by G. A. Aiken
She laughed, and he heard the relief in it. Knew she was expecting a litany of praise for what had just happened and promises of commitment for all time. He had no intention of being so obvious. Besides, he never understood the after-sex chatty ones who felt the need to analyze every thrust, gasp, and shudder.
“Not really. But you could try sacrificing your kin while you make your escape.”
“They’ll hate me for that.” He shrugged. “But it might be worth it.”
She lifted herself up, resting an elbow on his chest, her chin in her palm. “You can’t dance?”
“I have been taught the skill, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”
“You’ll have to at least dance with me.”
“If I must.”
Lips tightening, she punched his arm. “There are males who’d kill for a chance to dance with me, but I’m allowing you the privilege. You should feel honored.”
“Oh, I do.” He rolled over until she was beneath him, his cock instantly stirring back to life. “We should bathe in the lake before we go back,” he murmured, trying to brush the rest of the dress away from her body. “Might as well do it here.”
“You ruined my dress,” she remarked.
“Hhhm.” Ragnar gripped what was left of the bodice and tore the gown down the middle, giving him complete access to her body.
“You should buy me another.”
“You ruined my leggings,” he replied, pulling his hands away from her long enough to pull his shirt up over his head and toss it off into the grass. “That makes us even.”
“Dammit.” She pressed her hands against his chest and stroked his flesh. Ragnar’s eyes closed, his head falling forward, his cock more than ready to begin again. “My evil plan for a new dress foiled again.” Her fingers grazed the skin where she’d stabbed him with her tail, and Ragnar shuddered.
“I hurt you that day.”
“You poisoned me.”
“You deserved it. But it has healed, has it not?”
“It has, finally.”
She leaned up, licked the scar. “Good thing I’m so damn forgiving, warlord.”
He caught her shoulders and, with much more force than he ever planned to use, slammed her back into the ground. Keita only smiled.
“I thought we had to bathe and get back to the castle,” she reminded him.
“Later.” His gaze locked with hers, he pinned her arms to the ground and began where he’d left off, thrusting his hard cock inside her.
Grinning, Keita tossed her head back, her eyes closed, her body meeting his thrusts with her own. “Later works for me. Much later sounds even better.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Izzy dropped the dress, faced her cousin, and both burst out laughing, the puppy she still refused to return to the kennel barking happily.
“I think I’ve outgrown it a bit,” she said.
“Gods, Iz!” Branwen crouched by her and tugged at the bottom. It barely reached her shins. “At least you’ll be able to dance in it.”
They laughed harder.
Although Izzy would never admit it to her mother—at least until she was done being good and self-righteously pissed off—she was happy to be home. And it was home. Her home. The one place she’d always be welcome.
“I’ll talk to Keita,” Branwen offered, standing tall.
“How does that help? She’s a tree gnome compared to me.”
“True, but she has an eye. She can track down a dress that’ll make you look bloody stunning in seconds.”
Branwen went to the door, pulled it open, and yelped. “Don’t bloody sneak up on me!”
“I wasn’t.”
Her cousin stepped out, and Izzy’s “uncle” stepped in.
Izzy turned back to the mirror, but kept her head down a bit to get control of her smile. She knew he’d be back. After the way he’d looked at her earlier in the courtyard, she knew it.
“So what do you think?” she asked him once Brannie had left.
Éibhear blinked. “Uh…it’s a bit short.” He scowled at her chest. “And a bit tight.”
She looked down at herself. Her tits were bulging out of the bodice. “I seem to have grown out of it since I last wore it.”
“I haven’t fared much better with my own wardrobe.” He closed the door behind him. “Izzy?”
“Hhmm?”
“I think we should talk.”
This was it! This was it! He’d finally admit how much he’d missed her, and that’s all she needed—at this moment. He could tell her he adored her and wanted her forever and ever, tomorrow…or later in the week. But for now, a simple, “I missed you” or, even better, a simple “I missed you, can’t live without you—by the gods, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known” would do just fine.
“All right then. Let’s talk.”
He walked up to her, took her hands in his. And blood and fire, he had big hands!
“Izzy?”
“Aye?”
He let out a breath. “You need to be careful.”
Careful? Careful of what? His overwhelming love and adoration?
“I need to be careful about what?”
“Celyn.”
“Celyn? What about Celyn?”
“I know you don’t understand, that you think he’s just being friendly or a good cousin, but I think he wants more from you than that.”
Izzy couldn’t believe it. He was still playing protective uncle. But she already had protective uncles! Plus a protective grandfather, protective great uncles, protective aunts and great aunts, and protective cousins! What she didn’t need, what she would never need again, was another goddamn protective anything!
Izzy pulled her hands away. “You’re an idiot.”
Éibhear stepped away from her. “What?”
“I said you are an idiot.”
“I’m trying to watch out for you.”
“I don’t need you watching out for me. You haven’t watched out for me for two years now and look.” She held her arms out from her body. “I’m still here. In one piece. I will tell you this, though.” She slammed her finger into his chest. “Celyn has watched my back in battle.” She slammed her finger again. “Celyn has helped me wash blood out of my hair.” Another slam. “Celyn also tore the arms off a bloke who thought it would be funny to jump me when I was out alone on night patrol.” Another slam that had Éibhear backing up into the door. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep Celyn as a friend since he’s been there when you have not!”
“I was trying to warn you!”
“You can stick your warnings up your ass!” She shoved him aside and yanked the door open. “Now get the fuck out of my room.”
Éibhear stomped into the hall, but he spun around to face her. “Izzy—”
She slammed the door in his face and tore the stupid, too small dress off her body, chucking it across the room.
He had to be the most infuriating dragon she’d ever met, and it galled her that she might be trapped loving him forever!
“Are they having an execution?” Vigholf asked, watching as the Southlanders began to move tables out of the way to open up the floor.
“They don’t do that sort of thing during dinner,” Meinhard stated, then added, “The humans don’t, anyway.”
“But we’ve already finished eating.” Vigholf kept his hand on his sword. “Maybe we should leave?”
Ragnar had kept it from them as long as he could, but now he had no choice but to speak the truth. “We can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re invited. It would look poorly if we leave.”
“Invited? For what?”
Ragnar took a breath to explain it all to his kin, but the musicians began to play and the Ruiner slid to a stop on his knees, facing the front of the hall. He was such an odd dragon. “Sister!” he called out.
“Brother!” Keita, looking dazzling in a light blue gown, her dark red hair threaded with lig
ht blue flowers, ran barefoot up to her brother.
“Dance with me,” he ordered. “My mate refuses.”
Keita gasped. “Is she mad? Does she know who she turns down?” She placed her hand into her brother’s. “When will she ever get a chance to dance with someone as beautiful and amazing as you?”
“That’s what I keep telling her!” Gwenvael got to his feet and spun his sister out into the middle of the floor. “But she never listens.”
“You bastard!” Vigholf growled at Ragnar through clenched teeth.
“I’m leaving,” Meinhard said.
“Neither of you are going anywhere.” To be honest, he didn’t want to be left alone. “If I’m sticking it out, you are as well.”
“We don’t have to.” Vigholf glared at him. “We’re not the ones fucking a royal.”
His brother and cousin had heard the rumors started by Keita. If they’d brought it up to him earlier in the day, he would have told them honestly—knowing they could be trusted—that it was all a lie. He couldn’t really say that now, though, could he?
“You still follow my command, brother. And you will stay or I’ll—”
The argument ended abruptly as the three males were approached by two females. Two young females. A little too young for them, in fact.
“Lady Iseabail,” Ragnar said.
She smiled. “Just call me Izzy.”
“And I’m just Branwen.”
“Can we help you with something?”
“My cousin and I were wondering if you’d like to dance with—”
“No,” all three Lightnings answered in unison.
“Well, you don’t all have to bark at me.”
The Blue walked up to them, scowling down at Izzy. She didn’t even look at him. It seemed Izzy was the only female in Dark Plains who didn’t feel the need to throw herself into the arms of the big bastard.
“We need to talk,” the Blue said.
“Again? Haven’t I been tortured enough this evening?”
“You took what I said wrong, and throwing food at my head during dinner just shows you haven’t matured much at all.”
“Oh, piss off!”
Vigholf choked back a laugh, and Meinhard took a drink of his ale.
“No, I will not piss off. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” she asked before walking off, the Blue following right behind her.
Branwen stood there a moment longer before she shrugged and said, “I have nothing to say to any of you.” Then she disappeared into the growing crowd on the dance floor.
Vigholf nodded. “I like her honesty.”
Meinhard slammed down his mug. “Their ale tastes like piss.”
“More like watered-down piss.”
“If all you two are going to do is complain—” Ragnar began, but again he was cut off. This time by Keita.
As soon as his brother and cousin saw her, they both stood straighter and smiled at her. “Lady Keita,” they both said. They might not be pissed at Ragnar for having swooped up Keita, but since he hadn’t Claimed her, she was still considered fair game by Northland standards. The cold-hearted bastards.
“My lords. I see that you’re not a fan of the ale.”
“Oh, no, no. It’s fine.” Meinhard picked his mug up again and forced himself to take another sip. “It’s…smooth.”
Keita laughed, bright white teeth flashing, smooth human throat stretching as her head tipped back. Gods, he wanted her so badly, he could barely breathe.
“I do appreciate you forcing that down, Meinhard,” she said. “But don’t worry. I have something that should help.” She raised her arm and snapped her fingers. A servant carrying a tray rushed to her side. “My father’s brew,” she said, handing each of them a mug. “He’s around here somewhere with my mother. Avoid him if you can. This ale is quite popular with his Clan and Dagmar, although my brothers wouldn’t touch it if you held a knife to their throats.”
Ragnar stared into his mug. “Sure it’s not poisoned?” he couldn’t help but tease.
“Only yours,” she whispered back. “Now that I’m nearly done with you.”
While he debated whether she was serious or not, his brother and cousin tried the ale. After a deep sip, they both nodded in approval.
“That’s nice.”
“Real nice.”
Shrugging, Ragnar tried his. As it burned its way to his stomach, he thought the evil wench really had poisoned him!
Ragnar bent over and coughed, unable to hide the pain he was suffering.
“Don’t mind him,” Vigholf said, slapping Ragnar on the back. Something that did not help his current situation. “He’s always been kind of weak with his drink.”
“I see that. Well, no worries.” Keita took the mug from Ragnar and, while he watched through the tears in his eyes, drank all that brewed acid in one hearty gulp. When she was done, she slammed the mug on the table behind them and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Ahhh. My father’s brew has only gotten better over the years.”
“Oy! Your royal majesty!” one of her brothers yelled from the floor. “You coming out here or what?”
“My kin call,” she said with a laugh. “But I hope you three will stay and enjoy yourselves.”
She smiled again before turning on her heel and moving out into the dancing crowd.
Ragnar quickly picked up the mug she’d put down, and all three of them looked inside. “She downed every drop of this bile.”
Together they all looked up and watched her dance by with her silver-haired brother, Briec. She moved as if she hadn’t had anything to drink, as steady as she ever was, making him wonder exactly how much she’d drunk that night with her cousins and aunts.
Then Meinhard said what they were all thinking….
“She’s absolutely perfect.”
Fearghus grabbed his daughter and turned away before the girl’s mother could get her hands around her throat.
“You little viper!”
“Annwyl—”
“Shut up!” She wiped the blood from her face. “Look what she did.”
“I’m sure it was an accident.” He was lying, of course. He’d seen his daughter grab hold of that eating dagger before he could and throw it with a skill he’d taken decades to master. Barely two years old and her skills rivaled his, her mother’s, even Bercelak’s. The worst part was, he knew that Talwyn threw that dagger not out of rage, but curiosity. Hitting her target was her only concern. Although her skills in doing damage were far in advance of her age, her understanding that throwing knives, swords, plates, cups, chairs had consequences was still far from being grasped by her.
“Don’t be hard on her,” he told his mate.
“We need a nanny.” Annwyl took the cloth one of the servants handed her and pressed it to her latest wound.
“We’re working on that.”
“Work faster.”
Fearghus held his daughter up to her mother. “Say you’re sorry, Talwyn.”
“What are you doing?” Annwyl asked him. “You know she can’t say it.”
“Can’t and won’t are two different things. She talks to her brother more than enough.”
“Whispering plots is not talking. It’s whispering plots.”
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’re too hard on—ow! You treacherous little demon child!”
Before Ragnar could kick the beast gnawing at his foot, Annwyl swept the little demon up in her arms and held him against her chest. “Don’t you dare, you mad bastard!”
“He started it!”
“What’s wrong with you? He’s your son.”
“He’s your son, wench.” He pulled his daughter to him. “She’s mine.”
“You can have her.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
“That’s enough.” Rhiannon moved in and took her grandson from Annwyl while Bercelak took Talwyn from Fearghus. “You
two dance or something before the Northlanders get to see the future heir to my throne having a sword fight with his own mate.”
“When did you two get here?” Fearghus asked.
“Can’t we come and visit our kin and our beautiful grandchildren?” She smiled at the demon child, who sneered at Fearghus.
“Little bastard,” he muttered, earning a slap to the back of his head from his father. “Must you do that?”
“Don’t be an ass. Go. Dance. Fuck. Do something.”
Fearghus grabbed Annwyl’s hand. She kissed her son’s head, scowled at their daughter, and smiled at his mother and then Bercelak. She started to walk to the dance floor when Fearghus yanked her back.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“What was what?”
“You. Smiling. At my father.”
“Would you have preferred I spit at him?”
“As a matter of fact…yes.”
Still holding his hand, she placed her other hand on her hip. “Fearghus the Destroyer, either dance with me or fuck me, but do something.”
Before he could answer, Gwenvael leapt to Annwyl’s side and said, “If he’s not up for either, I’m sure I can—”
“Fuck off!” they both yelled.
Pouting, Gwenvael walked away. “You two certainly are moody these days.”
Once alone, they both looked at each other and smiled.
“Your sister scared off the last potential nanny,” Talaith complained as she dropped onto Briec’s lap uninvited.
“How did that happen?”
“Not sure. Brastias was a little vague, but it looks like we’re on the search again. Adding much to Annwyl’s prophecies of doom.”
“There’s no nanny? So you’ve left my perfect daughter—”
“If you call her that one more time…”
“—alone and defenseless?”
“No. Your mother and father are taking care of the children. I think they only come to these things now so that they can take care of the children. And let’s be honest, my love, our daughter and the twins are hardly defenseless. Although when I find out which one of you idiots gave Talwyn that damn training sword…”