“I like her, cousin.”
“Mitts off, boy. She’s under my protection.”
“Is she?” Fal looked at her and back at Gwenvael. “Isn’t that what humans call putting the wolf in charge of the barn?”
“You’re still talking. I still hear you talking.”
Worried these two might get into a friendly family battle that would leave her dead next to the lake, Dagmar cut in, “You know, I’d love to have the ground beneath my feet once more before I die.”
“What?” Gwenvael asked. “Oh! Sorry. Sorry.” He bumped his cousin. “Move, you big-headed bastard. I need to get my lady to safety.”
“I’d stop here first before heading to the castle. Unless my lady is afraid of so many dragons in one place?”
Dagmar sniffed. “I’ve tolerated him for far longer than I thought I’d have to. I’m certain I can handle anything at this point.”
“What’s that mean?”
But Fal was laughing. “I like her. She’ll do fine here. Come on!” The brown headed down and Gwenvael followed.
“I like your cousin,” Dagmar said offhandedly and was shocked when Gwenvael abruptly stopped.
“And he’s a whore, so keep away from him.”
“But”—Dagmar tapped her chin—“Ragnar told me you’re The Defiler.”
“It’s Ruiner. Stop getting it wrong. And I have boundaries. My cousin has none. So no matter what he tells you, he’s simply trying to get under your skirt.”
Having never been warned off a male before, Dagmar sat back and enjoyed herself. “But what if I don’t mind him being under my skirt? What if I’d, in fact, like him to be under my skirt?”
“If you suddenly decide you simply must have someone under that skirt, you’re to let me know.”
Dagmar felt a sharp thrill. The dragon hadn’t kissed her or anything else since that time on Esyld’s bed. For the three days they’d been traveling together he’d been polite, protective, and extremely chatty, but he’d never touched her. She’d assumed he’d simply lost interest as she knew males of every species would do no matter how beautiful or not a woman might be.
“I’m to let you know? And why is that again?”
“Because you’re safe among my kin now, Beast, which allows me to focus on getting what I need.” He glanced back at her. “What we both need, I’d wager.”
“You really so sure?”
“As a matter of fact, Lady Dagmar”—Dagmar squeaked when she felt Gwenvael’s tail slap her rear—“I’m quite sure.”
Gwenvael wanted to shift to human as soon as he landed and get Dagmar back to the castle, but his family swarmed over him and before he knew it he was in the midst of hugs and slaps on the back that nearly broke his spine in two. Some of his kin he hadn’t seen in quite a while, but it would be hard for anyone to tell, they’d so easily fallen back into their comfortable camaraderie.
While he greeted his kin, he kept a watchful eye on Dagmar. Although she appeared completely out of place, she didn’t seem unnerved or frightened by the dragons surrounding her. She didn’t try to hide or get herself to a safe place behind a tree. She simply stood there. His little self-contained volcano.
For nearly three nights he’d been alone with Dagmar. For nearly three nights he went out of his way not to make her feel uncomfortable or unsafe. And for three days his c**k insisted on telling him what an idiot he was. Yet she was entrusting him with her life, even after finding out about the Lightning’s betrayal.
He wouldn’t take that trust for granted.
Glancing down, he watched as Dagmar wandered comfortably among his kin, her steady gaze focused on the ground. She’d stop, stare at something, and move on. Finally, when he pulled away from one of his many cousins and saw her doing it again, he had to ask, “What are you doing?”
“Comparing.”
“Comparing what?”
She looked up at him, her brows drawn together in a slight frown. “Why is your tail different from the others?”
In a group that was never silent, the sound of small birds could suddenly be heard.
“They all have this sharp spike at the end,” she said while pointing at one of his cousins’ tail. “Except yours.” He saw her fighting that wicked smile when she asked, “Were you born this horribly deformed? Or are all the royals missing basic defenses all other dragons are gifted with?”
Fal leaned forward before his cousin could and began, “What you need to do, my lady, is ask his brothers—”
Grabbing one of Fal’s horns, Gwenvael twisted and yanked his cousin back, sending him skidding into the lake.
“Let’s go.” He motioned at Dagmar with his talon.
“Aren’t you going to answer my very innocent question?”
“No, cheeky wench.” He slapped her ass with his “horribly deformed” tail. “Now walk!”
“Gwenvael! Gwenvael!”
He turned, looking for the voice he knew so well, already getting an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Up here!”
Slowly Gwenvael raised his eyes to the sky—and cringed. “Iseabail! What in all the hells are you doing?”
She grinned. “Flying!”
Yes. She was. And her mother would have a fit. Izzy wasn’t even on the back of one of the older dragons but had found her way to the youngsters … and Celyn, son of Gwenvael’s battle-honored Aunt Ghleanna. He would be a fine and well-known warrior one day when he came into his own. Until then he was like every other male of the Cadwaladr Clan at that age: lusty.