Which was worse? he wondered. Being so unappreciated by his own parents or being forced to deal with that harpy all the way to the Steppes of the Outerplains?
He didn’t know.
Honestly, how could any female, dragon or human, be as annoying as that woman? There were dragons who lived in the Steppes who were said in legend to be annoying, but they weren’t friendly or organized and wanted to be left alone, so other dragons did. That meant Celyn didn’t know exactly how annoying they might be, but he refused to believe even the Steppes dragons could be as annoying as this one human female.
Celyn rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling.
All right. So he’d forgotten her. Not his best moment, he’d admit. But she had been sent to assassinate his queen. How could she be so haughty about it all when she’d come here to do something that would normally get her head bitten off?
In fact, he’d saved her life. Because if Uncle Bercelak had gotten his cruel claws on her, he would have torn her to pieces for such an affront. But it had been Celyn who spirited her away in time.
Yet did he get any credit for that? A bit of appreciation from the death-ready female? No! The squirrel simply nattered at him. The way real squirrels nattered at Dagmar’s dogs from the safety of the trees.
Natter, natter, natter.
And now? Now he would be stuck with her for days. Listening to her complain about his life while wishing for her own death.
The bedroom door opened, and his sister and Izzy walked in.
“Oh,” Branwen gushed, “she is fabulous!”
Celyn lifted himself up on his elbows. “Why is this happening to me? I’m a lovely, lovely dragon. Everyone adores me. Human. Dragon. Centaur. Even those little things in the forests . . . with the ears . . . and the little fluffy tails?”
“Rabbits?”
“Aye! Rabbits. They love me, too.”
His sister smirked. “Only because you don’t eat them. Because you equate dragons eating rabbits with humans eating rats. . . . It’s beneath you.”
Celyn glared at his sister. “They still love me.”
Izzy perched herself on the footboard of the bed, long arms wrapped around even longer legs. “It may not be that bad.”
“She threw a pint at my head.”
“Nailed him, too,” Brannie unnecessarily added.
“She was upset,” Izzy reasoned. “Women do not like to be forgotten about. It insults us.”
“She wasn’t my bloody responsibility.”
“She is now,” Brannie muttered, but when Celyn glared at her, she quickly turned her eyes to the ceiling.
“I only did this because my parents think I’m Fal.”
“No, they do not! Who told you such a despicable thing?” Izzy turned to Brannie. “Why would you tell your brother such a despicable thing?”
With a roll of her eyes, Brannie admitted, “Mum and Da don’t think of you as Fal. He’s a failure at life all on his own.”
“But they clearly didn’t want me to go. Why?”
Brannie shrugged. “You talk too much.”
“What?”
“You ask too many questions. ‘Why are we doing this? Where are we going now? Is all this armor really necessary? Why do you insist on yelling at me? Do all humans smell like you?’ It’s bloody endless.”
“I’m curious is all. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Yes. When you constantly ask questions.”
“It’s not like I ask them during battle.”
“No. But you do ask them constantly every other time.” Brannie gave another shrug. “I think Mum and Da were worried you’d end up getting killed by the troop leaders. Or you’d cause a war. But Uncle Bercelak refused to have your talents wasted. So you were assigned to Rhiannon’s protection guard.”
“Wait. Are you telling me that’s it? That was their big problem?”
“Aye. They don’t want you to go anywhere because you’re good at protecting Rhiannon and she doesn’t get violently annoyed by your constant chattiness. Unlike every soldier in our battalions.”
“Are you telling me that I’ve attached myself to that Rider female because of this?”
“Looks like it!” Brannie’s head flew back from the pillow Celyn winged at her. “What was that for?”
“I’m now trapped with this vile little female because of you!”
Brannie giggled. “Yeah. I know.”
The bedroom door opened again and Éibhear’s giant bulk filled the open space, completely blocking out the light from the hallway.
Silver eyes searched the room before he said, “Oh . . . you’re in here, Izzy.”
“I am,” Izzy said. “Why don’t you join us? We’re just chatting.”
In answer, Éibhear grunted. Like a bull. Reminding Celyn they still weren’t very close.
Many years ago, Celyn’s relationship with Izzy had come between Celyn and Éibhear. But Celyn’s logic at the time had been if the blue idiot was going to pass up his chance at a woman like Iseabail the Dangerous, that was his bad decision. Why Éibhear insisted on blaming Celyn for his own shitty decision-making skills, Celyn would never know.
Celyn had actually loved Izzy at that time. But it had been a young love. Both of them just figuring out what they would want from their mates one day; and something Celyn refused to ever regret no matter how much Izzy’s adoptive kin made their own blood cousin suffer for it.
Besides, from their temporary passion had grown a great friendship. One that meant more to him than he’d ever thought it would.
And yet . . . Celyn wasn’t above using his past with Izzy to get what he wanted now. And what he wanted now was to get that ridiculous female out of his life. For good. Without worrying about listening to that speech from Bercelak about “making commitments and sticking with them.”
“You know what’s going on here, don’t you, Éibhear?” Celyn asked his cousin.
The giant dragon—gods! Éibhear was so bloody huge as human—locked those silver eyes on Celyn. “What’s going on?” he grumbled.
“Yeah,” Izzy asked, confused, “what’s going on?”
“I’m trying to get Izzy back, you know? It won’t take much. I was the best she ever had.”
“What the battle-fuck are you doing?” Brannie demanded, her eyes wide in panic. Izzy didn’t look much better, both of them clearly remembering the beating Celyn had received all those years ago when Éibhear had found out that Celyn had been sleeping with Izzy.
Unable to face his own feelings about Izzy, Éibhear had lashed out. And it was, honestly, the worst beating Celyn had ever taken. But he knew if he’d survived that—which he obviously had—he could survive bloody anything because his cousin had wanted him dead that day. And, as a Cadwaladr, Éibhear would have been allowed to kill Celyn because it had been a “proper challenge.” Among their clan, “proper challenges” were allowed and expected. And if one of their kin died because of it . . . oh, well. That was just the way of things.
Éibhear studied Celyn for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, his entire, big body tense and ready to attack. But then, one side of his mouth lifted. It was almost a smile.
“Forget it,” Éibhear said, and Celyn pushed himself off the bed.
“Come on,” Celyn implored. “Be a lad!”
“Not on your life! You’re stuck with that morbid little bitch. She’s your problem now.”
“Izzy’s still in love with me. She’s never loved you. She’s just using you to get me jealous.”
Éibhear threw back his big head and laughed. “That pale bitch is better revenge, cousin, than beating the shit out of you was that first time. And watching her make you miserable will bring me such joy.” He scratched Celyn’s head as if he were a small child. “Absolute joy.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Good luck on your trip to the Outerplains. Best bring something warm. I hear those Steppes are surprisingly chilly.” Laughing, Éibhear walked out.
&nb
sp; “You bastard! Ow!” Celyn covered the spot on the back of his head where Brannie slapped him and faced his sister. “What was that for?”
“Have you gone mad?” Brannie demanded. “He’s a bloody Mì-runach!” she reminded him. And Brannie had a point. The Mì-runach were feared for a good reason.
But none of that mattered when Celyn was desperate.
“He could have torn you apart in seconds,” Brannie went on.
“But he didn’t even try, did he?” Celyn sadly complained.
“Are you really so desperate over one human girl that you’d actually goad Éibhear the Contemptible into a fight you couldn’t possibly win just so you could be too wounded to leave?” Izzy asked, shaking her head in disgust.
“I suffered a beating before,” Celyn reminded her. “For our love.”
Izzy rolled her eyes and walked away while Brannie sneered, “You are pathetic.”
A nice woman who’d been cutting up a pig in the kitchen had been kind enough to get Elina a bowl of stew and a few loaves of freshly baked bread, then lead her to the enormous dining room. The woman had called it the Great Hall and sat Elina down at one of two long tables in it.
Once alone, Elina dived into her meal. The food was hot and good and fresh. Her people often lived on dried supplies, especially during the winter storm months.
Even better, as Elina reached the bottom of her bowl, it was whisked away and another full bowl of hot stew quickly replaced it. Elina looked up into a smiling woman’s face.
“If you need anything else, m’lady, you just let me know. Name’s Jenna.”
Elina nodded her thanks and went back to her food.
So . . . this was the “decadent” Southland lifestyle she’d always heard about from the Elders in her tribe. Stories of the materialistic ways of the Southland royals, who let their people starve while they lived in luxury, were repeated among her people, who shared everything. Life on the Steppes was hard but rewarding. There were no luxuries. There were no servants to bring hot food without one asking for it.
Elina had to admit . . . she could easily get used to this life. But the tribes’ Elders always reminded everyone about how seductive the Southlander’s awful lives were.
Of course, with stew like this . . . how awful could it really be?
“Mind if I join you?”
Elina finally lifted her head from her second bowl of stew and looked into the face of the handsome man who’d stepped between the queen and the dark-haired female nearly an hour ago. Now he stood before her alone, his silver hair reaching past his broad shoulders while warm blue eyes patiently waited for her answer.
“Are you dragon?” she asked.
He blinked. “Does it matter?”
“No.”
He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, but when Elina didn’t—what else was there to say?—he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.
A servant suddenly appeared and placed a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread in front of him. Another servant brought a chalice and a crystal pitcher of water. The man poured himself a glass of water, smiling as he glanced at Elina.
“Decadent, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Very.”
“Does it offend you?”
“No. But I enjoy looking down on others and judging them for things that are none of my concern.”
The man laughed. “Good to know.” He placed the pitcher aside and took a sip. “Your name—”
“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains.”
“Yes. Well, Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains,” he repeated back to her perfectly, “mind if I call you Elina as Queen Rhiannon suggested?”
“No. Days are long on the Steppes, so there is time for saying names. But things in the Southlands . . . they move faster, it seems.”
“Not really. We just have much less patience. My name, by the way, is Bram the Merciful.”
Elina sighed in envy. “Such a deliciously simple name.” She studied him. “Why Merciful?”
“It’s a nice way of saying I’m not much of a fighter.”
“Nor am I. But my comrades just call me weak and pathetic. As children, they would spit on me. But last boy who did that I pushed into pit fire . . . so no one does that to me anymore.”
“I’m sure they don’t.”
“What did your people do to you, Bram the Merciful?”
He shrugged. “Send me out to negotiate treaties and alliances.”
“So cruel.”
He leaned in a bit and whispered, “I actually like it, but I make sure to complain a lot.”
“That is good. You make them think you hate it and then they make you do it more. Very smart.”
“Thank you. So you came to the decadent Southlands to kill our queen?” he asked between bites of bread and cheese.
“I did. I failed. I am pathetic.”
“Except, Elina, it didn’t sound like you tried very hard. And clearly you’re not lazy. You made the trip here, by yourself. So perhaps you just felt killing the queen was . . . wrong?”
“I am not warrior. I kill to eat. I kill in defense. But the Dragon Queen . . . she had done nothing to me. To my people. Why kill her? Other than her head would look nice outside Glebovicha’s hut.”
“There is no shame in not wanting to kill for no reason.”
“There is shame in failure.”
“You can’t fail at what you didn’t even try.”
“Perhaps.”
“But this new task you do plan to do?”
Elina nodded. “I made commitment to Dragon Queen.”
“Excuse me, Elina, but didn’t you make the commitment to slay the Dragon Queen as well?”
“I was not given option. I was told to do. No one asked me anything.” Elina winced. She didn’t mean to sound so bitter. “Do not worry, I plan to do whatever is necessary to assist the Dragon Queen and Annwyl the Bloody. They did not kill me when they had every right. For that alone I must give my all.”
Bram the Merciful nodded, his lips curved in a soft smile. “And my son will be by your side to help you as much as possible.”
“Your son?” Elina eyed the man. “The dolt?”
Bram chuckled. “Aye. The dolt.”
“That is impossible. You are . . . smart. Wise. And you would never forget woman you left in prison.”
“Don’t think too poorly of my son. He is smarter than he realizes, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.”
“Would he prefer stupid?”
“Not at all. It’s just a little complicated to explain to those who do not understand the ways of the Cadwaladr Clan.”
Elina jerked back a bit, a piece of bread still gripped in her hand, but nearly forgotten. “The Cadwaladr Clan?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Who has not? They are vile, brutal monsters reared to kill from birth.” Elina nodded. “The tribes respect them greatly.”
The male smiled. “Of course they do.”
“They are dragons?” Elina shook her head. “That we did not know.”
“Does it lessen your respect?”
“No. Just explains things.”
Elina went back to her food, the sudden screaming behind her startling Bram the Merciful but not Elina. She was used to such screaming on the Steppes.
“Gods,” Bram muttered under his breath. “I keep forgetting about their presence.” Then he jumped again when “Daaaaddddy! ” was screeched, the sound tearing through the stone walls.
With a sigh, the dragon looked over his shoulder at the little girl standing in the doorway at the back of the hall. “Hello, little Arlais.”
“Great-Uncle Bram. Where is my father?”
“I don’t—”
“What’s happened?” the astoundingly beautiful golden-haired man called
Gwenvael demanded, his long legs bringing him quickly into the Great Hall. Elina had noticed him earlier. So pretty. He would be in much demand among the tribes’ best warriors.
The little girl leaped onto the table with ease and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I want that woman executed,” the child announced.
Gwenvael stopped walking, rolled his eyes. “She’s your mother, Arlais.”
“Not by choice. She is a Low Born human who orders me around.”
“Arlais, my darling—”
“She is the daughter of a warlord, but I am the daughter of a prince. I outrank her . . . in many ways. In beauty, talent, and a rare grace that comes with being royal born.”
“Awwww. I’ve taught you so well.” He placed his hands over his chest. “It warms my hard dragon heart to see so much annoying and painful arrogance at such a young age.” He shrugged. “But you cannot have your mother executed.”
She stamped her little foot. “That is unfair!”
“But you already knew that life was unfair and cruel, so none of this should surprise you.”
The little girl gave an angry roar that shook the weapons tacked to the walls. “When I rule this kingdom—and I will rule this kingdom, Daddy—”
“You’ll have to get past your cousin Talwyn first and she’ll skin you alive before she gives you anything,” he said in singsong to his daughter.
“—you will all bow down before me in fear and—oooh,” she suddenly said. “Shiny.” She reached down to pick up something off the table but was quickly tackled from behind by smaller versions of herself. She hit the table hard while those five versions pummeled her. Even the smallest and youngest, barely a toddler, got in several good punches to the child’s head before they all jumped up and yelled, “Destruction-ho!” Then they scrambled off the table, charged past Gwenvael—who, Elina guessed, was also a dragon—and out the door. The toddler was the slowest, so she stopped to hug the large dragon’s human leg.
“Love you, Daddy!”
He stroked the toddler’s golden head. “Of course you do. Because you are wise.”
Laughing, she fled out the door and by now a boy and a tall, well-built, attractive young man, with round pieces of wire-held glass perched low on his nose, was helping the battered child off the table.