The Crochan’s dark brows rose, again taking in the beautiful, well-spoken male. Perhaps noting the power that radiated from him—and the keys he bore. “And who, exactly, are you?” Dorian gave the witch one of those charming smiles and sketched a bow. “Dorian Havilliard, at your service.” “The king,” one of the Crochans murmured from near the wyverns. Dorian winked. “That I am, too.”
