What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(7)

The Order forced Brother Ragnar, even with his body broken, to walk everywhere although she’d offered more than once to purchase him a horse. But it came down to the sacrifices monks of every order were forced to make, which Dagmar would never understand—wasn’t life difficult and painful enough without adding more misery to it?

“I’m so glad to see you, Brother.” She squeezed his gloved hand. “You’re looking well.”

“It’s still pleasant out. Although I don’t look forward to winter.” Winter in the Northlands was a hard time for all of them, and only the most hearty—or stupid—trekked through the winter storms to reach the Reinholdt lands.

“Well, you’re here now. And we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.” He gestured to the cart. “And I’ve brought you some wonderful new books I think you’ll enjoy.”

She glanced in to the cart and smiled. “You bring me the best presents.”

Placing Brother Ragnar’s hand on her arm, she led him and his comrades to the Main Hall for warm wine and food. “So, Brother … any more on my uncle?”

“Much, I’m afraid. I don’t like it, Dagmar. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Nor will I, I’m sure.”

“Did you send a message to the Southland queen as I suggested?”

“I did, but my father was not exactly pleased.”

“She is a woman,” he teased. “Her weakness is obvious.”

“But her reputation, Brother …”

“I know. She is quite insane, but she has near a hundred legions at her disposal, my lady. Imagine what even one legion could do to help your father.”

“But if she is completely insane as everyone says, will she understand what danger she’s in?”

“My lady, most Southland monarchs are quite mad. But they are always surrounded by the most reliable and clever minds of our age. Queen Annwyl will be no different.” He squeezed her hand gently. “No worries, my lady. If the queen does not come herself, I have no doubt she’ll only send her most respected representative in her stead.”

Chapter 2

How long should a dragon of my stature be expected to survive without a warm, willing pu**y at my disposal?

For days he’d been traveling through the cold and unforgiving Northlands over Oceans of Despair and Forests of Death and Rivers of Bile. He didn’t call them these names out of caprice. He called them that because that’s what most of them were named in some form or another.

And after so many days of constant travel through what he was now convinced was a form of hell, he was still without a woman. He tired of men; he wanted to see females. He wanted to smell their hair and taste their skin and lose himself in their bodies. He sure as hell didn’t want to see one more angry, snarling, unattractive Northland male.

Such were the thoughts racing through his head when Gwenvael came in sight of the mighty Reinholdt fortress. More useless, worthless Northland men with their worthless codes and rules. He briefly debated shifting to human but decided against it. He needed the advantage with The Reinholdt and his warrior son The Beast.

Decision made, Gwenvael landed in front of the Reinholdt fortress gates in all his dragon glory.

Clawed feet slammed into the ground, shaking the fortress walls; gold wings stretched far from his body, the slow, even movements stirring up much dirt and air. Then Gwenvael leaned back his head and unleashed a line of flame into the sky.

When he tired of that, he looked down at the humans staring up at him. “Go on,” he offered magnanimously. “Feel free to piss on yourselves and cower helplessly.”

Gods, sometimes his generosity overwhelmed him.

Dagmar picked up a book from the floor and quickly flipped through the pages. So focused on her work, she didn’t realize anything might be amiss until Canute got to his feet and snarled at the door. She was already looking in that direction when one of her brothers walked in with nary a knock. Typical rude Reinholdt male behavior, but Canute charged him anyway. Dagmar stopped her pet with a simple, “No.”

The dog was already in midair, teeth bared, but he automatically jerked back, hit the ground, and hastily rolled over. He snarled and snapped a little for show before coming back to Dagmar’s side.

“What is it?”

Her brother Fridmar, third born to The Reinholdt, leaned casually against the doorway and ate an apple. In between bites he mumbled, “Dragon outside.”

“Yes, well, I’ll get right … wait.” She looked away from her work. “Pardon?”

“Dragon,” he said calmly. “Outside the gates. Eymund called an attack, but Da told me to get you first.”

Dagmar carefully placed the quill on the desk and slowly turned in the chair, placing her arm on the back of it. “A dragon? Are you sure?”

“It’s big, scaly, and has wings. What the hell else could it be?” She would have perhaps been less annoyed if he hadn’t made that reply with bits of apple flying out of his mouth.

“Well what kind?”

Her brother frowned. “Kind? It’s a dragon, I said.”

It amazed her she had the patience for this anymore, but what she’d learned early on and what her sisters-in-law could never seem to grasp—her brothers and father moved no faster than was absolutely necessary. Yelling at them, screaming … waste of one’s time. So Dagmar plodded along until she got what she needed. She called it the “water against rock” method. “There are different kinds of dragons, brother. There’s purple. Blue. Forest green.”