What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(119)

Annwyl scowled at the dragon she was cursed to love for eternity. “You. Big. Bastard!”

He grinned, his body crouched by the lake’s edge as he watched her swim closer. “Now is that any way for you to talk to your mate? The dragon you love above all others?”

“Love you? I’d be better off loving one of those Minotaurs!”

Annwyl reached the edge of the lake, but before she could take hold of the edge, Fearghus slammed his hand against her forehead. “You’re not nearly clean enough. You still have Minotaur all over you.”

Then he shoved her under the water.

Now past all reason, Annwyl reached up and grabbed hold of Fearghus’s arm. Using both hands, she yanked the big bastard into the water with her. She swam back to the surface and took deep breaths, making sure to keep her eyes on Fearghus.

He came up laughing. “What did you do that for?”

“I hate you!”

“Liar!” He swam to her side and shoved her under the water a few more times, his hands scrubbing her hair and body until he’d gotten most of the blood and Minotaur gore off.

“There!” he said, when she’d finally gotten away from him. “Much better.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” His hand slipped behind the back of her neck and tugged her closer. “I almost lost you, Annwyl. I almost lost the only female I’ll ever love. That’s what’s wrong with me.”

“That’s all very sweet, but shouldn’t you be a bit nicer to me then? A few flowers, maybe a candlelight dinner?” Her teeth clenched and she spit out, “Is it beyond your capabilities to be a little bit romantic?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I give up.” She swam back to the lake’s edge, Fearghus right behind her. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

He grabbed hold of her and turned her to face him. “You put up with me because you love me. And I love you, Annwyl.”

Then he was kissing her, his hands digging into her wet hair, holding her steady as he plundered her mouth with his own. This she knew. This she’d craved.

She’d been there. On the other side. But not where anyone expected her to go. It hadn’t been her ancestors who’d met her when she arrived. It had been Fearghus’s. She’d had her ass pinched by Ailean the Wicked and a discussion on books with Baudwin the Wise, Fearghus’s great-grandfather. And as wonderful as it had all been, sitting on that soft grass, that one sun shining over their heads, surrounded by trees and many lakes, she’d still missed her Fearghus.

When Shalin, Ailean’s mate and Fearghus’s grandmother, saw Annwyl gazing off, she put her arm around her waist and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not over for you. She’s coming for you.” Annwyl had no idea who the pretty dragoness meant, but then she was being pulled, yanked from one world into another. Into blood and pain and misery.

Until Annwyl had that sword in her hand—then all had been right.

But with Fearghus at her side … now all was perfect.

He pulled his mouth away, but kept his forehead pressed against hers, his hands holding her steady. They gazed long and hard at each other. There were words they could say, but none were needed. Not for them.

Then, together, they both turned their heads toward the cave floor. When Annwyl looked at the baby boy it was Fearghus’s eyes that glared at her under all that brown hair with gold streaks.

The boy focused on both of them while his sister crawled toward the closest weapons.

And until Annwyl left this world—for the second time, anyway—she’d never know what disturbed her more at the moment. The fact that her three-day-old children could already crawl, that her daughter went right for the battle ax, or that her son planted his hands down on the lake’s edge, leaned into her, and screamed.

Fearghus floated beside her, his body rubbing against hers. “He really wants you to pick him up.”

Annwyl nodded. “I’m sensing that.”

Chapter 31

Dagmar sat on the tree stump by the small stream. It was getting late, the two suns just beginning to set. But this was Dark Glen, according to Gwenvael, and aptly named because the surrounding trees were so dense it felt late at night rather than early in the evening.

It didn’t matter, though. Not at the moment. Not when she was clean, her hair gently scrubbed of all blood and gore by Gwenvael. He’d seemed to enjoy washing her from head to toe. He’d seemed to be relieved simply to have her by his side.

Whether he was or not, Dagmar knew she was relieved to have him. As soon as she’d heard his voice, felt his presence, she’d known she was safe. He made her feel safe without making her feel trapped; she adored that.

Not surprisingly, Annwyl and Fearghus had not returned to them. Dagmar had been a little worried when she heard the distinct sounds of battle—swords clanging, battle cries, a lot of yelling—but Gwenvael didn’t even seem to notice, busy tending to the few wounds she had. Nothing serious. Mostly scratches here and there, but he’d treated each one like a sword wound.

She glanced down at the cotton shirt she wore. Her dress was hopelessly soiled and she had no real desire to ever put it back on. She had found one of Annwyl’s rare gowns, but it kept falling off her shoulders and baring her br**sts. Although Gwenvael seemed to appreciate that, Dagmar had been in no mood to give Fearghus any additional entertainment when he returned. So she’d settled on Gwenvael’s shirt. It was simple and cotton, reaching down to her knees. Never before had she worn so little and been out in full view of anyone who could wander into this glen.