Mated to the Warg (Wargs of the Outland, #1)

Prologue

Ten years ago...

Thrax glared up at the iron ramparts of West Gate as a horn blasted somewhere within. He was loath to cross the Black Bridge. Loath to have so much iron and stone between him and the outland. The last span of bridgework had yet to be extended. It lay like an iron drawbar locked across the portcullis.

Beside him, Thresh and Torgon were restless, too. Atop the battlements, crossbows glinted in the waning sunlight. Hundreds of bolts loaded and ready to launch. Even at this distance, Thrax spied twitchy eyes through the arrowslits.

"Nervous bastards, eh?" Torgon murmured. A muzzle full of fangs made it awkward to speak.

Thresh huffed, his breath freezing in the chill. "Are you scared of their fucking needles, old woman?"

Torgon chuckled. "Not with you here, old man. They're like to shoot at your fucking mug first."

The corner of Thrax's mouth twitched. He supposed he couldn't blame the humans for being leery. They'd invited wargs to their gate, after all. Likely they'd expected their guests to arrive in one form or the other. Yet the three wargs before them had come in berserker fettle—wolfish from the waist up. Men with pelts of thick fur, long fangs, and saber-sharp black claws.

Yes, he thought, to these humans they were three nightmarish beasts come to steal their daughters and devour their sons.

The sound of moving chains and grinding gears blared in the gloaming as the Black Bridge pivoted out over the gorge of black sucking mud. It locked into place between the iron gate posts with a grating halt.

With a growly sigh, Thrax shifted into human form and stepped onto the drawbridge. The other two followed suit, shifting from fur to flesh before filing in behind him like Hekki's faithful Death Hounds.

With a grunting sound of relief, Torgon rearranged his bollocks. Now that they were no longer in their larger half-wolf forms, their trews and jerkins weren't so snug. Although, Torgon's trews still looked uncomfortable.

They'd crossed the outland in their half skins so that they'd be fully dressed on arrival. Thrax had made that small concession, knowing humans suffered strange aversions to nakedness. And he knew wargs were thought of as nothing more than savages. Arriving naked would likely only frighten them all the more. Their judgment didn't bother him in the least, he was only here out of mild curiosity. He wanted to meet this High Lady with brass enough to seek a fellowship with wargs.

Thresh snorted in disgust as Torgon's crotch antics continued. "Gods, Tor, your arse is eating your trews."

"That's because my cock takes up too much room," Torgon replied. "Thanks for noticing." He seemed to strut a little prouder. "It's grown too large with all the exercise."

"So's your mouth," Thresh grumbled.

Thrax shook his head, enjoying their banter. And Torgon had indeed been exercising his manhood more than usual. They'd just arrived back from Warrow, where Thrax's father was wargrex, and Torgon had glutted himself on a widowed young warga.

Well, she was a babe by their standards. So were these humans, come to that. Thrax was nearly three hundred years old! The yardstick of mortal centuries was but a measure of moments to a warg. He supposed, to these frail creatures, he seemed a young male in the prime of manhood.

As they drew closer, the iron teeth of the portcullis lifted out of the ground, metal clanking in protest. Then it hung there like a guillotine as the three wargs passed beneath it.

He could feel hundreds of eyes rankling him from all sides. Even in this form, he knew he still looked very alien to the people of West Gate. To them, wargs were giants with pointy ears and fiendish eyes.