Last Dragon Standing (33 page)

“Rune stones. I use them for spells and seeing possible futures.”

“Do they mean much to you?”

“They’re my mother’s.”

“Then they mean much to you.” She examined them closely and finally chose one. She handed him the rest and held the one she’d picked in the middle of her palm. Seeing the one Keita chose, Ragnar couldn’t help smirking a little.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s cursed or something, isn’t it?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s that look on your face?”

“I’m just amused by your choice.”

“Because it’s cursed?”

“No. It’s the Fire Rune Stone. It represents heat and power.” She smiled, examined it.

“And sex.”

Her smile grew into a leer.

“And love.”

Her leer turned into a sneer. “Must you ruin everything?” She started to toss it away, but he caught hold of her hand with both of his, the stone trapped between them.

“Keita the Red,” he said, using the name she’d been given at hatching.

“I swear on the power of this stone and in the name of my ancestors never to betray you in word or deed or in my heart.”

Her entire face scrunched in disgust. “
Must
you go that far?”

“Now your turn, princess.”

“Ragnar the…”

“Fourteenth.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

“And I’m a middle offspring.”

“Och! That’s enough. I’ll hear no more.” She shuddered. “Ragnar the Fourteenth, I swear on the power of this stone and in the name of my ancestors never to betray you in word or deed.”

“Or in your heart.”

“I’m not going that far.”

“In your heart,” he pushed, trying not to laugh.

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“All right! Fine! Or in my heart.”

As soon as she snapped the last word at him, power radiated from the stone, through their hands, and straight through them like a hard gust of wind, blowing their hair back.

Keita looked around before glaring at him. “What was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You must have an idea. You’re a mage.”

“Yes, but that’s never happened before when
I
used these.”

“You’ve cursed me, haven’t you?”

“What is your obsession with curses?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No. I didn’t curse you.”

“Better not have.”

“Or what?”

“Trust me, warlord. As much as I know how to give pleasure, I also know how to take it away. Now”—she stood, managing to look regal in his shirt—“let’s get back so you can be caught sneaking out of my room in the morning.”

Ragnar cleared his throat, raised a brow.

“What?”

He made his brow go a little higher.

“Oh, fine!” She slapped the rune into his hand.

“You Southlanders are such thieves.”

“If you didn’t want me to have it, you shouldn’t have let me take it out of your bag.”

“You’re blaming me for your thievery?”

“Yes!” She stormed off, yelling over her shoulder, “Well come on! I don’t have all bloody night! And stop staring at my ass!”

“It’s almost too large to miss.” And he did think he quietly muttered that remark until that ball of flame nearly took his damn head off.

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Keita woke up and wondered who’d buried her alive. Probably Gwenvael.
Bastard
. Then she realized that she’d been buried under something breathing.

The Lightning. That’s right. He’d taken care of her last night. Even with the vomiting and broken nose.
Damn aunts and their damn homemade
ale
.

It was odd. She was really starting to like Ragnar. Despite the fact her mother seemed to like him as well and her sister seemed to respect him.

She chuckled a little to herself, and the big body lying on top of her moved, rolled off, and stretched.

She turned on her side and, lowering her voice to a husky purr, said,

“Good morn to you, Lord Ragnar.”

His smile was sleepy, his dark purple hair, out of its plait, a wild mane around his face.

Then he fully woke and just looked panicked.

Keita fell back on the bed, snickering.

“How did I get in your bed?”

“I asked nicely, and you agreed.”

He lifted the fur over his body. “And why am I naked?”

“You ask many questions in the morning. Are you sure that’s wise when you’re dealing with me?”

“Good point.” He sat up, yawned. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Surprisingly well, considering.” She pressed her hand to his shoulder. “And thank you for last night.”

He studied the hand touching him, then her face. “You’re more than welcome.”

“Gods,” she said, tossing the fur off her body. “You have such a voice so early in the morning.”

“Do I?”

“Aye. The kind that can get me into all sorts of trouble if I’m not careful.” Keita walked over to her dresser and swiped up the small jar that had been placed there the evening before. She’d noticed it when they’d first walked in after their time by the stream, but had been too tired to deal with it. “Let’s get this done, shall we? So your torment can end.”

“What an interesting way you have of suggesting sex,” he noted dryly.

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“It makes me all tingly.”

Keita returned to the bed and crawled onto Ragnar’s lap, a fur the only thing separating Keita’s bare ass from the warlord’s bare cock. “I’m not talking about bedding you. At least…not yet.” She held up the jar. “The antidote.”

“Thank the gods.”

She held up a dagger, enjoying the way Ragnar’s eyes grew wide in panic. “Now just lie still.”

He caught hold of the hand holding the blade. “Isn’t there another way?”

“Tragically for you, no.”

“Then let me do it.”

“Don’t be such a hatchling. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do.” He wrestled the dagger from her. “But that doesn’t make me any less wary.”

Ragnar pressed the blade to the wound on his chest and stopped, blue eyes glaring at her. “And stop grinding against my cock.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize I’d been doing that.”

“Liar.” She was definitely a liar.

With a quick flick, he opened up the old wound and Keita slathered on a healthy amount of the ointment, making sure much of it got inside the opening, as well as covering the entire area.

“Done.”

Ragnar nodded and with a chant, re-closed the wound, the ointment seeping into his skin.

Using a rag, Keita cleaned up the small amount of blood, her hands, and the dagger. “That should do it,” she said, sliding off his waist and placing everything back on the dresser.

“I hope so. This damn thing has driven me mad for two bloody years.”

“You poor thing you.”

“I heard absolutely
no
remorse in that statement.” She walked around the bed and stretched out beside him once more.

“That’s because there was no remorse in that statement.” The pair stared at each other for a long moment before Ragnar shook his head and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. “I should go.”

“All right.”

Ragnar stood, using the fur to cover the front of him. Keita was just reaching over to palm the warlord’s amazing-looking ass when she heard one of the servants at the door with the hot water for her morning bath.

Instead of his ass, Keita grabbed hold of the fur Ragnar held and yanked it 221

away at the same moment the servant walked in, took one look at the naked warlord, and quickly walked out again, closing the door.

Keita grinned at the glowering—
and gods! Is he blushing?—
dragon.

“And so it begins, my lord.”

Annwyl wished she could say she was up just before the two suns rose because she was simply an early riser. But anyone who knew her, knew what a lie that would be. Instead, she was up and dressed for training because she’d had that nightmare again. The nightmare she told very few about because she didn’t know if the dream was caused by a general sense of fear for her babes or because she’d suddenly started having prophecies. She hadn’t even told Fearghus. How could she, after he’d been through so much?

She still caught him looking at her in that way that told her he could still remember her on her death bed after the children were born. And that he feared he’d find her there again. No, she wouldn’t put him through any more. Not when there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. And she knew, in her heart, there was nothing he could do.

Anyway, the bottom line was she couldn’t sleep. So she’d left her warm bed—and her even warmer mate—and headed out. She carefully and quietly closed the door behind her and went to the room next door. She stepped in and smiled at the babe already awake and standing tall in her crib.

“How’s my little Rhianwen this morning?” Annwyl asked her niece.

She reached into the crib and picked the babe up. “You can’t sleep either, little one? Unlike your cousins?” Annwyl glanced over at her snoring twins.

They slept in separate beds these days out of necessity. Too many times Annwyl had walked in to full-on fist fights between the pair when they’d shared a crib. And the last time she’d tried to separate them, her son had ducked and her daughter had nailed Annwyl with a right cross that left bells ringing in her head. After that, the little nightmares were separated for good.

They’d also tried to put Rhianwen in her own room, but all three of the babes had screamed and cried until she was returned. Since then none of the adults had bothered to separate them.

A tiny hand reached up and stroked Annwyl’s cheek. “Don’t worry,” Annwyl told that concerned little face that broke her heart on the best of days. “I’ll be fine. You needn’t worry so.” But she knew Talaith and Briec’s little girl did worry. There was something about her that practically screamed, “I worry for everyone!”

“We have to teach you to smile, little one,” Annwyl said before placing her back in her crib. “Your father is getting impossible about it.” She pulled the blanket around the babe and leaned in, kissing her head. “Get 222

some more sleep.”

Annwyl faced her own children. Her son, smirking even while he slept, and her daughter, who looked so much like Fearghus it made Annwyl’s heart ache. She knew most mothers would make sure to be there when their children woke up. They’d make sure that they fed them each and every morning and helped them learn all sorts of new things. That’s what most mothers would do.

But, instead, Annwyl kissed both their sleeping heads and, with her two swords tied to her back, stepped away from their beds. Because instead of doing all those wonderful things for her children, she’d train. She’d train until her muscles ached and her body felt drained. She’d train until she bled from accidental wounds and her head throbbed from accidental blows. She’d train until she knew that no matter what horrors came for her children, she could take them all on. That she could fight until nothing was left standing but her and her babes.

Fighting her urge to feel guilty, Annwyl faced the door but immediately stopped.

“Morfyd? What are you doing in here?”

Morfyd yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Just watching them. It’s nothing.”

“Where’s the new nanny?”

“Annwyl—”

“Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Does it matter?”

“The fact that we can’t keep a bloody nanny in this place makes it matter.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Fearghus doesn’t want any dragons but blood. He doesn’t trust the others,” Annwyl reminded her.

“I know.”

“And the females of your line aren’t exactly nanny material.”

“I have sent messages out to a few of my younger cousins who have no designs to be warriors and—”

“If they’re too young, Fearghus is not going to like that either.”

“I’ll handle Fearghus.” Morfyd motioned to the door. “Go. Get in some training.”

Seeing no point in arguing with her, Annwyl walked out the door and quietly closed it. Then she stomped away from the room. Before she reached 223

the stairs, another bedroom door opened and Dagmar stepped out. She caught Annwyl’s arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“We lost another nanny, didn’t we?” Annwyl looked past Dagmar at the naked male stretched out, face down, on the bed in the room behind her, long golden hair reaching to the floor. “How do you listen to that noise?” Dagmar closed the door, but it only toned down some of the snoring.

“It’s amazing what one tolerates for love.”

“I don’t think I could tolerate that for anything.”

“Probably not. But what I will ask you to do is leave the nanny situation to me and Morfyd.”

“She’s trying to get one of her younger cousins to do it. Fearghus is not going to—”

“What part of ‘we’ll handle it’ are you not grasping, my lady?”

“Don’t get huffy with me, barbarian. It’s my little nightmares that are scaring off the townsfolk.”

“They are lively, fun-loving children who merely need a good, solid, and loyal nanny to help raise them.”

“You mean as opposed to demons sent from the underworld who need a good solid exorcism?”

“Must you be this way?”

“I don’t know how else to be.”

“Annwyl, just trust me, would—” A door opened behind Annwyl, and Dagmar’s eyes grew wide behind the little round pieces of glass she wore.

One hand reaching for her sword, Annwyl spun to face whatever was behind her. But her hand fell away, and her mouth fell open.

The purple-haired dragon stood in Keita’s bedroom doorway, his shirt thrown over his shoulder, his hand on the door handle, his gaze fixed on Dagmar’s.

“Ragnar?” Dagmar whispered. Annwyl would assume so, but she couldn’t tell one purple-haired bastard from another. They all looked alike to her. Just one more head begging to be lopped off.

“Uh…Lady Dagmar.”

The poor thing looked caught, ready to spring back into the room. But Keita yanked the door open wide. She wore only a fur around her body, her normally smooth and flowing dark red hair a mass of uncombed curls and knots.

“You forgot this.” Keita put a travel bag in the dragon’s hands and went up on her toes, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she murmured.