He watched her walk away. Watched her tight rear move in those leather leggings. He couldn’t help himself. He swatted that rear with his tail.
“Oi!” She jumped and turned to glare at the dragon. “What was that for?”
For having the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen. No. He probably shouldn’t say that.
“To remind you that you’re in my lair. And don’t forget it.”
She should have been angry, but she smirked instead. Interesting. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
They stared at each other. And, if Fearghus had been in human form, he would have kissed her and anything else he could think of. But he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. No involvement with the human. He’d made the decision. He’d stick to it. No matter how much he wanted to suck on those . . . Dammit. He needed to go before he did something inappropriate. Fun. But inappropriate. “Well, is there anything else?”
“No.”
Good. Fearghus walked to the exit.
“But . . .”
Fearghus cringed and looked back at her. “But?”
“Well, now that”—she cleared her throat—“we have all that resolved, I was hoping we could talk.”
“Talk?” That completely distracted him from sucking on anything of hers. “About what?”
“About anything.”
If Fearghus had eyebrows he would have raised them. She couldn’t get away from the knight, who she believed to be human, fast enough. But she wanted to sit and chat with the dragon who had, just moments before, threatened to burn her to embers. Such an odd girl.
He smoothly turned his big body around and sat back on his hind legs, his head scraping the ceiling. “Well . . . I guess I can.”
“Good.” She eagerly jumped up on the table, sitting cross-legged. “Should I start then?”
“Perhaps you better.”
“As you wish.” She fell silent as she thought, and he stared at her br**sts. She’d taken the bindings off and he could see the outline of the perfectly round mounds under the cotton shirt. Gods, Fearghus! Get control of yourself!
“I know. How old are you?”
“Two hundred and sixty-eight.”
“Years?”
“Aye.”
“So dragons are immortal?”
“No.”
“But legends say you are.”
“They’re wrong.” She prompted him to continue. He wasn’t used to talking so much. “The first dragons, the elders, were immortal. But a mated pair asked the gods for the gift of children. The gods agreed, but the price would be that they lose their immortality. Our line is descended from them.”
Annwyl stared at him with her mouth open. “That is the sweetest story I’ve ever heard.”
“It is?” The girl read too many books.
“Yes. It’s romantic. They gave up immortality to be together and start a family.”
Fearghus shrugged. “It’s a tale they tell the hatchlings. I’m almost positive there was more to it than that.”
“Are you always so cynical?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not immortal, but your kind clearly lives a long time.”
“Yes. About 800 years or so.”
“So, compared to other dragons, you’re kind of a baby?”
Fearghus grunted. “If you feel the need to put it that way.”
“Any siblings?”
“Yes.”
“How many?
Fearghus sighed and settled down for what would clearly be a long and painful night. He almost missed the days when she lay unconscious and near death. “Too many. And you?”
With a frown, “Is that meant to be funny?”
Oops. He actually just meant to be polite. Of course, he’d never been very good at polite. “No. Just wondering if there was anyone else besides the demon-spawn you call kin.”
“Sadly no. Or at least none that my father has claimed.” She propped her elbows onto her knees and cupped her chin in the palm of her hands. “Are you close to your family?”
“Just one sister. The others I only see at family times. And that is grudgingly.”
“Dragons have family times? Is that just a simple get together or are virgin sacrifices required?”Fearghus barked out a laugh and the girl smiled. “See? Got you to laugh.”
“That you did.”
Maybe the evening wouldn’t be that painful after all.
Chapter 5
Brastias, general of the Dark Plains rebellion and Annwyl’s second in command, leaned back into the hard wood chair and rubbed his tired eyes. She must be dead. She had to be dead. Annwyl would never disappear this long without word sent. He’d already sent trackers out to find her, but they came back empty-handed, losing her trail somewhere near Dark Glen, a haunted place most men dare not enter.
Of course, Annwyl was not most men. She often dared where others fled. She remained the bravest warrior Brastias knew and he’d met many men over the years who he considered brave.
But Annwyl could be foolhardy and her anger . . . formidable.
And yet every day for two years Brastias thanked the gods for his good fortune. On a whim they had attacked a heavily armed caravan coming from Garbhán Isle. Its cargo had been Annwyl. Dressed in white bridal clothes and chained to the horse she rode, her destiny to be the unwilling bride for some noble in Madron. And based on how heavily armed her procession was, dangerously unhappy about it as well. Once the attack began, one of his men released Annwyl and told her to escape. She didn’t. Instead she took up a sword and fought. Fought, in fact, like a demon sent from the gods of hate and revenge. Her rage a mighty sight to behold. By the time the girl finished, she stood among the headless remains of those she killed. Her white gown completely covered in blood. On that day the men had given her the name Annwyl the Bloody and, as much as she hated it, the name stuck.