Last Dragon Standing

Prologue

“The queen knows we have her daughter?”

Ragnar the Cunning of the Olgeirsson Horde nodded at his brother Vigholf’s question.

“And she told you to do what you want with her?” Again, he nodded.

Vigholf shook his head. “I don’t understand.” And neither did Ragnar. He didn’t understand any mother—royal or low-born—who seemed to have so little concern for her own offspring. Even one as annoying and devious as the royal pain in the ass currently plotting away in the cave behind them.

Wearing nothing but a gown two sizes too large for her human frame, shackles, and a Magickally infused collar that prevented her from shifting to her natural She-dragon form, Princess Keita of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar had managed to enrapture nearly every male on this venture without doing much more than being a rather dim-witted beauty. She giggled, she teased, she tormented. To be quite honest, Ragnar had hoped the royal’s mother would demand her return this very evening so that he could be rid of the brat before she turned blood relation against blood relation. But the last thing Queen Rhiannon had said about her daughter would stay with him for a very long time: “Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind.” Ragnar could never imagine his own mother saying those words about him or any of his brothers and one sister. Although he could imagine his father Olgeir, Dragonlord of the Olgeirsson Horde, saying it.

“Well,” one of his cousins said, getting to his feet. They’d all remained in their human forms because it was easier to hide from the Fire Breathers that way while on Southland territory. “If they don’t want her, we’ll keep her then.”

Ragnar looked at his brother, and Vigholf quickly lowered his head to hide his laughter. He’d warned Vigholf this would happen if they spent another moment with that viperous female. “We’re not keeping her.”

“Why the hells not?”

Ragnar thought about throttling the young pup, but decided against it.

“Because we don’t do that anymore.”

“But if her own mum said—”

“If you want a female, boy, you’ll have to do it like everyone else—charm her, seduce her, get her to fall in love with you.” Ragnar’s cousins glanced back and forth between them before one asked, “And how do we do that then?”

Vigholf’s laugh exploded out of him, and Ragnar headed back into the cave, grumbling all the way.

He was exhausted, worn down, and had much more work to do before he left this overly heated land and the last thing he intended to deal with was the idiotic questions of his idiotic kin.

This had all started so simply a few days ago. News of his father having caught the foolish Southland royal on Northland territory had reached Ragnar, and with the help of his brother, he’d moved quickly. He’d planned on sneaking back into his one-time home with the help of his mother, but while on his way she’d urgently contacted him through the lines of Magick and told him that the royal had managed to escape. He’d caught the princess not far from his father’s mountain base and used the underground tunnels to bring her back to her homelands. From there, he’d planned to negotiate an alliance with the Southland Dragon Queen that would allow him to take over the Olgeirsson Horde and, should all go well, the Northland territories. Unifying the Hordes would be his first step—keeping them unified his next.

But the queen had surprised him. Not only had she known from the beginning that Ragnar had her daughter, she’d known that Olgeir had had her daughter before—and she’d done absolutely nothing about it.

Times like this he was grateful the gods had blessed him with his mother, although he did wish that the gods had given her a mate more deserving of her beauty and wisdom than Olgeir the Wastrel.

Ragnar walked down the long cavern until he reached the alcove where they’d placed the princess. He stopped right outside, his teeth gritting as he watched the oldest of his cousins, Meinhard, hold a chalice of wine up to the royal’s lips. Her dark brown eyes focused solely on the big male, Princess Keita sipped from the cup, her small fingers lying over Meinhard’s big ones. When she’d had enough, she leaned back, her tongue swiping her bottom lip, then her top.

He could hear his cousin growling from here, and Ragnar had no patience for it.

“Out,” Ragnar ordered, walking in to the alcove.

Not remotely as intimidated by him as the younger dragons, Meinhard slowly stood tall and said, “I think I’ll stay.” Ragnar knew his kin had yet to accept him as their leader. With his father still alive and well, Olgeir’s grip tight over the Horde, it wasn’t surprising. But Meinhard, like the others, would have to learn that Ragnar brooked no disobedience.

Flicking his wrist and muttering a small chant, Ragnar sent his cousin sailing out of the alcove, the wine cup flying across the stone floor.

“You bastard!” Meinhard yelled from outside the cavern.

Ignoring him, Ragnar stepped up to the royal. He could see what had his kin so tantalized, even though it was only her petite human form they’d seen since they’d caught her escaping his father’s clutches. All that dark red hair reaching to her knees, perfectly etched cheekbones, a small nose with a light spattering of freckles across the bridge, and those amazingly full lips.

But for Ragnar it was those dark brown eyes that held him in thrall. They were endless, a fathomless dark pit any male could get lost in. Too bad Ragnar had no intention of being any male—no matter how much he might wish he was at the moment.