What a Dragon Should Know
Page 136
Her tongue stroked his, bold and demanding. She hid nothing from him when they were like this. Both of them stripped down to their most elemental.
It was right that it should be like this. Raw and brutal and intense. Because he’d just marked her as his own. She was his now, as he was hers. And nothing would ever change that.
Gwenvael had meant everything he’d said to her. They were partners now. Mates. They would stand together against whatever life had to throw at them, doing what they could to protect those they cared about.
She came again, her cries pouring into his mouth. He felt her clench around him and he couldn’t hold back. He came inside her, the hand gripping her hair tightening, his hips pushing against her so he knew she could feel what he’d done to her.
And what he’d done to her was made her his.
It took several minutes for him to get his breath and full control of his limbs back. When he did, he slowly pulled out of her, his c**k partially hard and more than ready for another go. But he knew that Dagmar needed a short nap before they could begin again.
The snoring was kind of a dead giveaway.
Chapter 35
Morfyd held the newest red gown up in front of her and debated if it was too much. Too bold? For her anyway? She’d begun to hate these impromptu family feasts. But this would be the first time she’d go to one and not have to hide her feelings toward Brastias from anyone. Even her mother and father.
The thought terrified her, but she was determined not to back down now. He loved her and she loved him; nothing else mattered. And she would keep telling herself that until this whole nightmare was over!
“I need your help,” Dagmar said as she walked into her room without knocking.
“What’s wrong?”
“Other than being in love with your idiot brother? Dog-slobber rash.”
“Dog slob … ?” No. Probably best not to ask. “Let me see.”
Dagmar stepped in front of her and Morfyd realized the Northlander had been telling the truth. She did love Gwenvael—she could see it in those cold grey eyes. Morfyd might even feel sorry for her, if Dagmar wasn’t such a plotting little cow. They were perfect together, Dagmar and Gwenvael. And even better, Dagmar was perfect for Annwyl. The human queen needed a good politician by her side, and that was Dagmar.
Morfyd laid her gown aside and leaned in closely to examine Dagmar’s rash. After a few minutes of staring, she stepped back. “Where did you get this?” And she was unable to keep the terseness out of her voice.
“A dog—”
“Don’t mess me about,” Morfyd snapped. “Did my mother give you this?” Oh, and she better not have!
“Did your mother give me a rash?” Dagmar asked dryly. “Well … We’ve never been that close, she and I.”
“It’s not a rash, and we both know it.”
Dagmar studied her for a moment. “We do?”
“It’s the Chain of Beathag.”
“Which is … what? Exactly?”
Morfyd took a step back. “You really don’t know?” Dagmar shook her head. “And my mother didn’t give it to you?” Another head shake. “Oh … oh, my.”
“How bad is it?” Dagmar asked calmly. “Am I dying?”
“What?”
“If your mother’s involved, I’m assuming I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.” She grabbed Dagmar’s arm and pulled her in front of the mirror. “This is not a rash. The red marks are from you scratching it, but the brown marks are similar to the Chain of Beathag. A gift of great power from the dragon gods. It extends the natural life of the wearer by five or six hundred years.”
“Oh.” Dagmar stared down at her chest. “That was very nice of him.”
“Of who?”
“Nannulf.”
Morfyd blinked. “The war god? That was the dog you were talking about?” Dagmar shrugged, nodded. “When did you see him?”
“This morning. He and Eir came to visit me.”
“Eir? Do you mean Eirianwen?” The barbarian got to call the dragon goddess of war Eir? How was that fair? “You don’t even worship the gods.”
“I know. But he’s a canine and I’m good with canines.”
Dagmar was so matter of fact about it all. Talking to gods, getting hundreds of years added on to her life, falling in love … Did anything faze this human? Did anything—anything!—bother her?
“Your face is getting red,” Dagmar noted.
“Yes. I’m sure it is.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” She threw up her hands. “Well … in the next ten or twenty minutes, I’ll need to go downstairs and kowtow to that bitch mother of mine in the hopes that she’ll give Brastias the Chain of Beathag so we can live happily together for the next few centuries. And you, you who worships no one but yourself, gets it because a dog who’s a god likes you.”
“He’s more wolf than dog.”
“Shut up!” Morfyd covered her mouth with her hand, horrified with herself. “Oh, Dagmar. I’m sorry. Oh, that was rude. And uncalled for. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do. It’s called parents.” She smiled and winked, making Morfyd feel worse because she was being so sweet about it all. “You really don’t think Rhiannon will give Brastias this …”
It was right that it should be like this. Raw and brutal and intense. Because he’d just marked her as his own. She was his now, as he was hers. And nothing would ever change that.
Gwenvael had meant everything he’d said to her. They were partners now. Mates. They would stand together against whatever life had to throw at them, doing what they could to protect those they cared about.
She came again, her cries pouring into his mouth. He felt her clench around him and he couldn’t hold back. He came inside her, the hand gripping her hair tightening, his hips pushing against her so he knew she could feel what he’d done to her.
And what he’d done to her was made her his.
It took several minutes for him to get his breath and full control of his limbs back. When he did, he slowly pulled out of her, his c**k partially hard and more than ready for another go. But he knew that Dagmar needed a short nap before they could begin again.
The snoring was kind of a dead giveaway.
Chapter 35
Morfyd held the newest red gown up in front of her and debated if it was too much. Too bold? For her anyway? She’d begun to hate these impromptu family feasts. But this would be the first time she’d go to one and not have to hide her feelings toward Brastias from anyone. Even her mother and father.
The thought terrified her, but she was determined not to back down now. He loved her and she loved him; nothing else mattered. And she would keep telling herself that until this whole nightmare was over!
“I need your help,” Dagmar said as she walked into her room without knocking.
“What’s wrong?”
“Other than being in love with your idiot brother? Dog-slobber rash.”
“Dog slob … ?” No. Probably best not to ask. “Let me see.”
Dagmar stepped in front of her and Morfyd realized the Northlander had been telling the truth. She did love Gwenvael—she could see it in those cold grey eyes. Morfyd might even feel sorry for her, if Dagmar wasn’t such a plotting little cow. They were perfect together, Dagmar and Gwenvael. And even better, Dagmar was perfect for Annwyl. The human queen needed a good politician by her side, and that was Dagmar.
Morfyd laid her gown aside and leaned in closely to examine Dagmar’s rash. After a few minutes of staring, she stepped back. “Where did you get this?” And she was unable to keep the terseness out of her voice.
“A dog—”
“Don’t mess me about,” Morfyd snapped. “Did my mother give you this?” Oh, and she better not have!
“Did your mother give me a rash?” Dagmar asked dryly. “Well … We’ve never been that close, she and I.”
“It’s not a rash, and we both know it.”
Dagmar studied her for a moment. “We do?”
“It’s the Chain of Beathag.”
“Which is … what? Exactly?”
Morfyd took a step back. “You really don’t know?” Dagmar shook her head. “And my mother didn’t give it to you?” Another head shake. “Oh … oh, my.”
“How bad is it?” Dagmar asked calmly. “Am I dying?”
“What?”
“If your mother’s involved, I’m assuming I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.” She grabbed Dagmar’s arm and pulled her in front of the mirror. “This is not a rash. The red marks are from you scratching it, but the brown marks are similar to the Chain of Beathag. A gift of great power from the dragon gods. It extends the natural life of the wearer by five or six hundred years.”
“Oh.” Dagmar stared down at her chest. “That was very nice of him.”
“Of who?”
“Nannulf.”
Morfyd blinked. “The war god? That was the dog you were talking about?” Dagmar shrugged, nodded. “When did you see him?”
“This morning. He and Eir came to visit me.”
“Eir? Do you mean Eirianwen?” The barbarian got to call the dragon goddess of war Eir? How was that fair? “You don’t even worship the gods.”
“I know. But he’s a canine and I’m good with canines.”
Dagmar was so matter of fact about it all. Talking to gods, getting hundreds of years added on to her life, falling in love … Did anything faze this human? Did anything—anything!—bother her?
“Your face is getting red,” Dagmar noted.
“Yes. I’m sure it is.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” She threw up her hands. “Well … in the next ten or twenty minutes, I’ll need to go downstairs and kowtow to that bitch mother of mine in the hopes that she’ll give Brastias the Chain of Beathag so we can live happily together for the next few centuries. And you, you who worships no one but yourself, gets it because a dog who’s a god likes you.”
“He’s more wolf than dog.”
“Shut up!” Morfyd covered her mouth with her hand, horrified with herself. “Oh, Dagmar. I’m sorry. Oh, that was rude. And uncalled for. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do. It’s called parents.” She smiled and winked, making Morfyd feel worse because she was being so sweet about it all. “You really don’t think Rhiannon will give Brastias this …”
