by G. A. Aiken
“Oh, trust well, Lord Arrogant, that I plan on making your life a living hell.”
“Who says you don’t already?”
“I haven’t even begun!”
“Uncaring wench!”
“Difficult bastard!”
Then they were kissing, their mouths fused, their tongues teasing and stroking while they ripped each other’s clothes off.
And that’s how Briec knew Talaith spoke true—everything would be just fine.
Dagmar slammed a small jar of ointment on the desk and bent over it, giving Gwenvael complete access to her ass.
“Get to work,” she ordered.
“I’ll need a basin and cloth. Don’t forget my lecture on hygiene.”
“That is not what this is for, you disgusting bastard. It still hurts.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No. I’m not. Especially when I saw Fal sniffing around you yet again.”
“Fal’s a boy. I’d never be interested in him.”
“So me, Briec, and Fearghus didn’t need to throw him off the top of the building?”
Dagmar straightened. “You did what?”
“He’s unclear on boundaries. And don’t look at me like that. He’s still alive.”
Dismissing it all with a wave, she walked to the bed and removed her dress and her shift. She lay across the bedding, face down. And, like the royal she was, Dagmar waited for him to do as she bid.
Taking her foot, Gwenvael slowly rolled her over onto her back. She winced and glared. “What are you doing?”
He carefully bent her legs back until they touched her chest. “I bet if you don’t move it doesn’t hurt.”
“So?”
Gwenvael pushed her bent legs apart and settled in between, his face by her pussy. “Guess you better not move then.”
Panting, she shook her head. “Don’t.”
“Too late. I have to have you. Have to taste you. But you have to keep still. No squirming, writhing, or anything else.”
He licked his lips. “No matter what I do to this sweet little pussy—don’t move.”
Her hands gripped the bedding. “You’re a bastard.”
“And you love me for it, don’t you?”
“Reason help me, but I do.”
Gwenvael smiled, happier than he’d ever been before. “And I love you, Beast. Now, remember,” he teased, enjoying how she couldn’t help but squirm anyway, “don’t move.”
Keita the Viper walked past the rows of fighting, training dragons and into the heart of Anubail Mountain, the underground fortress of the warrior dragons. It was here that the greatest Dragonwarriors of the Southland were born. Royal or low born, it didn’t matter once you crossed the threshold and dared to enter.
As she passed, all stopped to watch her. She recognized a few of the males, but none had left an indelible mark in her life. None had been unforgettable.
She walked into the main cavern. The dragon she’d come to see stood in the middle of a rune-covered circle made of refined steel and trained hard with a long staff. Ignoring those who stared at her, Keita moved into that training circle and went down on one knee, her head bowed.
The staff swung over her head, missing her by less than an inch. Even as she felt it go by, she didn’t move, she didn’t cringe—she simply waited.
The staff slammed into the floor and one long talon tapped patiently. Still, Keita didn’t move.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t her mighty ladyship. The Princess Keita herself. And what are you doin’ here, little princess?”
Keita went back on her haunches, her front claws planted firmly on the floor. “I need your help, Elestren.”
“My help?” the low-born female asked. “For what?”
“To teach me to fight. To kill.”
“We all know how to kill, little princess. It’s in our blood.”
“I want to learn to fight like you. To be able to take on any dragon that challenges me, whether I’m in this form or my human one.”
Elestren began laughing. “You?” She laughed harder. “The pretty little princess wants to learn to fight like me?” She stepped closer. “You want scars like mine, too? They don’t go away, you know? Once the cuts go past the scales, they’re permanent. Even on your human form. Sure you want them? You with your male pets and pretty gowns? Sure that’s what you want?”
What she wanted was to never feel as weak and helpless as she had with that barbarian, Ragnar. He’d used her in his games and she’d never forgive that, nor would she ever let it happen again with him or anyone else. She was no mere prize to be won or lost, no bargaining chip to be used against her bitch mother. She was Keita the Viper—and she’d do whatever necessary to make sure she truly deserved that name.
Keita looked the warrior in the eyes. “It’s what I want.”
Elestren regarded her closely and nodded. “I believe it is.” The dark green dragoness walked over to the altar against the far wall. “When we fly into battle, we call on the war goddess Eirianwen. You want to stay here and train with me, whether you fight with our armies or not, you’ll dedicate your life to her, just as I’ve done.”
Keita strode to the altar without hesitation and took the dagger handed to her. Holding her claw over the thick marble, she slid the blade across her palm. Her blood mingled with the thousands of Dragonwarriors who had come before her, including her father.
“I dedicate my life and the lives of those I kill to the mighty Eirianwen,” she intoned solemnly.
Elestren took her dagger back. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping—alone, if you have any sense—and tomorrow we’ll begin.”
Keita turned to the dragoness. “Thank you, cousin.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Elestren eyed her coldly. “I’m going to enjoy making you bleed, little princess.”
Watching her cousin walk away, Keita asked, “Is this still about when I called you fat ass? Isn’t it time you got over that?”
And when Keita ducked the long staff that flew at her head, she knew she’d at least proven her reflexes were quick.
Chapter 36
Izzy made it to the front gates before she turned around and saw them all standing there, watching her go. There were few who could say they had not one but two queens bidding them farewell before they went off to war. Plus Izzy’s father, grandfather, and uncles were out there too, the dragon necklace they’d had made for her from the steel of their favorite weapons hanging under her padded shirt and against her heart. But it was her mum that caused more tears to well up in Izzy’s throat, knowing it would be months before she again saw the woman who’d risked everything for her.
Izzy gave one last wave and quickly walked through the gates. When she knew they could no longer see her, she took off running, forcing her tears back as she didn’t want anyone in her unit to see she’d been crying.
The troops were gathering in the west fields, and she’d been grateful her family said good-bye to her here rather than in front of everyone else. She’d bet that was her father’s smart idea.
She was nearly to the field, able to see horses, banners, and rallying troops through the trees, when she heard her name called.
She stopped and spun around to find Éibhear standing there.
“I see you said good-bye to everyone.”
She chuckled, wiping the wetness from her face with the sleeve of her shirt. “You know how me and Mum are.”
“I do.”
She smiled at him. “Coming to kiss me good-bye then?”
There went that tic she’d begun to notice. It was in his right cheek and she’d caught sight of it for the first time at the last feast when he abruptly walked over to her and said, “I thought you were behind the bloody—oh, forget it!” And just as abruptly walked away.
“No,” he ground out, the tic worsening. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”
“You could have done that back there.”
&nbs
p; He let out a sigh. “You’re right. Sorry I bothered.”
She watched him turn, heading back to Garbhán Isle. Cranky and rude as always, he was. What was it about her that irritated him so? He was so nice to everyone else.
She bit her lip a moment before she said, “They say you’re going to the north with Grandmum’s armies.”
He stopped but didn’t turn around. “I am.”
“Will you miss me at all?”
He let out another sigh, more aggravated than the last. “Of course I will.” He faced her again. “I’m your uncle and I’ll miss you.”
“Gwenvael’s my uncle. Fearghus. You’re not my uncle, Éibhear.”
“Izzy—”
“You’ll never be my uncle.”
“I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“The way Celyn isn’t my cousin.”
His silver eyes glinted in the early-morning suns and he snapped, “Going to play that game now are you, princess?”
“He likes me.”
“For now. Until he gets what he wants and gets bored.”
“He’s nice and he’s too terrified of Briec to be cruel.”
“But if you’re in love with him—”
“I’m not.”
He tried to hide it, but she knew she saw relief on that infinitely beautiful face. “At least you’re going to be smart about it,” he muttered.
“He’ll never have my heart, Éibhear.”
“Good—”
“Not like you do.”
“Izzy…” He began to back away from her. “Stop.”
“Go to the north, Éibhear. Go wherever you want. It won’t make a bit of difference. Because when the time is right…You’ll be mine.”
“That’s it. You’re a spoiled brat and impossible to deal with.”
“But you love me anyway.”
“No, Izzy. I don’t. Get it into your thick head already. You’re my brother’s daughter and that means something with my kin. But, at the end of the day, you’re not my problem. Still, try not to get yourself killed, eh?”
Hurt, but not willing to show it, she said, “I’ll try to avoid that.”
He nodded at her and walked off.
“And don’t worry,” she told his back. “I wasn’t planning on waiting for you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“I’ve always felt my virginity should go to someone who actually earns it.”
And that’s when Éibhear tripped over his own feet and went head first into the trunk of a rather large tree.
“Gods dammit!” he roared, gripping his head.
Not inclined to wait around, Izzy quickly spun on her heel and ran to meet with her already moving troops.
Dagmar quickly crawled to the edge of the ridge and lifted her large spectacles to her face. “Dammit! We missed it.”
“Mhhmm?”
Gwenvael’s arm went around her waist and he began kissing her lower back. “This is your fault,” she accused, trying to ignore the feel of his mouth against her bare skin.
“Probably.” He moved lower. “But do you really mind?”
“Yes!” she lied.
“Liar.”
His tongue began to trace the lines of his Claiming mark. Dagmar’s eyes crossed and she lowered the extra spectacles before she dropped them.
“You make the worst spy,” she accused.
They’d come up there to watch Baron Lord Craddock’s wife entertain herself with one of Annwyl’s soldiers. Yet Dagmar had been overwhelmingly delighted when it turned out her liaison was with a local pig farmer who, she’d heard from Morfyd, had a strange affection for his merchandise and rarely bathed.
Unfortunately when things began to turn interesting between the farmer and her ladyship and strange snorting sounds began to be used—by both—Gwenvael had completely distracted her…several times.
How was she to get anything done when he kept doing that to her?
“Don’t blame me because you can’t keep quiet.” He kissed and licked his way up her back. “I think it was that last scream that frightened them off. Now aren’t you sorry I didn’t gag you as I suggested?”
“If you gag me, I won’t be able to scream for help.”
He nipped her shoulder and dug his hand into her hair, turning her head so he could take her mouth. His kiss was long and lingering, and she relaxed into it, letting him take what he wanted from her.
Pleasure and happiness—at one time she’d never dared to hope for these. Now she had more than she knew what to do with.
He rolled her to her back, his hands sliding up her sides and to her arms. As if time didn’t matter, his kiss went on and on while his fingers gently stroked her skin. It wasn’t until her arms were pinned over her head that he pulled from their kiss and softly asked, “So what were you and Fearghus talking about earlier?”
Quickly forgetting about the Craddocks and their bitter, unhappy lives, Dagmar sighed. “Nothing much.”
He entered her slowly, Dagmar’s body arching into his while he planted tiny kisses against her jaw and throat.
“My lovely Dagmar,” he murmured. “Such an excellent little liar.”
Dagmar’s squeal of protest rang out and she kicked and tried to pull her arms away, but Gwenvael refused to release her as he mercilessly tickled her.
“Stop! Stop!”
He did. “What were you talking about?”
“Baron Lord Craddock.” She squealed again, kicked harder. “Let me go! You can’t do this to me!”
“But I am!” he gasped out. “And I have to say I do enjoy it this way. Every time I tickle you, like right…here!”
“Stop!”
“Your pussy squeezes me so hard.” He groaned. “Gods that feels good.”
“Stop! Stop!”
He took his time, but he stopped. “Tell me.”
“I’m not lying, you rude bastard. We were talking about Craddock. Rumor is he’s raising an army near the Southland coast.”
“And?”
“And what?” She squealed when he tickled her again and spit out the rest when he stopped, “All right! All right! Fearghus wants us to go and find out what really is happening on Craddock’s territory. Arrange a truce if we can, plan for war if we can’t. But with the wife’s obvious indiscretions in play, I hope a war with Craddock will be unnecessary.”
Gwenvael frowned. “Fearghus wants me to go as well?”
“He thinks we’re an excellent team. Figures I can handle the court and you can handle the merchants and get information from the working girls—which had better be all you get from them.”
Using his free hand, he touched his cheek. “And risk this pretty face by upsetting the love of my life? Never.” He chuckled when she only smirked at him. “Now…Is this the first time you two have discussed this little trip of goodwill?”
“Yes.” His fingers went at her again and she screamed, “No! No!”
“Well?”
“We talked about it two weeks ago.”
“That was around the time I was certain you and Annwyl were up to something. I’d wondered how you’d talked Fearghus into sending that little gift to your father.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
At this point she was quite aware she was goading him, but when he took her with those long powerful strokes, making her come again and again while tickling her beyond reason, she didn’t really care.
Letting out one last shudder, Gwenvael rolled off Dagmar and smiled. “Conniving cow.”
She laughed. “I was wondering why you hadn’t said anything.”
“Why would I? I love watching you work. My brothers don’t know what to make of you. And that’s just high entertainment for me.”
They looked at each other, both breathing hard, exhausted to their bones, and Gwenvael studied her. Dagmar’s hair, saturated with sweat, stuck to her forehead and her eyes blinked hard as she tried to focus on his face without her spectacles. He understood now that her mind
would never stop turning, never stop planning—and she’d never be happy with a simple life at court.
“I love you, Dagmar. Every plotting, conniving inch of you.”
Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of red, but her expression didn’t change. She’d never show that he’d embarrassed her with his direct words. Words he would never speak to any other.
“And I love you,” she returned simply, the words as unadorned and perfect as she was.
Gwenvael opened his arms and Dagmar moved over, collapsing into them. He stroked his hands down her sweat-covered back, his fingers sliding against the lines of her brand. He did that often, happy and grateful that she wore his mark.
He sighed contentedly and kissed her. “Do you realize that the entire world is at our disposal, Beast?”
“Of course I realize that.” Could she sound haughtier? Then he realized that she actually could sound much haughtier. “But we’re not supposed to say it out loud. Instead we’re supposed to silently recognize the fact and use it to our will until we get everything we want.”
Gwenvael sat up and pulled Dagmar onto his lap. His hand cupped her cheek and chin as he looked into her eyes so she could know that every word he spoke—to her—was the absolute truth. “I have everything I want, Dagmar. Everything I could ever want.”
Her smile was pure pleasure even as her cheeks reddened more. “Then what’s the point of the game if we have everything we could want?”
Gwenvael watched as Lady Craddock stumbled from the bushes, quickly smoothing back her hair and making sure her gown was back in place. Tragically for her, the biggest mistake she’d made was not that she hadn’t cleaned off the mudcrusted, man-sized palm prints on the back of her dress. Nor was it her eagerness to bring war to the people she should be trying to protect. No, Lady Craddock’s biggest mistake was to focus cruel gossip on the twins. Spreading rumors and lies about the twins being unholy or the products of dark gods had drawn Dagmar’s wrath quicker than anything else could have. Now both royal husband and wife would have to pay the price. And pay they would—later.
“The point?” He kept one arm around Dagmar’s waist while he reached into the basket of food and wine Fannie had sent them off with. “The point is entertainment. And do you know what the best part of that entertainment is, my love?”
