Last Dragon Standing
Page 89
They paused in their feeding and lifted their heads. Just like two oxen at a watering hole that had sniffed out a predator nearby.
What could Annwyl say? They weren’t too far off.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Queen Annwyl,” the one with short hair answered, and Annwyl had to laugh. She loathed when people used that stupid title, but she knew he was doing it for one simple reason: to point out that perhaps fighting with a queen who’d already tried to take his head might not be the smartest decision. Normally he’d be right, but they were under Éibhear’s protection and their brother was—secretly at least—fucking Keita. So unless Annwyl heard otherwise, she wouldn’t bother killing them.
“We’ll use the training ring right around the corner of this building.
And I promise I’ll not hold anything that happens in the ring against either of you, your brother, or your people.”
“Why us?” the other ox asked. He bore a scar from his hairline to below his eye. It had faded with time, but it was clear enough to remind her that “eye scar” was Meinhard, meaning the other was…uh… shit. What’s his bloody name again?
Rather than ask him that—she’d tried to take his head, but she couldn’t be bothered to remember his name…tacky—she admitted, “No one else will train with me these days. Even the Southland dragons. Unless, of course, Northland dragons are too afraid of me to take the risk as well…” Meinhard sneered around his food while the other’s purple brows peaked.
Knowing how to close this deal, she added, “Besides, wouldn’t you like a chance to get even over your hair?”
When she saw fang, she knew she had them both.
Keita skipped down the stairs to the Great Hall and hopped off the last step. So far only Gwenvael, Dagmar, Morfyd, and Talaith had made it down to breakfast. Keita, making sure her smile was exceedingly happy and bright, threw her arms wide, and said with no small amount of cheer, “Good morn, my lovely family!”
“You’re f**king Ragnar the Cunning?” Gwenvael barked at her.
Keita dropped her arms to her sides and glared at Dagmar, hoping to look appropriately betrayed. “You promised me you wouldn’t say anything.” Gwenvael refocused his scowl onto his mate. “You knew?”
“I know lots of things.”
“You knew? ”
“Don’t yell at me, Defiler.”
Keita was surprised the warlord’s daughter hadn’t said anything. But this was good. The rumor was spreading even faster than she’d thought it would, and Dagmar apparently could be trusted. Excellent.
“Is it beyond you”—Morfyd pushed her chair back and stood, stalking around the table—“to keep your legs closed, sister?”
“Beyond me? No. But why would I? He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s a Lightning,” Gwenvael reminded her. And Keita had to admit she was a little shocked. Of those she’d thought would be upset about this, she’d never imagined it would be Gwenvael. Who she f**ked was not something her golden brother had ever cared much about unless a problem arose.
“Yes. He is. And so were those slags you f**ked during the war that got you the name Defiler.”
“It’s Ruiner! And I never tried to hide what I’d done. Why are you?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Keita headed toward the Great Hall doors, which stood open, giving her a glimpse of early-morning freedom. But just as she stepped outside, Gwenvael caught her arm and swung her around.
At least, she thought it was Gwenvael. Gwenvael, who was much taller than Keita, so that when she swung her arm at him and slapped him with her hand, she would really only hit his side and do very little damage.
Too bad, though, it wasn’t Gwenvael but Morfyd who’d grabbed her.
And Morfyd’s face was right in line with Keita’s open palm.
The sound ricocheted around the courtyard, and Morfyd’s cheek turned red where Keita’s hand had collided with it.
A moment of stunned silence from both of them followed, poor Dagmar rushing up to them yelling, “No, no, no—” But it was too late. Much too late. Screeching, they grabbed onto each other’s hair and stumbled down the steps while trying to kick the other while trying to yank every strand from the other’s head.
Dagmar tried desperately to separate them, the human guards wisely deciding not to intervene between two She-dragons who could shift at a moment’s thought and crush them in the process.
“Stop it!” Dagmar yelled, her tiny little human hands trying to pry them apart. “Stop it right now!”
It was strange, in the middle of a sister free-for-all as Gwenvael always called it, that Keita could hear anything but her own yells and Morfyd’s, but she did hear it. A familiar voice coming from across the courtyard and heading their way.
“Wait!” that voice begged. “Would you just wait? Please!” Keita wanted to pull away from her sister to see what was going on, but Morfyd wasn’t letting go.
But then they had no choice in the matter because something incredibly strong—and, she was guessing, incredibly pissed off—yanked the pair apart with one pull and shoved them in opposite directions before walking on through.
Keita looked down at the strands of white hair she still had in her fists, then she gazed up, mouth dropping open, when she saw all the red ones in Morfyd’s.
Raging, Keita yelled, “You big-handed—”
What could Annwyl say? They weren’t too far off.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Queen Annwyl,” the one with short hair answered, and Annwyl had to laugh. She loathed when people used that stupid title, but she knew he was doing it for one simple reason: to point out that perhaps fighting with a queen who’d already tried to take his head might not be the smartest decision. Normally he’d be right, but they were under Éibhear’s protection and their brother was—secretly at least—fucking Keita. So unless Annwyl heard otherwise, she wouldn’t bother killing them.
“We’ll use the training ring right around the corner of this building.
And I promise I’ll not hold anything that happens in the ring against either of you, your brother, or your people.”
“Why us?” the other ox asked. He bore a scar from his hairline to below his eye. It had faded with time, but it was clear enough to remind her that “eye scar” was Meinhard, meaning the other was…uh… shit. What’s his bloody name again?
Rather than ask him that—she’d tried to take his head, but she couldn’t be bothered to remember his name…tacky—she admitted, “No one else will train with me these days. Even the Southland dragons. Unless, of course, Northland dragons are too afraid of me to take the risk as well…” Meinhard sneered around his food while the other’s purple brows peaked.
Knowing how to close this deal, she added, “Besides, wouldn’t you like a chance to get even over your hair?”
When she saw fang, she knew she had them both.
Keita skipped down the stairs to the Great Hall and hopped off the last step. So far only Gwenvael, Dagmar, Morfyd, and Talaith had made it down to breakfast. Keita, making sure her smile was exceedingly happy and bright, threw her arms wide, and said with no small amount of cheer, “Good morn, my lovely family!”
“You’re f**king Ragnar the Cunning?” Gwenvael barked at her.
Keita dropped her arms to her sides and glared at Dagmar, hoping to look appropriately betrayed. “You promised me you wouldn’t say anything.” Gwenvael refocused his scowl onto his mate. “You knew?”
“I know lots of things.”
“You knew? ”
“Don’t yell at me, Defiler.”
Keita was surprised the warlord’s daughter hadn’t said anything. But this was good. The rumor was spreading even faster than she’d thought it would, and Dagmar apparently could be trusted. Excellent.
“Is it beyond you”—Morfyd pushed her chair back and stood, stalking around the table—“to keep your legs closed, sister?”
“Beyond me? No. But why would I? He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s a Lightning,” Gwenvael reminded her. And Keita had to admit she was a little shocked. Of those she’d thought would be upset about this, she’d never imagined it would be Gwenvael. Who she f**ked was not something her golden brother had ever cared much about unless a problem arose.
“Yes. He is. And so were those slags you f**ked during the war that got you the name Defiler.”
“It’s Ruiner! And I never tried to hide what I’d done. Why are you?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Keita headed toward the Great Hall doors, which stood open, giving her a glimpse of early-morning freedom. But just as she stepped outside, Gwenvael caught her arm and swung her around.
At least, she thought it was Gwenvael. Gwenvael, who was much taller than Keita, so that when she swung her arm at him and slapped him with her hand, she would really only hit his side and do very little damage.
Too bad, though, it wasn’t Gwenvael but Morfyd who’d grabbed her.
And Morfyd’s face was right in line with Keita’s open palm.
The sound ricocheted around the courtyard, and Morfyd’s cheek turned red where Keita’s hand had collided with it.
A moment of stunned silence from both of them followed, poor Dagmar rushing up to them yelling, “No, no, no—” But it was too late. Much too late. Screeching, they grabbed onto each other’s hair and stumbled down the steps while trying to kick the other while trying to yank every strand from the other’s head.
Dagmar tried desperately to separate them, the human guards wisely deciding not to intervene between two She-dragons who could shift at a moment’s thought and crush them in the process.
“Stop it!” Dagmar yelled, her tiny little human hands trying to pry them apart. “Stop it right now!”
It was strange, in the middle of a sister free-for-all as Gwenvael always called it, that Keita could hear anything but her own yells and Morfyd’s, but she did hear it. A familiar voice coming from across the courtyard and heading their way.
“Wait!” that voice begged. “Would you just wait? Please!” Keita wanted to pull away from her sister to see what was going on, but Morfyd wasn’t letting go.
But then they had no choice in the matter because something incredibly strong—and, she was guessing, incredibly pissed off—yanked the pair apart with one pull and shoved them in opposite directions before walking on through.
Keita looked down at the strands of white hair she still had in her fists, then she gazed up, mouth dropping open, when she saw all the red ones in Morfyd’s.
Raging, Keita yelled, “You big-handed—”
