What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(90)

“Tutors?” He glanced at Gwenvael, but if he thought he’d be getting any help from him …

“Yes. I realize I didn’t make myself clear. I am Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth offspring of The Reinholdt and Only Daughter.”

His scowl deepened. “You’re the daughter of The Reinholdt?”

“Yes. I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see Queen Annwyl.”

“Right. Except I find you playing with my boy.”

“I don’t think Fearghus would appreciate me playing with Annwyl.”

Gwenvael snorted another laugh, which earned him another glare from his father.

“I have to admit,” Dagmar went on as she leisurely walked around Bercelak. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Is that right?”

“You seem much braver than I heard you were.”

Confused, Bercelak looked down at Dagmar, his gaze following her as she circled him. “What?”

“You know. How you ran away from the Battle of Ødven.”

This little barbarian truly was evil. It had been Gwenvael who had told Dagmar those stories about Bercelak on their long flight to Dark Plains. And he’d told them to her as he’d been told, showing Bercelak for the killer he was, as a warning to her to keep her distance from Bercelak the Great should she meet him.

But she’d turned all that to gain her own vengeful ends—and Gwenvael adored her for it.

“I did no such thing,” Bercelak huffed, shocked.

“Or when you were found crying and whimpering near the Mountains of Urpa.”

“That’s a damn lie!”

“Doubtful. These are common stories among my people. And tell me,” she went on, “is it true that you only survived your battle with Finnbjörn the Callous after you begged him for mercy?”

Black smoke eased from Bercelak’s human nostrils. “The only thing that protected Finnbjörn from me was when he returned my sister!”

She blinked up at him, her face beautifully blank. “No need to yell.”

“You vicious little—”

“Father,” Gwenvael warned.

“And you brought her here!”

Gwenvael shrugged. “I begged her to marry me in the Northlands, but she wanted to get to know me first. You know how girls are,” he finished in a conspiratorial whisper.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Dagmar easily—and rather bravely, in Gwenvael’s estimation—stepped between the two.

“Gwenvael, why don’t you get Fearghus?”

“I’m not leaving you alone when he’s snorting smoke, woman.”

“I’ll be fine. Go get Fearghus.”

“I can call him here. I don’t have to leave.”

“No. Go get him.” She peered at Gwenvael over her shoulder. “Or would you prefer your father found Annwyl on his own?”

No. That wouldn’t be good either. But he didn’t understand why she wanted to be alone with Bercelak. The old bastard still had no problems eating humans when the mood struck him, often bringing them home as treats to Gwenvael’s mother.

“Dagmar—”

“I’ll be fine here. Go.”

He was reluctant, that was obvious; but he eventually did as she asked.

“I’ll be two minutes.” He glared at his father. “No flame.”

Dagmar watched Gwenvael disappear down a hallway before she turned back to face his father.

In all her years, she’d never seen a scowl quite like that. As if the dragon were filled with nothing but hate and rage. She’d thought Fearghus’s scowl was bad, but nothing, absolutely nothing, like this.

Taunting him had been pleasurable since she hadn’t appreciated the way he’d spoken to his son. And although Gwenvael had described the older dragon to her as some kind of murdering lizard, her instincts told her something else—she just wasn’t sure what that was yet. Who was Bercelak the Great, and why oh why did she desire to taunt him the way she did her own father?

“Why are you really here, Northlander?” he demanded.

She smiled because she could tell it annoyed him. He wanted her frightened and scurrying away. Not likely.

“Why I’m here is my business and the business of Queen Annwyl. Perhaps you should tend to your own, Consort.”

He stepped closer to her. “Do you really want to challenge me, human?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“Do you think I’m like my son? That the fact that you’re female sways me in any way as it does him?” He leaned down a bit, his face a tad closer than she would have liked. “There is no kindness in me. No softness. No caring. And I’ll stop at nothing to protect my kind.”

“Then you and I, Lord Bercelak, have much in common.”

“Tell me why you’re here, little girl. Tell me, or I’ll tear you apart.”

She debated whether to believe him. Was he evil? Pure and simple? Was there no reasoning with someone so filled with hate and rage, who had no softness about him at all?

Following her instincts as she’d always had, she challenged, “Do your worst. I dare you.”

His nostrils flared, the black smoke curling out from them increasing, and she saw fangs. That’s new.