“They’ve deserted me.” Dagmar grabbed the seat Fearghus had so hastily vacated and yanked it closer. “I’m not even from here. For all they know I could be a brilliant spy, bent on destroying Annwyl’s kingdom—and yet I’m the one working on their defenses.”
Gwenvael stood next to her now, staring down at the maps. “Are those the most recent maps?”
She dropped into the chair and pulled it closer to the table. “Éibhear seems to think they are.”
“He’d know. He loves maps.”
Strong fingers brushed the back of her neck and Dagmar forced her body to not writhe in the chair.
“You left me this morning,” he murmured.
“I believe ‘leaving’ you would be me heading back to the Northlands. All I did this morning was travel down the stairs to enjoy first meal while it was still hot.”
“You should have woken me.”
“And why would I do that?”
In answer, he leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was gentle, the kiss playful, and his tongue stroking hers felt absolutely divine. Her body relaxed, the hand on the back of her neck keeping her head from slapping against the hard wood of the chair back.
When she was nothing more than one of her dogs’ limp rag dolls lying in a corner, he pulled slightly away. “Next time, you check with me before you leave my bed. I often have plans first thing in the morning.”
“It’s my bed, Lord Gwenvael. And who said there’d be a next time?” Her eyes locked with his. “Who said I’d ever let you back into my bed again?”
“It entertains me that you think you have a choice. Now come back upstairs. I have needs that you’re required to fulfill.”
Dagmar took a breath, appalled at how shaky it sounded going in and coming out. “I have work to do, Defiler.”
“Give me an hour upstairs and the day is yours, Beast.”
That sounded like an incredibly fair trade-off, especially when his lips kept rubbing against hers. “All right. But only one—”
“So,” a voice said from in front of them, “do you even know this one’s name? Or is all that part of the mystery?”
Dagmar only had a second to see a flash of fang and true, bright anger in Gwenvael’s gold eyes before he hid all that and turned to face the man who clearly wasn’t a man. If she hadn’t been able to tell by his size, the fact that he was an older version of Fearghus would have told her the same dragon’s tale.
“Father,” Gwenvael said, the smile on his face looking intensely unpleasant. “Don’t you look virile this morning? Is Mother chained to the wall again?”“Don’t test me, boy.” The dragon placed big hands on narrow hips, black hair streaked with silver and grey brushed off his face. He glanced down at Dagmar. “So can this one actually read, or does she just pretend to have a brain in that head like so many of the others?”
Gwenvael’s smile didn’t falter, but Dagmar knew it took much out of him. “Is there a reason you’re here? Or were you simply in the mood to torture your offspring for old time’s sake?”
“I’m here to see Fearghus’s nightmare. Where is she?”
“I thought you’d left her chained to the wall. And shouldn’t we just call her Mum?”
That cold, black gaze latched onto Gwenvael, and Dagmar quickly stood, resting her hand on Gwenvael’s arm. “If you speak of Queen Annwyl, I’m sure I can help you find her.”
Now that cold, black gaze was on her. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Dagmar.” She kept it simple, unwilling to give the older dragon more than that.
“I see.” He sighed in boredom. “Well, Dagmar, I’m sure your services last night were greatly appreciated, but you can return to whatever brothel he dragged you out of. There’s important work to be done, and I don’t need one of the local whores interfering.”
Gwenvael let out a startled laugh, but he recognized it as the kind one lets out when he’s realized he’s accidentally cut off his finger or set his house on fire. That startled laugh before the real horror sets in.
Dagmar stepped away from Gwenvael and he grabbed hold of her arm, but she shook him off. She walked sedately over to his father, her hands folded primly in front of her, her head scarf perfectly in place over that simple braid. She looked as he’d first seen her, back in her grey, wool dress that had been scrubbed clean the day before.
The boring, quiet, demure spinster daughter of a warlord.
But that volcano inside her simmered beneath and that’s what Bercelak the Great was not expecting. He was used to humans like Annwyl, Talaith. Fighters. Assassins. Those who went in for the direct kill.
Little did his father know, Dagmar was more lethal.
“Perhaps I should make myself clear, Lord—” She gestured with a slight dip of her head.
“Bercelak. Bercelak the Great.”
“Oh.” She stopped, sized him up carefully. “You’re Bercelak the Great? My tutors didn’t describe you well at all.”
“Tutors?” He glanced at Gwenvael, but if he thought he’d be getting any help from him …
“Yes. I realize I didn’t make myself clear. I am Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth offspring of The Reinholdt and Only Daughter.”
His scowl deepened. “You’re the daughter of The Reinholdt?”
“Yes. I am.”