Last Dragon Standing (Dragon Kin #4)(136)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Ren of the Chosen Dynasty ran across the rocky ground, Sovereign troops right on his naked ass. He’d been moving in and out of this territory undetected for two days, but the eldest daughter of Overlord Thracius, the one they called Vateria—and who frightened Ren as no dragoness ever had before—had seen him and sent her father’s guards after him.

Knowing he’d only get one chance at this, he charged up a hill, pulling Magick from any living thing near him. Trees, water, grass, anything. As he made it to the top, he unleashed the Magick that would open a doorway. A skill gifted to his people from the gods who watched over them. Ren could travel hundreds of miles with the doorways he was able to open. His father could travel to other worlds. However, it usually took him weeks or even months to carefully calibrate where he’d end up once he went through a doorway. Too bad he didn’t have that kind of time.

Ren knew the troops were right behind him, hands and claws reaching for him, and he hoped that the doorway he’d just opened would take him to where he needed to go—and not into something much worse.

Praying for the best, Ren dove in headfirst, slamming the doorway shut behind him, and leaving the rest to his gods.

They heard the horrified and panicked screams from the courtyard below.

“Mum’s here,” Gwenvael said with his feet in Dagmar’s lap and Izzy running a brush through his hair for his nightly three hundred strokes. She was the only one among them willing to do it without complaint.

Keita didn’t know how all her siblings, their mates, their offspring, Ragnar, his brother, his cousin, Dagmar’s dog, Annwyl’s dogs, and in a few seconds, her parents had all ended up in Fearghus’s and Annwyl’s bedroom—but here they were.

Ragnar, more used to warriors than “dainty little princesses” as Gwenvael kept calling Keita when she complained about the Northlander’s rough hands, helped Annwyl get her shoulder back in its socket while Morfyd healed Keita’s damaged ribs and tended to the lacerations that could lead to unattractive scars if not carefully handled.

The door burst open, and Rhiannon came into the room, her arms spread wide. “My little ones!” she exclaimed.

Only to receive muttered, “Mum. Mother. Mumsy.” The last being from Keita and Gwenvael.

Her arms dropped to her sides. “Is that all I get?”

“I’m eating,” Briec explained around a mouthful of food.

Rhiannon walked all the way inside the room, and her mate followed behind her. As soon as Bercelak saw his youngest daughter’s face, though, Keita scrambled up out of her chair and caught hold of her father’s arm.

“Don’t, Daddy.”

“When I’m done there won’t be anything left of that green bitch for my brother to put on the pyre.”

“Ghleanna’s handling it,” she told him.

“I don’t care.”

Realizing her father was moments from walking out the door and that no one was even trying to stop him, Keita slapped one hand to her bruised side and cried out in pain.

Instantly, her father’s arms went around her. “Keita? Are you all right?”

She managed a few tears. “It hurts a bit. Take me to the chair, Daddy.”

“Of course.” He helped her inside, Keita kicking the door closed with her foot. “My brave, sweet girl,” he said. “Isn’t she amazing, Rhiannon?

Facing that bitch Elestren all by herself.”

Rhiannon had picked up her youngest granddaughter, and was rubbing their noses together. “I don’t think she had much choice, my love.”

“She knew she was at risk, but she was brave to protect this family and your throne.”

Keita saw Morfyd roll her eyes and sneer. When her father turned his back to make sure he brushed off the chair before placing Keita’s delicate and perfect ass in it, Keita yanked Morfyd’s hair. Morfyd slapped at her hands, and Keita slapped back. They were in a mini-brawl before Brastias barked, “Pack it in!”

“You promised me,” Rhiannon reminded Keita, “that you’d let me know as soon as you were contacted.”

“I lied,” Keita admitted.

“Then I guess you shouldn’t be shocked you got your royal ass kicked.” Her mother pointed at the window. “And why are there scantily clad warrior women with tattoos on their faces lurking in your courtyard?”

“They’re the Kyvich,” Dagmar explained. “Sent by the gods you insist on worshipping to protect the babes. But, of course, Annwyl had to fight nearly to the death before they’d take the job. They are Ice Landers, you know. That’s their way.”

“I hate the Kyvich,” Talaith complained from her spot on the floor, tucked comfortably between her mate’s widespread legs.

“You keep saying that,” Briec pointed out, “but you haven’t explained why.”

“Because the Nolwenns hate the Kyvich.” When everyone only stared at her, “I shouldn’t have to explain myself! I just don’t want them here.”

“Well, suck it up,” Annwyl said. “I didn’t decimate wave after wave of barbarian, murdering scum in tiny little outfits so you can claim, ‘I just don’t like them,’” Annwyl finished in a high-pitched imitation that Talaith didn’t seem to much appreciate.