“You too, Alpha. Thanks for making time to see me.”
“Aye. I was down here today anyway. I could use a pint or two.”
“Then a pint or two you’ll get,” Ronan laughed. “Be right back.”
He retrieved two pints of Guinness from the bar and sat back down to face the elder dragon. It took him a moment to formulate his thoughts before addressing him, knowing that he had to word things carefully so as not to be perceived as giving any orders. Unlike the bear and wolf clans in the area, the dragon clans had been around for far longer. He had no idea how old Greyscale might be, but dragons often lived hundreds of years. Some said they were known to get as old as a thousand or more years, but he didn’t think Greyscale was quite that ancient.
“What’s on your mind?” Greyscale asked, sounding impatient.
“Sorry, I just flew in. I guess I’m a bit jet-lagged,” Ronan told him.
“There are better ways to fly,” Greyscale laughed.
“For you,” Ronan replied. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did to help us put an end to this nonsense with Clan Maguire. “It would have been a long haul trying to get them out of that dungeon on our own. All the clans owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Aye. You do. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to collect.”
Ronan nodded. He had no doubt that there would be a request to return the favor in the future. Dragons were a fierce opponent, but they had their limitations in certain situations. Ireland was full of caves and tunnels that a dragon couldn’t traverse. They needed the help of smaller shifters to slip through the cracks—bears, wolves, or even multi-shifters who could shift down to the size of a gnat. There had been a motivation to bring peace to their affiliations in the south when he and Niall had asked for their help with the Maguires, but it was more than that. He’d need to remember his friends if and when the time came.
“I know you will.”
“And how are things working out now that we’ve finished off your problem for you?” Greyscale asked.
“I don’t know. I just got back to meet with the new council. There are some rumblings in the air.”
“I’ve heard. It was a bad idea leaving them to sort things out without you here to drive the negotiations in the direction you choose.”
“Perhaps, but I had things to tend to back in Boston so I could dedicate my time to the situation here. I thought I was giving them time to sort out their internal workings, not band together against me as their new enemy.”
Greyscale laughed. “They’re not banding together against you. They’re just trying to regain what they lost—power. I don’t envy you the task set before you, my friend.”
“Another pint?” Ronan asked, finishing off the last remnants of his and noting how low the Alpha’s glass had gotten.
“Can’t. I’ve got to get moving. We’ll talk again when we need to, aye?”
“Aye,” Ronan replied.
Greyscale drained the last of his own beer and stood up, nodding a silent goodbye to Ronan as he exited the pub. Ronan leaned back and closed his eyes, contemplating why he was even doing this. He could have stayed in Boston with his brothers, but here he was in Ireland, a place he hadn’t lived since he was a little boy, trying to re-establish roots he couldn’t even remember. Who was he to think he could just walk in from the outside and guide people who’d lived here their whole lives to a new normal after the trauma they’d suffered for years—trauma his own family had escaped by running away to America.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” a woman’s voice purred from above him.
Ronan’s eyes shot open to see a tall redhead looking down at him. She was stunning in every way, with what men typically described as dangerous curves and a smile that screamed how wicked she could be when the urge took her. Even in simple jeans and a t-shirt that read, “I’m a ginger. What’s your superpower?” she was breathtaking.
“Something like that?”
“Another Guinness?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” he replied, realizing she was a barmaid.
“Be right back,” she told him.
He watched her walk away, unable to take his eyes from the gentle sway of her peach bottom. She leaned across the bar, spoke to the bartender, and then turned back to look at him, catching him looking at her tush. Rather than seeming annoyed, she flashed him a smile and then turned back to the bar. He grinned, realizing that she didn’t mind at all.
“Here you go,” she told him, sitting one beer down in front of him and another across the table, where she took a seat.