayed together. For
her mother it had been different. Her mother’s pale-cream skin and red hair had
made her an outsider. Maybe she was not as scared as one of her cousins would
be because Mirela knew, through her mother, what it was to be far from home,
and to be different. And she would never really be away from home. Her home was
the sky, and as long as she had that she would be happy.

She laid her cheek carefully against her mother’s hand,
reaching up to hold the tiara in place.

“You want to fly,” her mother said, stroking her cheek.

“Yes. The sky is calling.” Two birds flew past the window.
They were high in the sky but there was no mistaking the sharp-tipped
silhouette of those wings. The falcons rode a current of air, swooping and
dipping with a speed and freedom creatures of the land would never understand.