“Yes,” he said softly, a fingertip tracing along her cheek and jaw. “I guess you are.”
“But you’re not.”
“Not even a little.” He leaned down and kissed her, his tongue slowly tasting hers.
She moaned, her body automatically responding to him and his touch. But she pulled her mouth away, her head shaking.
“No. I can’t do that again. It was too much.”
“There’s no such thing.” He grabbed the hands pushing against his chest, feebly trying to shove him away. “And you will do it again,” he told her, pinning her hands against the boulder beneath them. “As many times as I want you to.”
He was still inside her and felt her pussy pulse to life with the action of pinning her hands. It became warm again at his words.
Gods, she was delicious—the cunning, clever Lady Dagmar.
“And if I say no?” she asked softly, playing the shy virgin beautifully. “To protect my honor?”
He leaned into her, kissing her neck and then biting it until he heard her gasp, the walls of her pussy clenching him so tightly he feared she’d snap his already-hard-again cock in two.
“When I’m done, you’ll have no honor. I’ll take what I want, Lady Dagmar,” he whispered against her ear, his grip tightening on her wrists. “And no matter how much you struggle or fight, I’ll keep taking what I want. Again. And again. And again.”
It was small. A human male would miss it completely. A dragon not as in tune with her body would miss it as well.
But he didn’t.
At his words, Dagmar came again—and he almost came with her.
Chapter 22
Dagmar knew she was back in her bed and not alone when that horrifying sound jolted her awake.
Her eyes snapped open and she blinked, squinting, trying to figure out where she was and how she got there. Then the sound moved closer, and Dagmar couldn’t help but turn her nose up in disgust.
He snored. The great Gwenvael the Handsome snored. Good thing he’d brought her such pleasure or she’d have him removed from her room—perhaps from the castle!
But he had, truly had, brought her pleasure. From that boulder to this bed, he’d taken her again and again until she’d begged for sleep. Yet it hadn’t been simply that, had it? There were many in the world who knew how to give pleasure. No, it was something else when it came to Gwenvael. She argued to herself that many of his conquests probably had the same feelings about him when all was said and done, but she wasn’t foolish like the others. She’d had no grand illusions of a perfect love that would have Gwenvael dropping to his knees and begging for her hand in marriage. From the beginning, she’d been quite determined to keep a clear perspective on all of this.
She knew she’d be returning to her father’s fortress. She knew her future was meant to be spent behind the massive gates of that fortress. She also knew that with luck and skill, she’d be able to get her small house somewhere on her father’s lands, similar to Esyld’s, in another decade or so. These were the absolutes of her life and she refused to let a few nights bedding Gwenvael change any of that, because she couldn’t afford to hope for more.
Yet even with all that cold, calculated thinking, she couldn’t stop that small dart of hope that had struck her heart.
Dagmar leaned in close and focused on the face beside her. He looked so innocent while he slept. Very misleading. She also marveled at how much heat he gave off. She kicked off the furs covering her and stared up at the ceiling.
It was late and she should go back to sleep, but that snoring made it near-impossible.
Rolling onto her side, she rested her arm around his waist and snuggled in close. She kissed a line across his shoulders to his neck, smiling when he groaned in his sleep. Dagmar teased his ear with the tip of her tongue and draped her legs around his thighs. Still he slept on. So she slid her body directly over his, her knees resting on either side of his hips. Sitting up straight, she rested her rear against his groin and smiled down at him.
He certainly is handsome, she thought, moments before slamming the pillow down over his face.
Instantly his arms reached up wildly and Dagmar leaned in, putting her weight into the attack.
She snickered madly, even as he grabbed her arms and flipped her to her back.
“You barbarian! What did you think you were doing?” he demanded.
“I couldn’t stand the snoring anymore!”
Gwenvael gasped in outrage. “I do not snore!”
“You sound like a hoofed animal in rutting season.”
Dagmar wasn’t exactly surprised when he became merciless, tickling the sensitive flesh on her sides while she tried to fight him off. His weight kept her pinned down as she’d been unable to do to him, and her slaps against his arms and chest did nothing but make him laugh.
Her squeals, however, did get them a sound banging against the wall from one of their neighbors.
They froze, both looking horribly guilty, she was sure.
“This is your fault,” he whispered.
“My fault? I can’t believe no one’s complained before about that horrid noise. You could destroy whole armies with that noise alone!”
His hands gripped her sides again and she resumed her kicking and squealing, but his mouth silenced hers, his body pinning her in place. Her fists, which had been hitting his chest and shoulders while he tickled her, unfurled and her fingers dived into his hair, her arms tugging him closer.
He slid inside her, the length and width of him stretching her, demanding more.
Dagmar’s body arched up and her hands loosened from his hair, her arms flailing back, trying to find purchase. Her fingers touched the wall and she braced her hands against it as Gwenvael’s strong, hard strokes pounded into her. Short of breath, she pulled out of their kiss and turned her face away, panting and moaning, feeling that climax building within her.
When it came, it ripped through her, leaving her gasping and sweating, her body shaking from the release. Gwenvael pulled back, but only to flip her over. Lifting her hips up, he entered her from behind. Dagmar moaned decadently at the ruthlessness of it while her body raced toward another climax.
His hand slipped between her thighs, his fingers toying with her clitoris until Dagmar had to bury her face into the bedding so she could scream without the worry of terrifying their neighbors.
Now both of Gwenvael’s hands viciously gripped her hips again, holding her up and steady as he pounded into her. When he came, he shouted, cutting off the sound by clenching his teeth. He released inside her again and again, keeping her tight against him, her rear pressing into his abdomen.
As the last shudder passed through her, Dagmar dropped listlessly to the bed. Gwenvael managed to pull out of her, his hands releasing their grip. She felt him move away from her, but he didn’t get far before he fell forward, his head against her ass, his snoring filling the room.
But now Dagmar was simply too tired to care.
Gwenvael felt the cold hand of death slap against his shoulder and he sat up in bed, screaming, “I only touched her once!”
The smirk that greeted him wasn’t unkind, but it didn’t seem convinced of his statement either.
He blinked, trying to wake up. “Fannie?”
The servant gave a small bow. “My Lord Gwenvael.”
Fannie was one of those servants a body could rely on in almost any situation. Always calm, dignified, and smart, she seemed to know exactly when to appear and when to leave. He liked that about her.
“Good morn, Fannie.” He frowned. “But why are you in my room?”
“Her ladyship has asked that you leave her room as soon as possible while the rest of the royal house is downstairs having first meal.”
He rubbed his eyes. “She’s throwing me out? What did I say to Annwyl this time?”
“Not Lady Annwyl, who gets very angry should we call her ‘ladyship,’ but Lady Dagmar, who I am currently tending until she returns to the north. She
seems to have no concerns with the correct usage of proper titles.” While her hands stayed primly laced together, her eyes swept the room. “And this is not your room, but Lady Dagmar’s.”
As Fannie had done, he looked around the room. “It certainly is.” He focused back on the servant. “And why is she throwing me out?”
“She’d prefer that the turn in your relationship be kept quiet, and since the bulk of your family is all downstairs for breakfast, she feels it is the best time for you to return to your own room.”
That was a first. Most females begged for him to stay, but Dagmar Reinholdt was tossing him out. Even worse, she was having her servant do it. He should be insulted, but he realized he was more disappointed.
“So she used me and she’s tossing me aside?” He gave Fannie his best pout.
“Apparently. Although I must say I admire her for it.”
He placed his hand over his heart. “Fannie…my love. You wound me. Do you not care for me at all? After all we’ve been through?”
“My Lord Gwenvael, I care for you as I care for one of my sons. But I also send off my sons at eighteen and bid them not to return until they have a wife, a babe, and coin in their pocket.”
“I have the coin…”
Her smirk turned into a smile. Fannie always had a warm spot for him, even while she openly teased him. Of course, she’d made it clear from his first night at Garbhán Isle that he was to keep a respectful distance from her and any of the servant girls who were under her command.
“I believe you’re taking too long, my lord, to remove that shiftless rear from my lady’s bed.”
“Fine. I’ll go.” He stood, one of the furs around his hips to protect dear Fannie’s modesty. “But you tell her I’ll be back and she is to follow my orders this time.”
“Somehow I doubt Lady Dagmar follows any orders but her own, my lord.”
“Very good point. But,” he added, pinching Fannie’s hip and enjoying the way she jumped and slapped his hand, “that is the challenge.”
It had been hard leaving that overly warm bed this morning, but Fannie had eased her awake with a cup of hot tea and they both knew she wasn’t in the mood for sly looks and brotherly nudges. The servant arranged for her to bathe in another room and presented her with another grey gown. This one simple and comfortable, easy to move around in.
If Dagmar thought she could lure Fannie away from Annwyl, she’d do it in a second.
Holding on to a mug of hot tea, Dagmar slowly walked around the Great Hall, her eyes taking in everything. The large number of tables from the previous eve were gone, replaced by one long table that went down the middle of the room. Talaith sat on one side, her feet up and a book in her lap that had her complete attention. She’d dismissed the porridge without even looking at it and absently munched on dry toast while fresh water was her morning drink. Talaith’s young daughter had already shoveled food down the way Dagmar’s father always did and then ran off to meet up with her cousins. Her mother screamed, “And no flying!” after her, but Dagmar seriously doubted the young girl would follow that edict.
Annwyl had come downstairs, but she’d kept right on going out the door. Walking was no easy feat for her, but she’d made it out eventually. She never said a word to anyone and she looked even worse than she did the previous eve. Still, even in her state, everyone seemed to give her a healthy distance.
The bulk of Gwenvael’s low-born family camped at the lake where Dagmar had first seen them and apparently enjoyed their morning meals there. The servants set out early with fresh bread and porridge for them.
Gwenvael’s brothers and Morfyd had the hall mostly to themselves and they focused on the business of defenses. They had open maps and discussed all the ways the cult could gain entrance to Garbhán Isle. They paid her no mind, so she wandered closer and closer until she stood behind them. She wasn’t surprised they ignored her. She was always ignored until she openly involved herself in something that garnered everyone’s attention. She wasn’t ready for that yet. She was still figuring out all the players for this game, trying to understand the dynamics. The previous evening had helped with that, but there was still so much for her to learn.
Until she learned the risks and rewards involved in this world, she’d simply keep her distance and her own council until she decided that it was the right time to—
“Are you going to keep standing back there, hovering, or are you actually going to help us?”
It took Dagmar a good ten seconds before she realized that Briec had directed that question at her. Raising her gaze, she saw Gwenvael’s siblings all staring at her over their shoulders.
“Pardon?”
Briec, who seemed to be in a constant state of boredom, rolled his eyes. “Gwenvael said you were knowledgeable in this. Is that true or was he blowing flame up my ass?”
The visual that particular phrase gave her was not attractive, but she ignored it and asked, “You mean knowledge about the Minotaurs?”
“Well, that would help.” And his tone was so rife with sarcasm one would think Dagmar had known him for decades and had been annoying him all that time. “But he said you helped your father with his defenses. True or not?” he demanded.
“Briec…tone,” Talaith said from her spot across the hall, her gaze firmly on the book in front of her.
“Is it true you helped your father with the defenses of the Reinholdt lands?”
His tone hadn’t changed, but he seemed to think reworking the sentence covered that.
“Yes. I did. We worked quite closely together.” Of course, she really had to pry her way into all that and, in the end, she worked with her father at night, giving him her ideas and suggestions, often trying to make him think he came up with it all on his own. In the morning, he would give instructions to his men to build the defenses she’d designed and she doubted anyone among her father’s troops had any idea of her involvement.
“Then help or go away. I can’t stand hovering.”
“I’m still hearing tone,” Talaith said dryly, the book continuing to hold her interest.
The silver dragon’s violet-colored eyes narrowed on his mate, and he asked, “You must be hungry, my love. Shouldn’t you have a big, steaming bowl of porridge? All big, thick, and gloppy yellow, coating your tongue and throat as it slides down—”
Talaith dropped her book, put one hand over her mouth, and held the other up to silence Briec. She choked, and Dagmar remembered how Talaith had taken quite a liking to the wine the previous eve.
“You are a bastard,” Talaith finally snapped before she stood and ran out of the room, her hand firmly back over her mouth.
“That was rude, Briec,” Morfyd chastised, although Briec’s grin clearly stated he didn’t care what his sister thought. Morfyd tapped the table and said to Dagmar, “We could use any and all help at this time. Between your maps and ours, we have to admit we’re a little lost.”
Dagmar simply wasn’t used to this straightforward approach. She was used to having to ease or extort her way into most important situations that were the domain of men. Walking in and taking over wasn’t in her nature because she’d been unable to get anything done with that approach.
Yet the dragons were leaving her little choice.
She stepped toward the table and Fearghus moved his chair over a bit, giving her space. She leaned down and focused on the maps.
Well, if they wanted help…
“These maps are useless,” she stated plainly. “Minotaurs travel underground. I need a map that shows any tunnels you may have built or underground entrances. Also possible accesses from caves, and any places you think it would be easy for them to dig through.”
“I think we have something,” Éibhear offered as he jumped up and quickly left the room, surprising her with how fast he moved considering his overwhelming size.
“Could they already be here?” Briec asked.
“Doubtful. Minotaurs attack as soon as they gain entrance. They do not
give warnings; you will not see them coming. They will not bargain. Ever. If they have a task, they will complete it.”
“So if we capture one…”
She shook her head at Fearghus’s question. “You’ll get nothing from a Minotaur. Like most bovines, they are unbelievably stubborn and highly dangerous. Even though their kind hasn’t been seen in the Northlands in decades, most of the Northland warlords have defenses aimed solely at protecting themselves from the Minotaurs. I know of no warlord who has a dungeon, just for that reason. It makes it too easy for them to get in.”
The dragons all passed glances before Fearghus admitted, “We have six.”
Dagmar tilted her head to the side, studying them. “You have six dungeons here? Why?”
“They were all built by Annwyl’s father. We no longer use them.”
“Ever?”
“Annwyl’s a cut-off-your-head, ask-question-later kind of leader.”
“I see. And does that philosophy include someone who’s merely, say, a petty thief?”
Fearghus and Briec stared at each other, perhaps trying to figure out the correct answer to that question.
Morfyd sighed. “You’re all idiots.” She looked at Dagmar. “No. There’s a town jail for that. Annwyl chose a magistrate to handle simple crimes. Although anyone who feels they’ve been wrongly treated can, of course, request an audience with her. Although in my opinion she chose well with the current magistrate. But for anything political or involving more than one dead body, she gets involved, and those who are found guilty, don’t leave Garbhán Isle.”
Harsh, but surprisingly fair.
Éibhear returned with several rolled maps under his arm. He placed them on the table and unrolled them. “Did you mean something more like this?”
Placing her now-cold tea down on the table, Dagmar rested her hands on the worn wood and stared at the maps. “Yes. This will do very nicely. I think I’ll be able to match these to the tunnel maps I brought with me. Thank you, Éibhear.”
He grinned, quite pleased with himself. “You’re welcome.”
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