Feel the Burn (Dragon Kin #8)(70)

The boys and men ran off, and Annwyl faced the Riders watching her. “First rule in my kingdom, no slaves.”

“They were not slaves. They were future husbands for our daughters and granddaughters.”

“Your daughters and granddaughters can get their own husbands. Preferably ones mutually chosen by both parties.”

“Why would we do that? As queen—if you are—you must know men are too stupid and emotional to make their own decisions.”

“No, actually, I don’t know that.”

Annwyl rested the axe over her shoulder. “Rule number two.” She gestured to Dagmar. “This is my Battle Lord, Dagmar Reinholdt.” She pointed at Brastias. “And this is my General Commander. They speak for me when I’m not available. And mostly when I’m available and don’t want to be bothered—which is kind of right now.”

“You give man position of power? And such a tiny, weak-looking woman?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he earned it. In blood. And Dagmar Reinholdt is the Beast of the Northlands.”

The lead Rider shook her head and said to the females with her, “I do not know, sisters. Perhaps our Pee-Wee was wrong. This tiny human queen, who gives honor to worthless men and weak-armed women, cannot give us our glorious deaths on the field of battle while at her side.”

“Perhaps not,” Annwyl cut in, lifting the axe off her shoulders and slapping the other end of the handle, beneath the blade, into her free hand, “but I can give you your glorious death right here.”

“Annwyl.” Morfyd raised her eyebrows in warning. “Calm. And rational. Remember?”

Dagmar snorted and Annwyl glared at her friend. “What does that snort mean?”

“Nothing,” Dagmar stated with that wide-eyed innocence that made Annwyl want to slap her against the head! She didn’t—it would be unseemly—but gods, did she want to!

She refocused on the Riders. “Look, I understand you’re all from a different . . .” She struggled to find the right word, and Celyn provided it.

“Culture.”

“Yeah. Right. That. But that doesn’t mean you lot can come in here and start ordering everyone around like you—gods-damn it, Gwenvael!” Annwyl shouted when she heard the damn dragon climbing the side of her house, his talons crunching into the precious—and extremely expensive!—stone that she did not want to hire yet another stonemason to fix.

Eyes wide, everyone turned and looked at the house, then back to Annwyl. She knew they couldn’t see him. As Rhi had once told Annwyl when Rhi was still a young girl, “Uncle Gwenvael is a chameleon. He can blend into anything. He creeps around here all the time. So when you think you hear him and sense him moving around . . . you do. You’re absolutely not insane. No matter what Daddy says.”

So even though no one else could see him, Annwyl knew he was there. So she pointed her axe in the general direction she figured he was in, and warned, “Fuck up that stone again, and I will rip the head from your shoulders!”

Annwyl heard a repressed little chuckle and knew she was right, but she didn’t bother to explain that to her kin. What was the point? So instead she simply screamed at him, “Stop laughing at me!”

“Mum?” Talwyn asked, the Riders seemingly forgotten.

“What?”

Talwyn shook her head at Annwyl’s bark. “Nothing.”

Annwyl now pointed that axe at the three Riders, briefly wondering why they sort of leaned back in their saddles—and away from her. “Now you three, if you stay, then you follow my rules and you listen to these people when they tell you things. And yes,” she said when one of them opened her mouth, “that includes the ones with penises. And if you decide to go . . . then good day to you, it was nice having you.”

Annwyl forced a smile—Fearghus always told her she had a pretty smile—but that only seemed to disturb the Riders more, so she dropped the pretense and returned to her throne and her gods-damn book.

Dagmar wasn’t sure what the Riders would do after all that. She knew what she would have done if she didn’t know Annwyl as she did and hadn’t come to Garbhán Isle under the protection of Gwenvael the Handsome.... She would have bloody left.

But the lead Rider, the one called Nika, simply smiled at her sisters and announced, “She is quite mad, sisters! Our potential deaths will be glorious!”

“Then let us join the Mad Queen and seal our fate!” cried another.

“I am so happy we listened to our sweet Pee-Wee!” announced the third.

“Pee-Wee?” Dagmar softly asked Celyn.

“Zoya Kolesova,” he replied. “They call her Pee-Wee.”

And, as they stepped off their poor, beleaguered mounts, Dagmar understood why.

Fearghus came around the corner of the building, his attention focused on one of the scrolls in his hand. He walked between the Riders, but stopped and lifted his head. He looked at the three women before focusing on Dagmar. “When did we start inviting giants to the house?”

“Not giants. Riders. They are the—”

“I can’t,” he quickly cut in, “listen to those endless names.”

Focusing again on the scroll in his hands, he began to walk up the stairs, which was when one of the Riders leaned forward and slapped his ass.