Ragnar smiled down at Dagmar. Her simple grey gown was torn, dirty, and covered in soot. Her spectacles were frighteningly dirty and one side of her face had scrapes. She’d never looked happier.
“Spot of trouble?” he teased as she climbed the stairs to him.
“A bit. Sorry I missed the meeting. But I’ll do what I can as things progress though”—she reached up and tapped his chin as she came to a stop before him—“betray me again at your own peril, Horde dragon.” Panting, exhausted, she still managed a smile. “I know Brastias thought my little trap was a waste of time. Now I can tell him it’s not. I just have to make sure to account next time for the fire-lightning dynamics.”
“What have I always told you, Lady Dagmar?”
She rolled her eyes. “Every action has a positive reaction—blah, blah, blah.” Dagmar winked at the Dragon Queen. “Don’t worry, though, Majesty. The Cadwaladrs are putting out the forest fire as we speak.”
“Forest fire?” Rhiannon immediately went on her toes and tried to look over the buildings.
Deciding it was best to be on his way, Ragnar headed down the steps, the voice of the queen’s consort bellowing behind him, “You grabbed his what?”
Yes. It was definitely time to get back to his people. The Northlanders had the usual problems—hate, violence, betrayal. But give him that over this oddness any day.
Walking past his father’s body, Ragnar kept his gaze forward and didn’t bother to look at the old dragon once more. It wasn’t easy, but he was a Northlander in southern territory—he’d never show them how much it hurt to see a once-great dragon warrior like this. And felled by human females, no less. Yet the pain Ragnar felt wouldn’t change anything. His father was gone and Ragnar’s work was far from over. He still had those loyal to his father and those who would now want control of the Horde to contend with. Yet, knowing he wasn’t the one who’d had to take his father’s life did ease him in many ways.
Going on foot as human, Ragnar took his time walking his sorrow out so that as he neared the cave where his brother and cousins waited for him he felt much better. Then he caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned, instantly shifting to his dragon form and lifting his claws, a powerful spell on his tongue. But those brown eyes caught him off guard, momentarily stunning him as they’d done to him again and again since he’d caught her in his net. And because he was so trapped by those damn eyes, he didn’t see that tail until it rammed full strength into his chest, barely missing his heart and several major arteries.
She stepped into him, the tail forced in deeper, pushing him back until he hit a tree.
Ragnar gritted his teeth, refusing to let her know exactly how much pain she was causing.
A lock of dark red hair fell across her forehead as her tail pushed in one last time before ripping out of him.
A single, strangled sound of pain escaped past his clenched fangs and he bent forward. Blood poured to the ground, but she hadn’t wounded him enough to kill him. And, even bleeding as much as he was, he could still destroy her. For he was a battle mage of great power. Trained in the arts of claw-to-claw combat, weaponry, survival tactics, and warfare spell-casting, Ragnar was unfazed by most that life had to offer.
Until her. Until Keita the Viper.
To say they hadn’t gotten along on their trip to the Southlands would be an understatement, and when he’d released her before the two suns rose, he truly never thought he’d see her again. For once, apparently, he’d been wrong.
And, more importantly, she was much braver than he’d given her credit for.
“Was it something I said?” he called after her as she stalked off into the trees, gone from his life forever…
He could only hope.
“You’re still talking,” Talaith complained. The warm cloth pressed over her face, although soothing, couldn’t manage to block out the voice of her mate.
“Damn right, I’m still talking,” he shot back. “It’s bad enough you decided to play Lady Danger with a Lightning, but then you involved my daughter. Unacceptable!”
Talaith snatched the cloth off her face and glared across the too-small tub. She once had a bigger one, but she’d switched it out for the smaller one in the hopes of getting to do this sort of thing alone. And yet somehow Briec always managed to force his big dragon ass in with her. Nor did it help that he insisted on doing very distracting things with his toes. How could she stay angry or order him to leave when he kept touching her in a completely inappropriate and yet enjoyable way?
“We had little choice. I didn’t see you running in to protect us, Lord Arrogant!”
“And what? You thought Izzy could take care of herself?”
“Of course I thought—” Talaith cut herself off, her eyes narrowing to slits on the smug bastard massaging her feet while he tricked her. “Bastard.”
He rubbed a particularly sensitive spot on her instep. “You have to let her go.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” And she truly did know that. Talaith also knew she couldn’t make up for sixteen lost years in seven months. She’d missed her child growing up and nothing would change that. Holding her back now would only put a wedge between them. She wouldn’t allow for that.
“Then let her go to the west.” She opened her mouth to instinctually protest, but he kept going right over her. “The Forty-Fifth Legion is swapping out with the Eighteenth. Izzy can go with the Eighteenth and have my kin to protect her. And unlike the Forty-Fifth, the Eighteenth was trained by Annwyl herself. They’re good fighters and very loyal to each other. Izzy will do well there.”
“You’ve worked this out quite well, I see.”
“I’ve learned that in order to hold my own with you in a fight, I must see every potential argument you could come up with, expect the most irrational decisions based on that, and…uh…have all my…uh”—he looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember—“oh! All my dogs in a row.”
“Dogs?” That tricky viper! Working behind Talaith’s back, was she?
Talaith yanked her foot from Briec and stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To kick some Northlander ass!”
“Oh, no you don’t.” He grabbed her forearm and easily held her in place. “My brother is about to become well and truly trapped by the most devious of females—I’ll not have that ruined by you.”
“The love you have for your kin never ceases to amaze me.” She slapped at his hand. “Now let go. Let go!”
He didn’t; instead, he studied her hip. “Where did you get that bruise? From your fight with Olgeir?”
Talaith looked down at her naked body, holding her wet hair off her face. “Some soldier slammed into me earlier today. It’s nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to show someone her teeth after I punch them out of her mouth!”
His grip only tightened as Briec got to his knees in front of her.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a closer look.”
Talaith smirked. “That is not where the bruise is, Briec.”
“Close enough.”
Bercelak walked into the alcove of his eldest son’s lair. The babes were alone in their crib, the boy asleep and the girl wide awake and scowling. Keeping his dragon form, he moved in closer, staring down at the babes. He hadn’t spent any time with them after their birth, too busy handling defenses with his siblings.
Although that wasn’t the full truth. In all honesty, he hadn’t really known what to do with them. He’d always felt following the mandatory rule of his kind to never eat children was rather big of him and more than enough. And though he was glad the babes were in excellent health, he wasn’t sure what to think or do with two human children.
Scowling himself, he leaned in closer to get a better look. He’d been told by his sons that the babes were much larger than most human children so recently born, and were quite advanced. But Rhiannon had been quick to assure them all that the twins wouldn’t suddenly spring to fo
rty winters. Advanced, they may be, but still mostly human.
Mostly human. What would he do with “mostly human” offspring?
Again Bercelak leaned in, until this time his snout was almost in the crib with the twins.
That’s when the girl reached up and with absolutely no fear pressed her tiny hand flat against his snout.
Bercelak felt it immediately—a hard jolt through his system. A hard jolt of recognition.
This was his granddaughter. His blood. He knew it on so elemental a level, it nearly dropped him to his knees. She felt it, too, he knew, when her scowl eased away and she smiled at him.
“How’s my darlin’ girl?” he whispered, thrilled when she giggled and waved her tiny feet at him.
Bercelak let her tug on his hair with one hand and yank on his nostril with the other while he waved his claw at her and tried to coax her into saying his name.
Mutual scowls returned to grandfather and granddaughter at the exact same moment, however, when they both sensed the presence of another and looked over to see Annwyl the Bloody standing there—smirking. It was also the moment the boy decided to wake up, take one look at Bercelak, and scream his tiny human head off.
The girl, not appreciating that, punched her brother, who punched her back. They were in a healthy brawl in their crib when Annwyl walked over and yelled, “Pack it in!”
They separated, but not happily.
“Fearghus went out to find them separate cribs. One minute it looks like they’re plotting to overthrow the world together, the next they’re mauling each other.”
“Get used to it. Most twin dragons usually fight their way out of their eggs.”
Bercelak stepped back from Annwyl, feeling uncomfortable. He’d always disliked her; he’d tried to kill her once and he’d go to his afterlife remembering what it felt like to have the point of her sword pressed against his underbelly.
And yet, he had to admit at least to himself, his feelings for her had changed somewhat. The problem was he didn’t know what to do with that.
“Why are you here?” she asked. At least this time she didn’t sound confrontational, merely curious.
“Wanted to make sure you didn’t burn to death in the forest fire.”
“I thought I smelled something burning.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to—” He shook his head, pulling back his anger. “Forget it.”
“I’m sure I would have found a way out for us somehow.”
“Good to know. There’s also a feast tonight at Garbhán Isle.”
“All right.”
“Well…now you know. I’m leaving.”
Bercelak backed out of the alcove and turned to leave when Annwyl’s voice stopped him.
“Wait. I…”
He forced himself to stop and look at her.
“I wanted to say…uh…what you did that day…”
Good gods, was she going to get emotional on him? Would there be tears and admissions of love and adoration? Would he be forced to comfort her?
Gods help me, where the hell is Fearghus?
She stared at him for a long bit, saying nothing and appearing as uncomfortable as he was, her gaze quickly moving around the alcove and cavern. Then she suddenly jerked—almost terrifying him—and quickly said, “I wanted to give you something!”
Disappearing into the alcove, she returned a moment later with one of the Minotaur blades. Considering the amount of blood on it, he assumed it was the one used by Annwyl to wipe out the Minotaurs’ entire unit. “Here.”
“What’s this for?” he asked, not taking the weapon right away since he wouldn’t put it past her to suddenly change her mind and take his head.
“Uh…well, I…I can’t keep it here, now can I?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
Annwyl walked back into the alcove and held the blade over the babes’ crib. The boy turned over and began to snore. But his sister…she reached for it with both hands, her dark eyes wide and excited. True, she might have that reaction to anything shiny and over her crib—but Bercelak doubted it.
“Does that answer your question?”
The human queen pulled the blade away and held it out for Bercelak—and he took it.
For a warrior like him or Annwyl, this was something to keep, to treasure as proof of superior fighting skills. She could easily mount it on her wall like other weapons she’d used before, thereby keeping it out of the reach of her daughter. But, instead, she’d given it to him.
“I’ll keep it…uh…until it’s safe enough to have it around her.”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Bercelak,” she said, quickly adding, “…for taking it.”
“You’re more than welcome, Annwyl.”
Then with a short nod and a smile at his grandchildren, Bercelak returned to Rhiannon, the prized Minotaur sword held tightly in his hand.
Gwenvael opened the door to his room and just as quickly closed it. His hand on the handle, he looked down at Dagmar. “Why don’t we go to your room? It is so much nicer.”
He didn’t know why he bothered trying to lie to her. She simply studied his face for one second before she dug her short nails into his hand. “Ow!” Gwenvael released the handle and Dagmar pushed the door open.
The gorgeous blond—she had a name, but he’d be damned if he could remember what it was—sitting naked on the bed perked up when she saw Gwenvael again, but then her lip jutted out in a pout when she caught sight of Dagmar. “Oh.”
“I know this looks bad,” he began, but Dagmar walked into the room and over to the blonde. She leaned down and began whispering in her ear. He tried to hear her, but his damn human ears could be so useless sometimes!
The blonde went from being disturbed that a strange woman was so close to her and right into horrified. The problem was she was staring at Gwenvael in horror. Then she gasped, disgusted, and got off the bed. She picked up her clothes and ran out the door, easing past Gwenvael, as if afraid to touch him. He watched her tear off down the hall before walking into his room and closing the door.
“You going to tell me what you said?”
“No,” Dagmar replied, diving back on the bed. “I’m not.” Then she laughed, which he didn’t like the sound of one bit since it was much more like a cackle.
“You know, I don’t need you damaging my reputation.”
“Yes, because there’s such pride in being Gwenvael the Defiler.”
“It’s Ruiner! And that’s only in the north. And those slappers had their own reputations long before I arrived. But here in the Dark Plains, I am Gwenvael the Handsome. Gwenvael the Loved. Gwenvael the Adored.”
“Gwenvael the Whore.”
“In some parts of Dark Plains, yes. Just remember, you’re representing me now.”
That made her cackle harder. “Oh, am I?”
“Yes. You are.” He stepped farther into the room. “Which is why I brought you up here. We need to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.” She reached down and pulled the skirt of her gown up, raised her knees, and let her legs fall open. “All right, you. Get that mouth to work and it’d better not be for talking.”
“Although I do find that strangely arousing, that’s not why we’re here.”
She dropped her dress and sighed. “All right, what is it?”
He stared down at her and announced, “I’ve decided to give you the gift of making you my own by Claiming you as my mate. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Dagmar pushed herself up, her palms flat on the bed. “Is that the best way you could come up with to ask me?”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Yes. That’s the problem.”
“Why?”
“Is it too much to expect to be asked that sort of thing?”
“I’m a dragon. We don’t ask; we take.”
“You mean to tell me that Fearghus didn’t ask Annwyl?”
“The rumor is he tied her to the bed.”
“Ta
laith?”
“She woke up and boom, she’d been Claimed. And that’s not a rumor; that’s what she told me.”
Dagmar narrowed her gaze then snapped her fingers. “Queen Rhiannon.”
“Chains.”
“No! Really?”
“Really. See? I’m the nice one. I’m trying to do it the polite way. Announcing it before tying you down.” When she only stared at him, he snapped, “And why wouldn’t you want to be my mate? We’re perfect together.”
“And we just found some naked woman on your bed, waiting for you.”
“That was not my fault. Probably a gift from Fal.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” She got off the bed, her hand scratching at her chest.
“That rash is getting worse.”
“I know it’s getting worse. I don’t need you to tell me it’s getting worse.”
“Why are you snapping at me? I didn’t give you a rash.”
Still scratching, she began to pace. “I know you don’t understand, but there are several reasons we should end this now.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. Why was she fighting this? Fighting what was so obvious to anyone with eyes? Did he need to get the woman new spectacles?
“Which are?” he tried not to snarl.
“One”—she held up her forefinger—“my father is expecting me home.”
“You’re right. And you were having such a good time there, too.”
“It had its moments. Two,” she didn’t bother to raise another finger. “I have a good sixty or seventy years left, barring disease or an unpleasant fall down a flight of stairs. And I’d prefer my husband age with me.”
“I’ll talk to my mother about it.”
“Your mother? What can she do?”
“Do we really need to argue about this now?”
“Fine. Three”—and still only that one finger—“I don’t share.”
“I never asked you to.”
“You don’t have to.” She motioned to the bed with a wave of her hand. “They’re laid out for you. Like treats.”
“And that’s my fault?”
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