Her Dragon Captor (Her Dragon King Duet 1)

My wolf stood up.

So many of my relatives have used that phrase to describe how they felt the first time they laid eyes on their mate. I’d never been able to envision what that felt like. My wolf had always been pretty background, like, “I’m just going to let you do you, Ola. You’re bitch enough for the both of us and I truly believe you got this, girl.”

Normally, she and me are totally copacetic and on the same page. But when I touched our family’s mortal enemy, that strange sensation…was that what it was? No, it couldn’t be.

Could it?

“Ola? Are you okay?”

Akwasi again. Bringing me back to reality. Back to the room where wolves from both the Michigan and North Dakota packs are cheering loudly.

I look up at my perfect boyfriend and mentally slap myself. Why the hell am I thinking about that dragon supervillain when I have this total package standing right next to me?

“I’m fucking fantastic,” I assure him with a big grin as I join back in with all the clapping and shouting out for my Uncle, the best king North Dakota has ever had.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Uncle Kyle says on stage, motioning with both hands for everyone to stop clapping already.

But they don’t stop. If anything, the hoots, hollers, and whistles grow even louder. I totally get why the crowd can’t stop cheering. Under Uncle Kyle, the state pack has flourished, moving from a steady mid-level treasury to become one of the top ten richest territories in North America. Real talk 100, he’s leaving me a state that pretty much runs itself. And now that he’s retiring early, everyone in the ballroom wants him to know how much they adore him, including me. Especially me. I pump my fist and jump up and down, encouraging the crowd to keep it going.

As the applause goes on and on, Kyle shakes his head at his subjects, his expression indulgent and exasperated.

My Uncle Clyde isn’t having it, though. His man told the crowd to calm down, so they better do what he says. He holds up a hand. And his eyes slit with what my mom calls a “Leroy Greenwolf” look after my great-grandfather, who fought and shot his way into becoming Michigan’s first black state pack alpha king.

The look itself is hard to describe. It’s kind of like the biggest baddest muthafucka in a 70s prison movie, and everybody who’s ever tried to fight Rocky Balboa got together to make a glare baby.

It works. The enthusiastic audience stops clapping like a switch has been flipped, allowing Uncle Kyle to finally get some words in.

“When I took over as North America’s first openly gay king, many said I’d upend our state’s legacy. They claimed I would turn the kingdom house into a spectacle and earn our pack a reputation as a bunch of wild and hedonistic wolves. They said if I were allowed to take over, I’d hashtag our pack in irrevocable ways. And do you know what my mate Clyde and I would like to say to those haters now, on the night of my niece’s coronation?”

This is where Clyde steps in, the Leroy Greenwolf glare morphing into a crazy face emoji grin as he calls out, “Y'all bitches was TOTALLY RIGHT!”

Just when I thought the crowd couldn’t possibly get any louder, they take it to the next decibel level.

Kyle’s laughing by the time the applause and shouts of approval finally die down. “I could not think of a better person than Ola to keep our non-traditional reputation going. She’s loyal, intelligent, courageous, and fierce with and without hair and makeup. So please join me in welcoming our new queen, the princess of Michigan, and one hell of a she-wolf, Ola Greenwolf!”

My heart leaps in my chest. This is it!

I walk up the stairs, in a glittering gown made entirely of gold-plated nanite sequins and specially customized to squeeze every curve. It feels like I’m floating on air. No role seemed to fit my outsized personality until I started training under my uncles to take over as queen of North Dakota. And now I’ve finally made it to the night of my coronation.

I cross the stage and my uncle, who’s a few inches shorter than me, lifts the heavy gold crown from his head. He pauses long enough for me to get a glimpse of the North Dakota pack’s raised wolf symbol on its front. Then he places the crown on top of my hair, which I had straightened, just so it could fit underneath the ornamental headdress.

“All yours, honey,” he says his eyes brimming with tears.

“Thanks, Uncle Kyle,” I whisper back.

Listen, I’m no crying-ass bitch. Leroy Greenwolf did half-raise me until the age of five, and a few of the older members of the Michigan pack swear I’m carrying around his reincarnated soul. But the tears shining in Uncle Kyle’s eyes make me all that more determined to be a great queen.