by G. A. Aiken
“Put me down!”
“What it all comes down to is what I want. And I want my mate back. And gods be damned, Annwyl the Bloody, I will have her!”
One second she was fighting with some handsome bastard who looked remotely familiar, and the next thing she knew she was airborne, flying face first into the clean, cool water.
As she went under, her arms swinging wildly to try to right herself, images inundated her. Images and thoughts and…and…memories.
Clawing her way back to the top, Annwyl burst through the surface. She wiped hair and water from her eyes, trying to find—
“There you are, you whiny sow.” He leered at her, looking smug and self-righteous. “You going to feed these brats of yours, or am I going to throw you in a few more times?”
Annwyl scowled at the dragon she was cursed to love for eternity. “You. Big. Bastard!”
He grinned, his body crouched by the lake’s edge as he watched her swim closer. “Now is that any way for you to talk to your mate? The dragon you love above all others?”
“Love you? I’d be better off loving one of those Minotaurs!”
Annwyl reached the edge of the lake, but before she could take hold of the edge, Fearghus slammed his hand against her forehead. “You’re not nearly clean enough. You still have Minotaur all over you.”
Then he shoved her under the water.
Now past all reason, Annwyl reached up and grabbed hold of Fearghus’s arm. Using both hands, she yanked the big bastard into the water with her. She swam back to the surface and took deep breaths, making sure to keep her eyes on Fearghus.
He came up laughing. “What did you do that for?”
“I hate you!”
“Liar!” He swam to her side and shoved her under the water a few more times, his hands scrubbing her hair and body until he’d gotten most of the blood and Minotaur gore off.
“There!” he said, when she’d finally gotten away from him. “Much better.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” His hand slipped behind the back of her neck and tugged her closer. “I almost lost you, Annwyl. I almost lost the only female I’ll ever love. That’s what’s wrong with me.”
“That’s all very sweet, but shouldn’t you be a bit nicer to me then? A few flowers, maybe a candlelight dinner?” Her teeth clenched and she spit out, “Is it beyond your capabilities to be a little bit romantic?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I give up.” She swam back to the lake’s edge, Fearghus right behind her. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
He grabbed hold of her and turned her to face him. “You put up with me because you love me. And I love you, Annwyl.”
Then he was kissing her, his hands digging into her wet hair, holding her steady as he plundered her mouth with his own. This she knew. This she’d craved.
She’d been there. On the other side. But not where anyone expected her to go. It hadn’t been her ancestors who’d met her when she arrived. It had been Fearghus’s. She’d had her ass pinched by Ailean the Wicked and a discussion on books with Baudwin the Wise, Fearghus’s great-grandfather. And as wonderful as it had all been, sitting on that soft grass, that one sun shining over their heads, surrounded by trees and many lakes, she’d still missed her Fearghus.
When Shalin, Ailean’s mate and Fearghus’s grandmother, saw Annwyl gazing off, she put her arm around her waist and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not over for you. She’s coming for you.” Annwyl had no idea who the pretty dragoness meant, but then she was being pulled, yanked from one world into another. Into blood and pain and misery.
Until Annwyl had that sword in her hand—then all had been right.
But with Fearghus at her side…now all was perfect.
He pulled his mouth away, but kept his forehead pressed against hers, his hands holding her steady. They gazed long and hard at each other. There were words they could say, but none were needed. Not for them.
Then, together, they both turned their heads toward the cave floor. When Annwyl looked at the baby boy it was Fearghus’s eyes that glared at her under all that brown hair with gold streaks.
The boy focused on both of them while his sister crawled toward the closest weapons.
And until Annwyl left this world—for the second time, anyway—she’d never know what disturbed her more at the moment. The fact that her three-day-old children could already crawl, that her daughter went right for the battle ax, or that her son planted his hands down on the lake’s edge, leaned into her, and screamed.
Fearghus floated beside her, his body rubbing against hers. “He really wants you to pick him up.”
Annwyl nodded. “I’m sensing that.”
Chapter 31
Dagmar sat on the tree stump by the small stream. It was getting late, the two suns just beginning to set. But this was Dark Glen, according to Gwenvael, and aptly named because the surrounding trees were so dense it felt late at night rather than early in the evening.
It didn’t matter, though. Not at the moment. Not when she was clean, her hair gently scrubbed of all blood and gore by Gwenvael. He’d seemed to enjoy washing her from head to toe. He’d seemed to be relieved simply to have her by his side.
Whether he was or not, Dagmar knew she was relieved to have him. As soon as she’d heard his voice, felt his presence, she’d known she was safe. He made her feel safe without making her feel trapped; she adored that.
Not surprisingly, Annwyl and Fearghus had not returned to them. Dagmar had been a little worried when she heard the distinct sounds of battle—swords clanging, battle cries, a lot of yelling—but Gwenvael didn’t even seem to notice, busy tending to the few wounds she had. Nothing serious. Mostly scratches here and there, but he’d treated each one like a sword wound.
She glanced down at the cotton shirt she wore. Her dress was hopelessly soiled and she had no real desire to ever put it back on. She had found one of Annwyl’s rare gowns, but it kept falling off her shoulders and baring her breasts. Although Gwenvael seemed to appreciate that, Dagmar had been in no mood to give Fearghus any additional entertainment when he returned. So she’d settled on Gwenvael’s shirt. It was simple and cotton, reaching down to her knees. Never before had she worn so little and been out in full view of anyone who could wander into this glen.
She smiled softly, glad her spectacles hadn’t been broken so that she could see everything around her. The old and beautiful trees, the small stream, the lovely flowers, the running deer…being chased by Gwenvael.
He flew low, tearing after the large buck. He got in close and bumped the animal with his snout. The deer flipped forward and into a tree, stunning itself. Gwenvael picked it up between his fangs and crushed it. Then he spit it out on the ground and followed that with a ball of fire, engulfing the deer’s body.
Gwenvael landed, sitting back on his haunches, his tail swinging out behind him.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Dagmar pulled off her spectacles, carefully folding them and putting them into a small protective box Gwenvael found for her in the cave. “I think I’ll stick with the fruit and cheese.”
“All right then.”
Letting out a satisfied sigh, Dagmar looked up at the trees, now nothing more than fuzzy outlines, and gleefully ignored the sounds of flesh being torn from bone.
Because she had no doubts that at this moment…Life could have been so much worse.
Gwenvael watched as she crawled into the big guest bed Annwyl and Fearghus had in their cave. He’d used it himself more than once, but because he always liked his head right on his shoulders, he’d always used it alone. “Don’t bring any of your whores here,” Annwyl had commanded on more than one occasion. And he’d grudgingly obeyed.
But now he had Dagmar in that bed and he knew he couldn’t get in with her. How could he? She’d been through too much in one day. Gods and Minotaurs and Annwyl. Yet all he wanted, all he could think about, was getting into that be
d with her and Claiming her as his own.
It was those damn wool socks. He didn’t realize he loved her until she told him about out-negotiating a god of war—the most haggle-loving of the gods—with socks! He knew now, though. He knew he loved her and knew that he’d never let her go back to her life in the cold Northlands. Not when he had a warm place for her in his bed and his heart.
Yet knowing all that, he still couldn’t take her. Not now. If he got in bed with her at this moment, he’d brand her as his and forever wonder if it was what she truly wanted or if she’d still been overwhelmed at witnessing an Annwyl-slaughter of fifty Minotaurs.
He had to wait.
Yet she didn’t make it easy on him, looking so vulnerable and enticing. Her hair had dried into loose waves down her back, and without her spectacles on all he could see were those lovely grey eyes blinking up at him. His shirt was much too big on her and made her appear innocent, like a virgin on the altar of his cock.
No, he had to wait.
Gwenvael handed her two books he’d grabbed off Annwyl’s bookcase. The couple had not returned and Gwenvael wasn’t exactly shocked. Nor did he blame them. They needed the time alone. He’d offered to take Dagmar back to Garbhán Isle, but she’d softly said, “No. That’s all right. I’d rather stay here for a bit, if we could.”
He knew his brother wouldn’t mind so they stayed. But now it was late and she looked exhausted. Exhausted and vulnerable. And delicious.
Gwenvael shook his head. “I have to go out for a bit.”
“Oh. All right.” She didn’t argue about it, or complain. Simply pulled open one of the books and started reading.
“You’ll be safe here. My kin are all over, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She nodded but kept reading.
Without another word, Gwenvael headed out of the cave and to the closest, coldest lake.
Dagmar growled and sat up. She’d tried to sleep. For at least an hour she’d tried. She knew she was exhausted. Knew she needed the rest.
But he’d left her!
Was he already that bored with her? Already that ready to move on and find some bar whore to warm his bed?
Dagmar knew there were ways to entice males into a woman’s bed, but she’d never been good at that sort of thing. In fact, she’d never even tried to be. Instead she’d taken off her spectacles and forced herself not to squint. She’d hoped that would have done the trick. It didn’t. He ran out of the cavern like one of her dogs was chasing after him.
Throwing off the furs, Dagmar slipped out of bed. She grabbed her spectacles from off the side table and rebelliously put them on before walking into the main alcove. The thought of returning to that empty bed was not enticing, nor was sitting at the table reading. There were only a few torches still lit, but she decided to follow the light and see where it took her. Anything was better than lying in bed, staring up at the cave ceiling, worrying about whether bats hid up there until the suns rose.
The interior of the dragon’s cave could almost be called plain. He had few adornments on his walls. A tapestry here and there, and several weapons tacked up as decorations. But, she noted on closer inspection, they could easily be pulled down and used as necessary.
There were many alcoves, several filled with riches. But what surprised her were all the books. At least three alcoves had books from floor to her shoulder. She cut through one of these alcoves, a few torches against the wall lighting her way, until she slipped through a large crevice in the wall. Yet she didn’t expect the crevice to suddenly bow inward, making her feel trapped and wonder if she’d ever get out. But she wiggled a bit and pulled herself through. She let out a breath, suddenly grateful for her small breasts, and kept going, determined to find another way back around.
As she stepped out on the other end, she realized she was on a large, naturally made ledge that curled up at the end. It was sturdy and allowed her to walk across and place her hands on the raised part so she could lean over and look down onto an amazing indoor lake. The lake itself was breathtaking, the water crystal clear and beautiful, a small underground stream constantly refilling and churning it so it didn’t become stagnant.
For a very brief moment, she wondered why Gwenvael had not brought her here to bathe, but then she caught sight of Annwyl and Fearghus by the lake’s edge. The babes were in a large crib, big enough for the both of them. And they slept while their parents clung to each other. Dagmar could hear low moans from him and soft sighs from her. Could see the queen’s body arch, her head thrown back as her mate entered her. He kissed her neck, his hands stroking her body with a reverence Dagmar had only seen from monks when touching their most holy of artifacts. From where she stood, unseen, she could hear words of undying love and promises of a grand future.
She lowered her head. This wasn’t the usual sort of coupling she’d secretly watched over the years. Sordid liaisons to be grabbed and hurriedly done with before husbands or wives came to investigate. Dirty secrets to be kept and fantasized over while at first meal the following morning. To be forgotten months, if not days, later.
No. This was love. In its purest form.
And Dagmar felt nothing but regret knowing she’d never have this herself. She couldn’t even blame the men who found her not to their tastes because she understood that to have this kind of love was simply not in her nature. To open herself this way to anyone was not possible for her. Who could she ever trust like this?
Feeling a sadness from deep within, Dagmar stepped back, determined to tackle the tight fit of the crevice again so she could leave Annwyl and Fearghus to their privacy. But her back moved into something hard but not nearly as hard as a cave wall.
A hand slipped around her mouth, silencing her surprised gasp, and soft lips pressed against her ear.
“I leave you alone for a few minutes”—that low voice whispered—“and I always find you up to something very naughty, my Lady Dagmar.”
She shook her head in denial, absurdly delighted when she felt his other arm slip around her waist and hold her tight against his body.
“You can deny it, but we both know. Know how much you enjoy watching others.”
Perhaps. But she didn’t enjoy it nearly as much as she enjoyed the feeling of Gwenvael’s hand sliding down her leg and grasping hold of the shirt she’d worn to bed. He pulled it up until it rested above her hips.
“Aaaah,” he sighed as two of his fingers slipped deep inside her. “I knew it, my lady. Knew you’d be soaking wet from watching.”
She’d known it too, but it had little to do with what Annwyl and Fearghus were up to.
“Can’t leave you like this, now can we? Wet and needy, with no relief.” He thrust hard with his fingers, and Dagmar immediately gripped the fingers covering her mouth with both her hands. She didn’t try to pry them off, but pinned them there, hoping they would help her control her desire to cry out.
“Watch them,” he said against her ear, while his tongue explored. “Watch how my brother takes his mate. With such skill, he brings her to climax. And I will do the same for you.”
As her hips began to match Gwenvael’s fingers, thrust for thrust, she had no doubt he’d do as he promised, but again, it had nothing to do with what went on near the lake’s edge. She couldn’t see the other couple anyway, her eyes closing as she focused on the feel of Gwenvael’s fingers inside her, the way his breath caressed the sensitive place behind her ear, and the way his naked body felt pressed against her back.
“Gods, Dagmar. You’re so tight.” He bit her shoulder, nipped her neck before returning to her ear, his whispers feverish. “I tried to give you time alone, but I can’t. Not now. This night you’ll spend with me.” His thumb pressed against her clit, moving in slow circles. “You’ll spend it with my cock deep inside you, making you come again and again.”
Her body jerked in his arms, the climax wrenching through her. He turned them so she was now facing the wall, trying to use his big body to block out the cries.
It was unnecessary, though, as the queen’s own choked cries of pleasure overrode Dagmar’s.
Her body shook in his arms, her knees weakening from the power of her climax. Yet Dagmar had no fear of falling, because Gwenvael held her. He held her until her last shudder passed and she slumped, boneless, against his body.
Gwenvael placed her on the bed, tossing the shirt he’d removed from her across the room. Her eyes fluttered open and, smiling, he carefully removed her spectacles, placing them on the side table. He leaned over and waved his hands in her face. “Can you still see me?” he teased loudly.
She lightly slapped at his hands. “Stop doing that.”
“What would you like me to do instead?”
Soft hands reached for him, grabbing hold of his shoulders, pulling him down on top of her. “I want you inside me.”
Nothing had sounded more perfect before.
He pushed inside her, his way eased by her recent climax. She gasped as his cock stretched her open, her neck arching as she gripped his biceps.
When her lips parted, Gwenvael kissed her, spearing his tongue inside her moist mouth as his cock speared inside her warm pussy. Her fingers dug into his skin, her thighs opening wide beneath him.
For more than an hour he’d sat in that freezing cold lake as human. Even with chattering teeth and shaking body, he was still hard. And hard only for her.
It never even occurred to him to find another. To track down a bar wench or two and do what he normally did when in this part of Dark Plains for a night. It never occurred to him that anyone but Dagmar would be in his bed ever again.
Eventually he had headed back inside with the intent of trying to get some sleep in one of the alcoves. He was a dragon; sleeping on jewels and treasure was par for the course. But as soon as he’d entered the cavern, he’d immediately known Dagmar was gone. Locking on her scent, he was relieved to discover she’d only gone deeper into the cave rather than out of it. He followed her scent until it disappeared into a crevice no one among his kin would ever be able to creep through. But he had an idea of where it led and he took another path he knew.
