by G. A. Aiken
“And do you have a name?” He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
“Really?”
“It will make beating the hell out of you so much easier.”
She wanted to throw him off. Make him uneasy. But his smile beamed like a bright ray of sunlight in the darkened glen. “A challenge. I like that.” He growled the last sentence, and it slithered all the way down to her toes. Part of her wanted to panic over that statement, since it frightened her more than the dragon himself. But she didn’t have time. Not with the blade flashing past her head, forcing her to duck and unsheathe her own sword.
He watched her move. Drank her in. And when she took off her shirt and continued to fight in just leather leggings, boots, and the cloth that bound her breasts down, he had to constantly remind himself of why he now helped her. To train her to be a better fighter. Nothing more or less. It was not so he could lick the tender spot between her shoulder and throat.
Annwyl, though, turned out to be a damn good fighter. Strong. Powerful. Highly aggressive. She listened to direction well and picked up combat skills quickly. But her anger definitely remained her main weakness. Anytime he blocked one of her faster blows, anytime he moved too quickly for her to make contact, and, especially, anytime he touched her, the girl flew into a rage. An all-consuming rage. And although he knew the soldiers of Lorcan’s army would easily fall to her blade, her brother was different. He knew of that man’s reputation as a warrior and, as Annwyl now stood, she didn’t stand a chance. Her fear of Lorcan would stop her from making the killing blow. Her rage would make her vulnerable. The mere thought of her getting killed sent a cold wave of fear through him.
Yet if he could teach her to control her rage, she could turn it into her greatest ally. Use it to destroy any and all who dare challenge her.
The shifting sun and deepening shadows told him that the hour grew late. The expression on her face told him that exhaustion would claim her soon, although she’d never admit it. At least not to him. But he knew what would push her over the edge. He grabbed her ass.
Annwyl screeched and swung around. He knocked her blade from her hand and threw her on her back.
“How many times, exactly, do I have to tell you that your anger leaves you exposed and open to attack?”
She raised herself on her elbows. “You grabbed me,” she accused. “Again!”
He leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Yes I did. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Her fist flashed out, aiming for his face. But he caught her hand, his fingers brushing across hers. “Of course, if you learned to control your rage I’d never get near you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But until that time comes, I guess your ass belongs to me.”
She bared her teeth, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. How could he when he knew how it irritated her so? “I think we’ve practiced enough for the day. At least I have. And the dragon now has a scouting party for his dinner. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Be ready, Annwyl the Bloody. This won’t get any easier.”
Fearghus entered what he now considered her chamber, but immediately ducked the book flung at his head. Clearly she’d been waiting for him. And she was not happy.
“He’s the one supposed to be helping me?” she roared at him.
“Did you just throw a book at me? In my own den?”
“Yes. And I’d throw it again!”
Fearghus scratched his head in confusion. He’d never met a human brave enough—or stupid enough, depending on your point of view—to challenge him. “But,” he croaked out, amazed, “I’m a dragon.”
“And I have tits. It means nothing to me!”
“What exactly is wrong with you?”
“That . . . that . . .”
“Knight?”
“Bastard!”
“Me or the knight?”
“Both of you!”
His anger crawled up his spine and settled itself against the back of his neck. He briefly closed his eyes, taking in a deep soothing breath. She was making him angry, and Fearghus the Destroyer didn’t get angry. “I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down.” He turned to go, but she seized his tail . . . and pulled.
“Oi! Don’t walk away from me!”
If Annwyl could have punched herself in the face, she would have. Anything had to be better than watching the dragon turn, oh so slowly, to face her. She had clearly angered him. Really angered him. And when he just as slowly walked over to her, Annwyl knew that she might finally see her ancestors waiting to welcome her home. But no matter, Annwyl planned to stand her ground. She wasn’t going to let some dangerously grumpy dragon make her cower. Of course, she did let him back her up against the far cave wall. But she had no choice—he just kept coming.
Annwyl thought briefly about panicking, but that seemed about as useful as punching herself in the face. Instead she straightened her shoulders and looked directly into the dragon’s dark eyes.
“You don’t scare me, you know.” Impressive. She almost sounded as if she meant that.
“Really?” His tail appeared and the dangerously sharp point smashed into the cave wall right beside her head. Her body tensed as bits of stone hit the side of her face. He placed the tip of one of his wings on the other side of her, effectively boxing her in. He leaned in close to her, the flaring nostrils of his snout almost touching her face. “I should scare you, beautiful one. I can turn you to ash where you stand.”
The beast had a point, but no use backing down now. “Then do it if you’re going to.”
The dragon’s eyes dragged across the entire length of her body. Then he breathed in deep, his eyes closed, as if he were sniffing a really good meal. . . . Well, that’s not a soothing thought.
“No one’s ever thrown anything at me,” he finally got out as his dark eyes again focused on her.
“Well, you deserved it. You should have warned me about him.”
Fearghus took a step back. She realized that she’d held her breath the entire time. She let it out as the beast took another step away from her. She guessed he’d decided not to eat her . . . today. “Was it really that bad, Annwyl?” His anger seemed to have dissipated. She wondered how he did that. Control his rage. She envied him the skill.
“Yes. It was.”
“But did you learn anything?”
Damn dragon with his bloody life lessons. “That’s beside the point.”
“Annwyl?”
“All right. Maybe a little.” He chuckled and Annwyl, without meaning to, smiled in response. “I’ve always been better than anyone I’ve ever fought.” Not that she had a choice. Her father knew teaching her to fight was the only way she would ever survive her childhood. Her brother had actively tried to kill her on more than one occasion and she had a tendency to say things that caused some men to want to see her dead. She guessed, though, that none of the men—including her father—expected her to be as good or as brutal a fighter as she turned out to be. “But your knight. He made me feel like I couldn’t fight off a ten year old boy.”
Fearghus sighed. “Give it time. He’s . . . uh . . . doing what I asked him to.” She didn’t want to give it time. Or give the knight a chance. She found him . . . disconcerting. And she didn’t like that feeling one bit. And she hated him for making her feel that way. She hated him a lot.
“You sure?”
“Positive.” He studied her. “All right?” She shrugged. “Annwyl. Answer me.” Gods, he could be commanding. He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to. And it had nothing to do with the size of him. It sent a delicious little shiver throughout her entire body.
Gods, Annwyl. Get control of yourself!
“Yes. All right.” She glared at him, even as her rage slipped away. “But I won’t be nice!”
The dragon looked her up and down. “I don’t think he’ll mind much.”
She rolled her eyes. “Probably not.” She stepped away from the
dragon. “Men are disgusting.”
Fearghus couldn’t believe how angry she’d made him. He didn’t get angry. Annoyed? Definitely. Stern? Absolutely. But to lose his temper? He didn’t do that. Ever. Until her. And it didn’t help that when she was angry, she gave off that scent . . . a musk, maybe. Something that called to him. He’d smelled it before when, as the knight, he’d annoyed the hell out of her. He’d worked hard to ignore that smell. But this time he leaned in and enjoyed her scent. Let it pulsate through his veins. It gave him all sorts of visions. Things he could do to her. Things she could do to him. It didn’t help his resolve.
He watched her walk away. Watched her tight rear move in those leather leggings. He couldn’t help himself. He swatted that rear with his tail.
“Oi!” She jumped and turned to glare at the dragon. “What was that for?”
For having the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen. No. He probably shouldn’t say that.
“To remind you that you’re in my lair. And don’t forget it.”
She should have been angry, but she smirked instead. Interesting. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
They stared at each other. And, if Fearghus had been in human form, he would have kissed her and anything else he could think of. But he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. No involvement with the human. He’d made the decision. He’d stick to it. No matter how much he wanted to suck on those . . . Dammit. He needed to go before he did something inappropriate. Fun. But inappropriate. “Well, is there anything else?”
“No.”
Good. Fearghus walked to the exit.
“But . . .”
Fearghus cringed and looked back at her. “But?”
“Well, now that”—she cleared her throat—“we have all that resolved, I was hoping we could talk.”
“Talk?” That completely distracted him from sucking on anything of hers. “About what?”
“About anything.”
If Fearghus had eyebrows he would have raised them. She couldn’t get away from the knight, who she believed to be human, fast enough. But she wanted to sit and chat with the dragon who had, just moments before, threatened to burn her to embers. Such an odd girl.
He smoothly turned his big body around and sat back on his hind legs, his head scraping the ceiling. “Well . . . I guess I can.”
“Good.” She eagerly jumped up on the table, sitting cross-legged. “Should I start then?”
“Perhaps you better.”
“As you wish.” She fell silent as she thought, and he stared at her breasts. She’d taken the bindings off and he could see the outline of the perfectly round mounds under the cotton shirt. Gods, Fearghus! Get control of yourself!
“I know. How old are you?”
“Two hundred and sixty-eight.”
“Years?”
“Aye.”
“So dragons are immortal?”
“No.”
“But legends say you are.”
“They’re wrong.” She prompted him to continue. He wasn’t used to talking so much. “The first dragons, the elders, were immortal. But a mated pair asked the gods for the gift of children. The gods agreed, but the price would be that they lose their immortality. Our line is descended from them.”
Annwyl stared at him with her mouth open. “That is the sweetest story I’ve ever heard.”
“It is?” The girl read too many books.
“Yes. It’s romantic. They gave up immortality to be together and start a family.”
Fearghus shrugged. “It’s a tale they tell the hatchlings. I’m almost positive there was more to it than that.”
“Are you always so cynical?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not immortal, but your kind clearly lives a long time.”
“Yes. About 800 years or so.”
“So, compared to other dragons, you’re kind of a baby?”
Fearghus grunted. “If you feel the need to put it that way.”
“Any siblings?”
“Yes.”
“How many?
Fearghus sighed and settled down for what would clearly be a long and painful night. He almost missed the days when she lay unconscious and near death. “Too many. And you?”
With a frown, “Is that meant to be funny?”
Oops. He actually just meant to be polite. Of course, he’d never been very good at polite. “No. Just wondering if there was anyone else besides the demon-spawn you call kin.”
“Sadly no. Or at least none that my father has claimed.” She propped her elbows onto her knees and cupped her chin in the palm of her hands. “Are you close to your family?”
“Just one sister. The others I only see at family times. And that is grudgingly.”
“Dragons have family times? Is that just a simple get together or are virgin sacrifices required?”Fearghus barked out a laugh and the girl smiled. “See? Got you to laugh.”
“That you did.”
Maybe the evening wouldn’t be that painful after all.
Chapter 5
Brastias, general of the Dark Plains rebellion and Annwyl’s second in command, leaned back into the hard wood chair and rubbed his tired eyes. She must be dead. She had to be dead. Annwyl would never disappear this long without word sent. He’d already sent trackers out to find her, but they came back empty-handed, losing her trail somewhere near Dark Glen, a haunted place most men dare not enter.
Of course, Annwyl was not most men. She often dared where others fled. She remained the bravest warrior Brastias knew and he’d met many men over the years who he considered brave.
But Annwyl could be foolhardy and her anger . . . formidable.
And yet every day for two years Brastias thanked the gods for his good fortune. On a whim they had attacked a heavily armed caravan coming from Garbhán Isle. Its cargo had been Annwyl. Dressed in white bridal clothes and chained to the horse she rode, her destiny to be the unwilling bride for some noble in Madron. And based on how heavily armed her procession was, dangerously unhappy about it as well. Once the attack began, one of his men released Annwyl and told her to escape. She didn’t. Instead she took up a sword and fought. Fought, in fact, like a demon sent from the gods of hate and revenge. Her rage a mighty sight to behold. By the time the girl finished, she stood among the headless remains of those she killed. Her white gown completely covered in blood. On that day the men had given her the name Annwyl the Bloody and, as much as she hated it, the name stuck.
They returned with her to their encampment, but no one knew what to do with her. The women of the camp shunned her. She frightened them and she turned out to be completely useless with anything domestic. But she possessed information on her brother. She knew where to attack and when. She knew his strengths and his weaknesses. And she wanted nothing more than to destroy him. Soon she brought in the financial assistance of other regions. No one wanted Lorcan in power longer than necessary. If his sister could stop him, she would have their loyalty. She protected their borders and the rebellion’s troops grew.
Eventually Annwyl took control and Brastias gave it over gratefully. She earned their loyalty and trust, and after two years the men would follow her down into the very pits of hell if she asked them.
But, if she were dead . . . Brastias didn’t want to even consider it. They hadn’t found her body. Perhaps they could still rescue her.
“General.” Brastias’s eyes shifted to the front of his tent. Danelin, his next in command, stood waiting. “There’s a witch here to see you.”
Brastias nodded once. She probably wanted to see Annwyl or, if his world contained any luck at all, perhaps she could tell him where to find his missing leader.
A tall woman entered his tent. An astounding beauty, tragically marked as a witch. He truly hoped that a special hell waited for men like Lorcan.
She walked toward him. Almost glided. He knew he’d seen her before. The people considered her a talented witch with healing powers. But he had no time for magic or wi
tches. Even beautiful ones. He had a rebellion to win.
“Yes, lady?”
“You are General Brastias?”
“Aye.”
The witch glanced at Danelin, refusing to speak in front of him. “Go, Danelin. I will call if you are needed.”
Danelin left, closing the tent flap behind him. The woman stood before him. She didn’t speak. She just stared.
“So, what is it, woman?” She raised one delicate eyebrow and he felt as if she’d dug down into his very soul.
“I have word of Annwyl of the Dark Plains.”
Brastias stood quickly, grasping the woman by the arms; she stood almost as tall as he. “Tell me, witch. Where is she?”
She stared at him. “Remove your hands, or I’ll make sure you don’t have any.” Brastias took a deep breath and released her. “She is safe and alive. But she is healing. She won’t be back for another fortnight.”
Brastias heaved a sigh of overwhelming relief as he sat heavily in his chair. “Thank the gods. I thought we’d lost her.”
“You almost had. But the girl must have the gods smiling down on her.”
“Can I see her?”
The woman watched him carefully. “No. But I will get any messages you may have to her.”
“Give me a few moments, I need to write something.” He grabbed quill and paper and wrote Annwyl a brief-but-to-the-point letter. He folded it, affixed his seal, and handed it to the witch. “Give her this and my love.”
“You are her man then?” she asked cautiously.
Brastias laughed. He did like his head securely attached to his shoulders. Becoming Annwyl’s man risked that.
“Annwyl has no man because there is no man worthy of her. That includes me. So she has become the sister I lost many years ago in Lorcan’s dungeons.”
The woman nodded and walked back to the entrance of Brastias’s tent. She stopped before leaving. “She asks,” the witch spoke softly without turning around, “that you not lose hope.”
“As long as she lives, we won’t.”
Then she was gone. Brastias closed his eyes in relief. Annwyl wasn’t dead. His hope returned.
Morfyd landed softly on the glen grounds. Unlike her brother, she’d learned to move silently as dragon.
