Last Dragon Standing

The kiss meant nothing to him; it was the ass swat that he saw as a stronger message of intent.

Although his niece might be freer than most with males—she took after a lot of his sisters on that score—no respectable female in their family would ever lower herself to bed down with some barbarian snake with wings. And as one of the royals, Keita had to know better than that.

Then again, the only thing Keita the Viper knew better was how to get herself into trouble.

Worried, but not one to deal with a female issue himself, Amhar decided to discuss it with one of his sisters first. He definitely wouldn’t be the one to bring it to Bercelak’s attention. One of his nephews had lost the fangs on the left side of his head because he’d suggested that Keita should be locked away in a nunnery so she wouldn’t bring shame on her kin. Not that Amhar could blame his brother. Bercelak protected his daughters like Amhar did, as their father had taught them to. Some of his nephews either needed to learn to keep their mouths closed or put up a better fight.

Deciding what his next course of action would be, Amhar went back to his nearly devoured carcass and thought no more about it for the moment.

Chapter Twenty

Dagmar smoothed her grey gown into place and glanced at herself in the extremely tall standing mirror. Good enough, she reasoned and stepped away, only to be pulled back by her mate.

As he liked to do, he tugged the front of her gown down to reveal more cle**age.

“Is this necessary?”

“I’m already beautiful—you want to at least keep up.” He turned her around and lifted the back of her dress until it rested over her rear.

“What are you doing?”

“I think you should wear your gown like this to show my mark.”

“And why, by all reason, would I do that?”

“So your Lord Ragnar knows who you belong to.”

“He’s not my…” Dagmar stopped, gazed at the floor. After a moment, she lifted her head and asked, “Are you jealous?”

“I prefer the term proprietary.”

“You’re jealous…over me?”

“You are mine. I thought I made this clear long before I marked your ass. Perhaps I need to mark it again to—”

Dagmar raised her hand, silencing her mate. “Please. Allow me a moment to enjoy this.”

It wasn’t merely that the most arrogant and vain male she’d ever known was jealous, it was that any male was jealous over her. She’d long ago accepted the fact that beauty was not something she could count on to get her through life.

Still, moments like these did manage to surprise and delight her when they happened—and they happened more than she’d thought possible with her impossible dragon.

“I do not trust that smile of yours.” His arm slipped around her waist.

“Back to bed. I sense I need to exert my dominance yet again.” She attempted—rather weakly, she’d admit—to pry his arm from around her waist. “I will not leave my Northland comrades alone with your brothers at dinner tonight.”

“When did they become comrades?” Gwenvael tossed her onto their bed. “Spread your legs, woman. Prepare yourself.”

Dagmar began to laugh.

“You’re not helping your case.” He crawled onto the bed, raising himself over her. “But you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” He reached for her, snarling when a knock came at the door.

“Go away. We’re f**king.”

Dagmar, wondering how she’d learned to tolerate any of these dragons, countered, “Come in, and we’re doing nothing of the sort!”

“Yet.”

The door opened a bit, and Gwenvael’s youngest sister peeked around it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt my brother doing something wonderfully vile.”

“Not when she can listen at the door.”

“I didn’t listen!” Keita smiled, looking more like Gwenvael than anyone should. “I merely sold tickets. Made a fortune that night.” Gwenvael relaxed on his side. “Did you come here to bow before the mistress of my heart, who you cruelly believed to be a mere servant, and beg her forgiveness?”

“No.” Keita stepped fully into the room. “I did, however, bring her a dress.”

Dagmar winced. Considering the bright and sparkle-infused light blue gown the princess currently wore, Dagmar had no desire to see what kind of dress the royal had brought for her. “That’s very kind of you, princess—”

“Keita, sister. Call me Keita. We are family now, are we not?” Dagmar studied the royal closely. She trusted few beings in this world, and although Gwenvael and his brothers thought highly of Keita, Dagmar had yet to see any evidence that she was anything but a spoiled royal with expensive taste in clothes. Are those real diamonds she has sewn on to her dress?

“Of course we are,” Dagmar said, not believing a word either of them spoke.

The princess giggled. “Such a little liar, Dagmar Reinholdt. But I’ll overlook it because you make my brother happy. Now, tell me what you think.”

She pulled out the dress she had hidden behind her and held it up for Dagmar’s inspection. Although ready to hate it on principle alone, Dagmar knew she couldn’t.

Sliding off the bed, she walked up to Keita, her hand reaching out and carefully touching the gown.

“It’s…beautiful.”

“I know you prefer grey,” Keita said, pulling Dagmar over to the mirror. “But silver and steel work just as well. This color is called ‘sword steel’ among the shop owners”—she stood behind Dagmar and held the gown up in front of her—“and perfectly brings out your eyes, which are quite striking, I might add. I bet my brother adores your eyes.”