Savage Satisfaction

  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

  SAVAGE SATISFACTION

  Lila Dubois

  Chapter One

  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 En
gland, 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.

  “You will love the skies here,” her mother whispered. There was longing on her face. She’d often spoken of mountains and deep-green valleys, unlike the golden hills of the Mediterranean or the black forests of Eastern Europe Mirela knew.

  “Do not worry for me.”

  “I do not. You have always been more of the sky than the land.”

  There was a rap on the door and Mirela’s father called out for them to come, the cars were there.

  It took the assistance of three people to get Mirela and her huge skirt down the stairs. The innkeeper’s eyes widened when he saw the black dress, but he didn’t say anything.

  Mirela climbed into a carriage drawn by four horses and her aunt stuffed her skirts in. The carriage started out and Mirela leaned sideways so she could see the sky through the window.

  She was not afraid. She’d been raised to know her duty. She did not feel deprived because she would not know a man or bear children. She did not see anything desirable in the relationship between men and women.

  All she needed was the sky.

  *

  William stood on the gravel drive in front of the hous
e. There was no sound save the twittering of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. The servants had strict instructions to stay away from the house today. The groundskeeper wasn’t allowed to do any gardening.

  Standing there, wearing a sword older than the house, William could easily imagine he was in a different time.

  He’d wondered in his rare fanciful moments if he hadn’t been born in the wrong era. He was ill-suited for the niceties of this world. His silence was taken as rudeness, his desire for control as aggression and his commanding presence as arrogance.

  He was better suited for a time in which might made right and strength of arm was valued.

  Perhaps that was why he so anxiously awaited the arrival of the falcon and the wolf.

  They were a reminder of a time long gone. They would know him, understand him, because they would have been told what his family was capable of and, by extension, what kind of man he was.

  The Hunting Pair. That was the title his family used for the falcon and wolf each Lord of Eahrington possessed. In medieval times the ownership of a falcon of uncommon intelligence and command of a fierce wolf had earned the Lords of Eahrington reputations as master hunters. No one knew that the reason the communication between hunter and beast was so good, or why the animals seemed so intelligent was that they were not just animals.

  The falcon would be a woman, as a male falcon was useless for hunting, but the wolf could be either man or woman. His father had possessed a female of each. Thinking about his father’s wolf brought a bad taste to his mouth so he pushed the memory away.

  The crunch of gravel broke the silence. William straightened, resting his left hand on the handle of the sword he wore strapped to his side. He wore jeans and a black button-down shirt. There was a knight’s tunic in a trunk in the house that tradition dictated he should be wearing. It had been carefully preserved and at some point reinforced with new fabric, but William was too big for it. He had to make do with modern clothing, trusting the sword at his side would be enough to remind the gypsies what was at stake.