What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(123)

“Where do we go from here, my lady?”

She headed off back to the humans’ castle. “Find me at Garbhán Isle tomorrow. We will discuss an alliance.”

“And your daughter?”

“Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind. But”—she spun on her heel to look at him as she continued to walk away—“watch your back, boy. I know Olgeir quite well. He won’t happily let that prize go.”

Rhiannon left the Lightning to do as he wished and made her way back to the castle. She neared the gates when she heard her mate’s voice.

“Where the hell did you go?”

Smiling, Rhiannon faced Bercelak. He was annoyed she’d left without telling him where she was going. He was annoyed she went off into the forest alone, without him or her guards. He was annoyed to wake up and find her gone. And she’d be paying for those little transgressions for the next few hours.

She couldn’t wait.

Taking his hand, she tugged him toward the gates. “Don’t snarl so, my love. I was getting us a war.”

“You were getting us a what?”

“You heard me. I was getting us a nice, bloody war. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Chapter 32

Dagmar awoke when she heard soft laughter from one of the other caverns. It didn’t amaze her that she heard that soft laughter in between bouts of the horrendous snoring going on next to her ear, but that she’d slept in spite of the horrendous snoring. But now that she was awake, going back to sleep with that level of noise was simply impossible. The trick was unwrapping the dragon who held on to her so tightly. Gwenvael’s arms were around her waist, his head buried against her chest, his left leg wrapped around her right, his right buried between her thighs.

She knew she should feel horribly uncomfortable buried under so much male, but she didn’t—until she couldn’t get him to move. She pushed on his shoulders, shoved at his neck, tried to tug her legs out from under his weight. Nothing seemed to work and he didn’t seem to be in any danger of snapping awake this early. Becoming desperate, Dagmar reached around his back and grabbed hold of his hair from the base of his skull. She pulled and Gwenvael angrily muttered in his sleep. She pulled again, going straight back, and, scowling but still asleep and snoring, the dragon rolled away from her.

Dagmar let out a breath and got out of bed before Gwenvael could roll back again. She found Gwenvael’s shirt tossed on the floor and slipped it on. She needed a bath, but that would have to wait a bit. Hunger was winning the race this morning.

She found Annwyl and the twins in one of the small alcoves. Dagmar couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the Blood Queen. She wore a sleeveless chain-mail shirt that brazenly revealed the brands Fearghus had given her upon Claiming, a black pair of leggings, and black leather boots. Two sheathed swords rested against the table leg closest to her.

So this is the true Blood Queen, eh?

Even with a child cradled in one arm and the other in his or her crib, rocked by Annwyl’s rather large foot, Dagmar knew this was the warrior sane men had come to fear. And with good reason.

“Good morning, Annwyl.”

Annwyl looked up and her smile was warm and welcoming.

“Dagmar. Good morn to you. Please”—she motioned to a chair—“sit.”

Dagmar did, sitting catty-corner from the queen.

Annwyl gazed down at her son, pride and joy warring on that scarred but pretty face.

“Handsome, isn’t he?” she sighed.

“He is.”

“And Fearghus tells me I owe you much, Dagmar the Clever, she of the most lethal of tongues.”

Dagmar laughed. “I like my new Southland name.”

“As well you should.” Annwyl motioned to the crib. “Mind picking her up? She’ll let me feed her, but otherwise she has no use for me.”

“You seem to have many”—Dagmar gave a quick glance around—“baby things around here.”

“That was Morfyd. She insisted that here and Garbhán Isle have everything the babes may need. But I guess in retrospect …”

They smiled at each other. “She was right.”

Dagmar went to the crib and looked down at the scowling little girl inside it. “She reminds me of Bercelak.”

“I know. But when I mentioned that to Fearghus I thought he was going to skin me alive.”

Lifting the babe, Dagmar cuddled her close. Tiny, strong fingers gripped her nose and twisted. “Have you named them yet?” she asked, the sudden nasal sound of her voice getting the queen to raise her head.

Chuckling, Annwyl uselessly remarked, “She’s got a grip that one. And we can’t agree on the names. Fearghus is partial to My Perfect Princess Daughter and The Right Little Bastard.”

Dagmar laughed and pried the babe’s fingers off her nose, wincing when the vicious little beast gripped her forefinger instead.

“I, however, prefer Adoring Perfect Son and Right Little Bitch, which Fearghus will not even hear of.” Annwyl kissed the small fingers carefully gripping her large one. Now Dagmar knew she should have asked to hold the son. The daughter was too much like her mother. “Any suggestions of your own, barbarian?”

Never in her life had Dagmar thought she’d find being called “barbarian” a compliment and sign of respect rather than an insult. But with Annwyl it sounded that way.