What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(55)

“I never noticed … what I mean to say is …” Dagmar, tired of crouching, went on her knees and rubbed her eyes with her fists. Was she actually about to ask for more information on blasted dragon seams? “Forget I was trying to say anything.”

“You’d have to look very closely to notice the seams. Now once the scale is released back into place, it heals shut, locking in the jagged piece of metal. The pain is quite excruciating,” she said easily, almost cheerfully. “Even worse, the flesh underneath heals over it, intensifying the pain.”

Dagmar’s balled fists landed in her lap. “All that for vengeance?”

“They wanted him to suffer.” She rested her arm on the bed. “It’s doubtful they’d hoped to get any information from him. A royal he may be, but also a descendent of the Cadwaladr Clan. You can never get them to talk.”

“He’s …” Dagmar straightened her spine. “He’s a royal?”

“Son of the Dragon Queen herself.” Esyld regarded her intensely. “He never told you, did he?”

“He was quick to tell me about that time he woke up in a sewer in Kerezik. But his royal lineage … That never came up in conversation.” And reason knew, he never acted like a royal.

The dragoness chuckled. “That’s my Gwenvael.”

And Dagmar felt it again. That strange feeling in the pit of her stomach any time Esyld asserted some kind of hold on Gwenvael. “Who are you?”

And yet again Dagmar received no answer with Esyld too busy clucking her tongue. “I see what’s wrong,” she said. “Those bastards added poison to the tips of the metal.”

“They what?” Dagmar immediately placed her hand to Gwenvael’s forehead. He felt cold. Not good when he was made of fire. “You have to do something.”

“I will. I’ll have to cut the pieces out. One by one. I made him human because it’ll be easier that way. No scales to tear open again.”

Annoyed the dragoness was just sitting there, Dagmar snapped, “Shouldn’t you be moving with some purpose?”

“Why? He’s not going anywhere.”

“The poison?”

“Too late for that. It’s already in his bloodstream.”

Dagmar lifted her shaking hands and placed them against her eyes. The calm, merciless sound of the woman’s voice was driving her past reason. Past logic.

“Now, now, dear. No need to cry. I’m sure—ack!”

She didn’t even let the female finish before she grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her head into the metal frame of the bed. For the first time in Dagmar’s life, she knew what it felt like to be one of her brothers—and it was quite a heady sensation.

Esyld gripped her forehead. “Ow! Are you mad?”

Dagmar stood. “Now listen well to me, Esyld. You do what you must to make him better. Mix whatever potions necessary, call on whatever useless gods you’re loyal to, sacrifice whatever animals those useless gods require—I don’t care. But you make him well. Or I swear by all reason—”

“What?” The dragoness towered over Dagmar now. “You’ll what, reason-lover? What does an obvious follower of Aoibhell think she can possibly do to me?”

“I can make sure this will be your last quiet night in these woods. I’ll make sure that every male—man, dragon, or otherwise—knows you live here. Alone. I’ll make sure that hunting you becomes a sport they can’t resist.”

“And perhaps I’ll just turn you into ash where you stand.”

“Do you really think that’ll stop me?” Dagmar smirked. “Really?”

After a moment of mutual glaring, the dragoness shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No. I believe it won’t.” She stepped away from Dagmar. “Who are you?”

She found it almost amusing the female had the nerve to ask. “I am Dagmar Reinholdt, Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”

“You’re The Beast?”

“Some would say.”

“I have to admit, you don’t see it right off … until you look in those eyes.” Rubbing her forehead and wincing, Esyld went to a small table covered in dry herbs, half-burned ritual candles, several different daggers, and a wand. “I will say I appreciate how protective you are of him. He deserves that.”

Not about to ask the same question yet again, Dagmar instead tried, “What’s your connection to him?”

“Not what you think.” She flashed Dagmar a smile over her shoulder. “He’s my nephew.”

“Nephew?”

“Aye.” She brought a large bowl, a clean cloth, and a sharp dagger over to the bed. “My sister is Queen Rhiannon. When she came into power, I fled. I’m now called Esyld the Traitor by her court.”

“And are you?”

“Not in a few centuries. Now”—she glanced down at Gwenvael—“help me tie him to the bed. And gag him.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to a bed. Nor was it the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to the bed and gagged.

But usually when he woke up bound and gagged, he was always experiencing wonderful pleasure. Not pain. At least not this kind of pain. Pain so raw and brutal he tried to shift back to his true form several times but couldn’t. He sensed it had something to do with the collar around his neck. It held great power and cut down on his.