The Dragon Who Loved Me

She thrust the spear, stood, and swiped it through the air.

“Daddy, I love the weight.”

“Light, yeah? But combined with your strength . . . deadly just the same.”

“I love it,” she gushed. “I absolutely love it.”

“Cal its ful length. You can stil handle it while human even at that length and width.” Excited to try, Rhona aimed the weapon toward the exit and away from her father. She cal ed forth the dragon-sized weapon and happily watched as it grew in her hands, the length of it reaching past the tent flaps and—

“Owwwwww! Gods-dammit, female! ”

With a thought, Rhona retracted her weapon. A few seconds later, the Lightning stumbled into the tent, blood flowing from his shoulder, lightning sparking from his body.

“I told ya!” he bel owed “What happened to your spear was an accident!” They shoved Vigholf into a chair and the two Fire Breathers leaned down to get a better look at his wound. Without much effort, he could see the resemblance between father and daughter. Although Rhona was much prettier.

“He’l live,” the male said, appearing quite disinterested in Vigholf’s wound.

“Why is it when I come to this bloody kingdom by invitation, I’m nearly kil ed?”

“Luck?” Rhona asked.

Along with Ragnar and Meinhard, Vigholf had escorted Keita and Éibhear to the Southlands five years ago just before the war with the Irons began. He’d had his first introduction to the infamous Annwyl the Bloody when she’d charged him and Meinhard. Then, while they tried to keep the crazed monarch at bay, she’d gone for Vigholf’s head—and took his hair instead. When it happened, it had been humiliating. A shame he was sure he’d never recover from. But as Vigholf got to know Annwyl better, he quickly realized that he was lucky to have kept his head at al .

Rhona’s father leaned in to take a closer look at the wound. “I can fix this.” He reached for him, and Vigholf couldn’t help but scramble out of the chair that held him.

“No offense if I’d rather not be tended to by a blacksmith.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Rhona chastised. “Me da’s good with a needle and thread.”

“Your da can keep his needle and thread to himself, thanks.”

Rhona folded her arms over her chest. “So what are you going to do? Wander around al evening bleeding like a stuck cow until you pass out and die and we’re forced to quickly burn your remains so the stink of your corpse won’t bother the children?”

“Your concern for my wel -being overwhelms me, Sergeant.”

“You shouldn’t have been fol owing me, Commander.”

“Who said I was?”

“Common sense?”

“I don’t know who that is,” he muttered, turning away and looking over the blacksmith’s work area.

“If you’re not going to let my father tend your wounds, at least see the healers by the lake. They’l help you.”

“No need.” Vigholf, pul ing off his chain-mail shirt, walked over to the forge and picked up a poker that stil sat in the burning coals.

“Wait—” Rhona cried out as he pressed the poker to his open wound, sealing it closed. It hurt, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Once he knew he’d stopped the bleeding, Vigholf pul ed the poker away, ignoring the bits of skin that went with it, and tossed it back into the forge. When he faced father and daughter, he found them gawking at him. Rhona’s mouth was open, but her father was grinning, even laughing a little.

“You are a mad bastard,” she whispered.

“What? It’s done, isn’t it?” He pul ed his shirt back on. “Now—” Vigholf began until that familiar scent caught his attention, and he moved quickly toward the tent opening, ignoring the way Rhona scrabbled out of his way as if he was some dangerous animal.

Such an odd female.

Rhona watched the crazed male walk out of her father’s forge and she couldn’t help but fol ow, curious to see what had caught his relentless attention. She was taken by surprise, though, when she saw the Lightning put his arms around an older She-dragon in human form.

“Mum,” she heard him whisper.

“My dear, sweet son,” the female whispered back. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so.” Al right. That surprised Rhona. Not that the Lightning had a mother, but that he’d treat her so . . . tenderly.

Rhona’s father tapped her shoulder and she stepped back into the tent.

“You want to tel me what’s going on? Why are you really here?” her father asked, and al Rhona could do was shrug.

“You know me, Daddy. I fol ow orders and don’t ask questions. Especial y when it’s al coming from the royal side of my kin.”

“Not like your mother at al .”

“As she likes to remind me.”

Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “She just doesn’t understand you. But it’s not your job to help her with that.”

“But—”

“No time to discuss.” He laughingly pushed her toward the forge. “You’ve got work to do, child. And I have much to teach you in a short amount of time. So to work with you!”

“What are you doing here, Vigholf?” his mother asked, her hand reaching up and stroking his jaw. “Is everything al right?”

“Everything’s fine, Mum. I promise.”