What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(62)

Knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her, Gwenvael gripped her chin and tilted it up until she looked him in the eye.

Tears. Real ones.

She jerked away from him. “I’m fine. You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

He sat down next to her on the trunk. “I have wine.”

She wiped her eyes and ignored him until he opened the bottle and held it out for her.

“It’s good wine.”

She took the bottle from him and swigged several gulps down. She handed it back to him and muttered, “It’s a bit weak.”

Gwenvael took a healthy gulp and almost choked it back up. “Weak,” he squeaked out. “Definitely.”

Locking the top on the bottle, Gwenvael placed it down in front of them. “Now I want you to tell me everything. Tell me the price you had to pay to free me from the Horde.”

She began to sob and when Gwenvael tried to put his arms around her shoulders, she shrugged him off. He felt cold fear grip him. “Gods, Dagmar, what did they do to you?”

Still sobbing, she reached into a hidden pocket of her skirt and pulled out a piece of parchment. She shoved it at him.

He glanced at the seal but didn’t recognize it. Quickly tearing it open, he read it. It was written in the ancient language of all dragons; although a few of the letters were penned slightly different, a few of the words possessing different meanings, it was still readable to his eye, if not to a human’s like Dagmar.

“It’s to my mother. From a Ragnar of the Olgeirsson Horde.” He blinked, raised a brow. “Ragnar? That wouldn’t be sweet, caring Brother Ragnar you told me about, would it?” She nodded, continuing to sob.

Gwenvael winced. “I understand how that could upset you, Dagmar, but I can assure you it’s a very common practice. My grandmother attended colleges all over the Southlands as human and no one ever knew.”

She pointed at the letter and continued to sob.

“Dagmar, all it says is that he’s responsible for me being alive and safe and wants to talk to my mother about an alliance to help him overthrow his father.”

When she continued to cry, he went on, “This is standard political crap. I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”

Swallowing back her tears, “We both know this”—she pointed at the parchment in his hand—“is, excuse my father’s term, elk shit. We both know he doesn’t simply want me to convince you to take me to the Southlands just to get this ridiculous letter into the Dragon Queen’s hands.”

“So?”

“Which means he really wants me there for another reason. Once I’m there, he’ll want me to do something to benefit him.”

“Probably true … so?”

“And normally, I would jump at the chance. To travel into the Southlands. To meet Queen Annwyl and bargain for a much better deal than I got with you.”

“That was an excellent deal.”

“Normally, I’d lie and connive and do whatever necessary to make you take me into the south.”

“But …”

More tears began to flow. “But that thing …”

“Thing? What thing?”

“That thing … in one’s head … that tells you when something would be wrong to do. It won’t let me do it.”

Feeling a sudden high level of annoyance, Gwenvael carefully asked, “Do you mean your … conscience?”

Her tears turned into hysterical sobs, and she went down on her side, her head dropping into his lap.

“Dagmar! Everyone has a conscience.”

“I don’t!”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m a politician, Gwenvael! Of course, I don’t have a conscience. At least I didn’t. Now I’m cursed with one. And it’s your fault!”

Somehow he knew that last bit would happen.

Why didn’t he understand? Why couldn’t he see? A conscience made her weak and vulnerable. Another poor female to be taken advantage of. Next thing she knew, she’d be planning parties, begging her father to arrange for suitors, and thinking about having children.

This was a nightmare!

“Stop it,” he ordered, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to sit up. “Stop it right now.”

“Just say it. Say that I’m pathetic. That I allowed that bastard to trick me for twenty years and I never realized it and now I have a bloody conscience. Just say that I’m worthless and get it over with.”

“I will do no such thing. You have a conscience. You’ve always had a conscience. You might as well face it.”

She scowled at him through her tears. “Liar! I’ve never had a conscience before now.”

“Dagmar, you attacked a dragon that breathes fire because he was going to eat your puppy.”

“I had to protect him.” And when he smirked, she quickly added, “He has a use.”

“Looks a little small to be one of your battle dogs. So what use does he have?”

“Who else would eat up all the scraps off the floor?”

“Dagmar.”

“All right, all right. Fine. I have a conscience. There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” He crouched in front of her and wiped her face with the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Annwyl’s going to like you. She doesn’t like to think she has a conscience either.”