by G. A. Aiken
“Pardon?”
“Well, in the past when Ren and I—”
“Yes. Your perfect Ren. How could I forget him?”
“That sounded an awful lot like sarcasm, but I’m choosing to ignore it. Now, I’ve thought about this all the way from Devenallt Mountain. And we need a good, solid reason for you to be around me. You can’t just follow me like a puppy. So, after some thought, I think the best idea is for us to be lovers.” She smiled. “Isn’t that a lovely idea?”
Gods! This female!
“What?”
She had the nerve to look insulted. “You don’t have to look so panicked. We can just fake it if it makes you more comfortable.”
“I’m not panicked—I’m trying to keep up.” He scratched his head as it dawned on him that she hadn’t said they would pretend to be lovers, which meant what exactly? “Do you want to be lovers?”
“Sure. Why not? You know, while we’re here.”
She was truly trying to drive him into drinking every day until he blacked out, wasn’t she?
“It’s kind of a ‘two mountains, one boulder’ sort of thing,” she explained. “It will give us something fun to do while waiting to stop a war that may devastate our entire continent.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And,” she continued, smile widening, “everyone will be disgusted that I’m willing to lower myself to actually bed a barbarian lightning breather. A definite win-win, wouldn’t you say?”
“How is that a win-win?”
“They’ll all assume I’m doing it to torment my mother, not realizing my mother could give a blessed shit, which will draw the traitors out sooner rather than later. See? It’s brilliant.”
Ragnar began to rub his temples with one hand. “Let’s try this again. Do you want to be with me?”
“You mean actually fuck you?”
Ale. He needed ale so badly right now. “Sure. Why not?”
Keita leaned back and studied him. “Aye. I think I’d enjoy fucking you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is there something wrong with your chest?” Ragnar slammed his hand down, and Keita leaned farther away. “You don’t have scale fungus, do you?”
“I do not have scale fungus! If you want the truth, this is your fault!”
“My fault?”
“You stabbed me, and this damn thing hasn’t healed in two years. Did you use a poison on your tail?”
“Of course I di—” Keita abruptly stopped talking, her hand covering her mouth.
“You did, didn’t you?” Ragnar bellowed. “You did bloody poison me!”
“It shouldn’t have lasted this long,” she argued while not trying very hard not to laugh. “I just rubbed it against an iustig plant before I—”
“Assaulted me?”
“If you want to be literal. But the itching should have stopped ages ago.”
“Well, it didn’t. Dammit, Keita! I thought I was losing my bloody mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Like hell you are.”
“No. Honestly. I am sorry.”
Ragnar shook his head. “Maybe we should talk about this later.”
“No, no.” Keita crawled into his lap, facing him, and pressed her hand against the scar. There was a shirt between her flesh and his, but he only felt Keita. “I am sorry, and I can get you an antidote.”
He grunted, looking off.
“Don’t be angry with me now—we were just getting along. For once.”
He still said nothing, and that’s when she asked, “Have you ever kissed as human?”
Was it possible for her to stay on one topic at a time? He didn’t think so.
“Once or twice.”
He’d been joking when he replied, but she winced, just a little. It was enough.
“Are you any good?”
“As a matter of fact—”
She raised her hand, cutting him off. “That’s all right. It’s not a large issue.”
She settled against Ragnar’s waist, her knees on either side of him. “I love kissing as human,” she explained. “I love fucking as human, too. Hope that won’t be a problem for you.” He again didn’t reply, not knowing what to think of any of this. “And the most important thing to remember is not to choke me to death with your tongue.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Although he was sure he would have sounded much ruder if he wasn’t panting just a little. But damn her, she was naked under that gown. He’d forgotten.
“Good.”
Keita closed the gap between them and pressed her mouth against his. Small kisses at first, nothing rushed or too forceful. It surprised him how innocent those first few kisses felt. Taking his supposed “inexperience” to heart, she didn’t push him, simply continued with those small kisses, lengthening them by degrees. As each kiss grew in intensity, the damn itching of the scar she’d given him flared to life again. He clenched his hands into fists to stop himself from scratching the area until there was blood.
“It’s all right,” Keita whispered against his mouth. “Just relax. You’re doing fine.”
No. He wasn’t doing fine. How could he concentrate on this kiss or any other when the itching was driving him beyond reason? He needed that damn antidote before he went any further.
Ragnar began to speak at the same time Keita came in for another kiss. Finding his mouth open, she slipped her tongue inside, brushed up against his. Ragnar’s body shuddered, and his hands unclenched so he could grip her waist and pull her closer to his body.
And that irritating scar on his chest? Momentarily forgotten.
The pious Lightning was a fast learner, his tongue boldly moving around hers while his arms held her tight against him.
Keita tilted her head to the side, relaxed into him, and let the kiss go on. Perhaps not much experience at this sort of thing while human, but definitely a quick learner.
Her body heated under her dress, her nipples hardening, and her pussy clenching with the need for something to fill it. When she started to squirm on his lap, Keita pulled out of their kiss.
Both panting, they stared at each other. Keita had no idea how long, it felt like hours.
“Keita!” she heard from near the fortress. It was her brother, Éibhear.
She closed her eyes and reached out to her brother with her mind. What?
Where are you?
In the west fields. What is it?
Dinner in the hour.
And?
Well…I know you like to dress for that sort of thing, so I’m letting you know beforehand so you don’t yell at me later that I didn’t give you enough time!
Don’t get testy! I’ll be right there.
All right. Oh. And have you seen Lord Ragnar?
Why?
Vigholf was looking for him, and Briec, being a right bastard, said, “Oh, you didn’t know? We took him down to the river and drowned him.” And Vigholf went for his weapon, and Fearghus said, “Do that, Lightning, and I’ll let my wench cut off the rest of your head.” And I said, “Can we not do this now?” And then I told Fearghus, “And don’t call Annwyl wench.” And he shoved me. So I shoved him back. And that really pissed him off, and then he and Briec ganged up on me. And I said, “I’m telling Mum!” And then they laughed at me, and I don’t think that was fair at all.
Keita’s baby brother went on, but it was the shaking beneath her that had her opening her eyes and staring at the warlord she had her arms wrapped around. The laughing warlord.
Éibhear, she cut in. Don’t let them worry you. I’ll be back in a bit. Ragnar’s fine.
All right.
Her brother ended their communication, and Keita grabbed hold of Ragnar the Cunning by that one braid his brother no longer had.
“Ow!”
“Were you listening?”
“My gods, he whines so!”
She yanked.
“Ow!”
“How do you do that? How is that possible?” Only direct kin could hear each other’s thoughts.
Ragnar caught her hand and pulled it off his hair. “Neither of you shield your thoughts. Any good mage, this close, could hear you two like you were screaming in his ear. Especially with that level of whining.”
“My brother does not whine.” She grabbed his braid again, yanked.
“Ow!”
“Stay out of my head, warlord!”
“Try to control where your thoughts go, princess.”
“And that sounded like prince-ass!”
He smirked. “Are we going back before your baby brother starts sobbing?”
She pointed a warning finger at him. “Never, and I mean never, pick on my brother.”
“Isn’t he a little big to coddle?”
Keita slid off Ragnar’s lap and stood. “You will stay out of my head.”
“Why? What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing, but it’s rude and invasive. And as powerful as you claim to be, you should have as easy a time blocking out what you hear as you do hearing it.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now can we go?”
The warlord got to his feet, moving with an ease belied by his size. To be honest, she always expected him to lumber a bit more.
“Now remember,” she told him, smoothing down her dress, her hair, “just let me take the lead on this and all will be well. We can decide later if we want to take that kiss further.”
Ragnar’s arm wrapped around her waist as he walked by, pulling her into his chest. “You’re trying to drive me insane—I won’t let you.”
“I am not—”
“And we will damn well take that kiss further.”
“Oh, you think so, do—”
He kissed her again, stunning her with the power of it. But as quickly as he started, he ended it, releasing her with a hard swat to her ass.
“Let’s go, princess. You have to get dressed for dinner and get me that damn antidote.”
“I’ll have to have it made, so you’ll get it after dinner or tomorrow. And I’m still hearing prince-ass!” she shouted.
Amhar the Blood Drinker watched his niece follow after that Lightning. He’d been so focused on the carcass at his feet that he’d thought she’d gone inside long ago. But when he lifted his head, she was just standing up in the tall grass and the Lightning was right behind her.
Amhar didn’t like the looks of all that. Especially that swat to the ass. The kiss meant nothing to him; it was the ass swat that he saw as a stronger message of intent.
Although his niece might be freer than most with males—she took after a lot of his sisters on that score—no respectable female in their family would ever lower herself to bed down with some barbarian snake with wings. And as one of the royals, Keita had to know better than that.
Then again, the only thing Keita the Viper knew better was how to get herself into trouble.
Worried, but not one to deal with a female issue himself, Amhar decided to discuss it with one of his sisters first. He definitely wouldn’t be the one to bring it to Bercelak’s attention. One of his nephews had lost the fangs on the left side of his head because he’d suggested that Keita should be locked away in a nunnery so she wouldn’t bring shame on her kin. Not that Amhar could blame his brother. Bercelak protected his daughters like Amhar did, as their father had taught them to. Some of his nephews either needed to learn to keep their mouths closed or put up a better fight.
Deciding what his next course of action would be, Amhar went back to his nearly devoured carcass and thought no more about it for the moment.
Chapter Twenty
Dagmar smoothed her grey gown into place and glanced at herself in the extremely tall standing mirror. Good enough, she reasoned and stepped away, only to be pulled back by her mate.
As he liked to do, he tugged the front of her gown down to reveal more cleavage.
“Is this necessary?”
“I’m already beautiful—you want to at least keep up.”
He turned her around and lifted the back of her dress until it rested over her rear.
“What are you doing?”
“I think you should wear your gown like this to show my mark.”
“And why, by all reason, would I do that?”
“So your Lord Ragnar knows who you belong to.”
“He’s not my…” Dagmar stopped, gazed at the floor. After a moment, she lifted her head and asked, “Are you jealous?”
“I prefer the term proprietary.”
“You’re jealous…over me?”
“You are mine. I thought I made this clear long before I marked your ass. Perhaps I need to mark it again to—”
Dagmar raised her hand, silencing her mate. “Please. Allow me a moment to enjoy this.”
It wasn’t merely that the most arrogant and vain male she’d ever known was jealous, it was that any male was jealous over her. She’d long ago accepted the fact that beauty was not something she could count on to get her through life.
Still, moments like these did manage to surprise and delight her when they happened—and they happened more than she’d thought possible with her impossible dragon.
“I do not trust that smile of yours.” His arm slipped around her waist. “Back to bed. I sense I need to exert my dominance yet again.”
She attempted—rather weakly, she’d admit—to pry his arm from around her waist. “I will not leave my Northland comrades alone with your brothers at dinner tonight.”
“When did they become comrades?” Gwenvael tossed her onto their bed. “Spread your legs, woman. Prepare yourself.”
Dagmar began to laugh.
“You’re not helping your case.” He crawled onto the bed, raising himself over her. “But you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
He reached for her, snarling when a knock came at the door.
“Go away. We’re fucking.”
Dagmar, wondering how she’d learned to tolerate any of these dragons, countered, “Come in, and we’re doing nothing of the sort!”
“Yet.”
The door opened a bit, and Gwenvael’s youngest sister peeked around it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt my brother doing something wonderfully vile.”
“Not when she can listen at the door.”
“I didn’t listen!” Keita smiled, looking more like Gwenvael than anyone should. “I merely sold tickets. Made a fortune that night.”
Gwenvael relaxed on his side. “Did you come here to bow before the mistress of my heart, who you cruelly believed to be a mere servant, and beg her forgiveness?”
“No.” Keita stepped fully into the room. “I did, however, bring her a dress.”
Dagmar winced. Considering the bright and sparkle-infused light blue gown the princess currently wore, Dagmar had no desire to see what kind of dress the royal had brought for her. “That’s very kind of you, princess—”
“Keita, sister. Call me Keita. We are family now, are we not?”
Dagmar studied the royal closely. She trusted few beings in this world, and although Gwenvael and his brothers thought highly of Keita, Dagmar had yet to see any evidence that she was anything but a spoiled royal with expensive taste in clothes. Are those real diamonds she has sewn on to her dress?
“Of course we are,” Dagmar said, not believing a word either of them spoke.
The princess giggled. “Such a little liar, Dagmar Reinholdt. But I’ll overlook it because you make my brother happy. Now, tell me what you think.”
She pulled out the dress she had hidden behind her and held it up for Dagmar’s inspection. Although ready to hate it on principle alone, Dagmar knew she couldn’t.
Sliding off the bed, she walked up to Keita, her hand reaching out and carefully touching the gown.
“It’s…beautiful.”
“I know you prefer grey,” Keita said, pulling Dagmar over to the mirror. “But silver and steel work just as well. This color is called ‘sword steel’ among the shop owners”—she stood behind Dagmar and
held the gown up in front of her—“and perfectly brings out your eyes, which are quite striking, I might add. I bet my brother adores your eyes.”
“And you’d be right,” Gwenvael said from the bed.
“See? I know my brothers quite well. Now, go. Try it on.”
“Yes!” Gwenvael cheered from the bed. “Strip naked for me and my sister.”
Keita sniffed. “You don’t think I planned for that, my disgusting brother? Knowing how you turn everything into something inappropriate?” She walked to the door and opened it. “Bring it in.”
One of the servants brought in a tall screen and unfolded it. Once the servant was gone, Keita pulled Dagmar behind it. “Try it on.”
Without questioning, something Dagmar did about nearly everything in her life, she did as the royal ordered.
Keita sat on the bed next to her brother while his little human put on the dress she’d chosen for her. “Remember me now?” Keita demanded, making sure to flare her eyes in a terrifying manner.
Gwenvael laughed. “I don’t know how I managed to forget you.”
“Nor do I. I am, in a word, unforgettable.”
Putting his arm around her shoulders, Gwenvael kissed her forehead. “Everything all right, little sister?”
“We need to talk,” she murmured softly.
“About Esyld?”
Keita blinked, looked up at her brother. “How did you know?”
“That Lightning told us earlier. Why would Mother send him to fetch her anyway?”
“Long story. And, of course, there’s much more to it.”
“Of course. But tell me, are that Lightning and his barbarian entourage going back soon…as in tonight?”
“No. Because Esyld is only part of it.”
“What’s the other part of the problem?”
Keita scratched her cheek. “Irons. Possibly.”
“Iron what?”
“Iron dragons, you idiot.”
Gwenvael’s arm fell away, and he gawked at his sister. “What about them?”
“Our mother seems to fear they may be planning war.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. At the very least Mother is.”