What a Dragon Should Know
“Spinster? Spinster, my perfect ass! That woman is a volcano, Jack. Self-contained, waiting-to-go-off-and-melt-my-scales volcano. And, if I might add, a wee bit of a tease.”
“Sounds that way, my lord. Now … are you sure about this?”
“If I hope to get through dinner … I have little choice. Just do it.”
“As you wish.”
Jack stepped back and motioned to several of the male servants under his direction. One after another, they poured the ice water pulled from a deep well discovered not long after Annwyl took over Garbhán Isle.
As soon as the water hit Gwenvael’s human form, it sizzled and popped, the large chunks of ice melting completely on contact, steam rising after only a few seconds. Thankfully, however, it did its job.
Resting back in the tub, Gwenvael sighed, “Thank you, Jack.”
“You’re more than welcome, my lord. Will there be anything else?”
“A return of my sanity would be nice.”
“You’re on your own with that, my lord. I’m afraid there’s only so much a servant can do.”
Chapter 20
Gwenvael closed his bedroom door and headed down the hallway toward the stairs. He felt calmer now. More in control. He wasn’t used to a woman who could rattle his tail. Even worse, he didn’t know he’d like it.
Nearing the stairs to take him to the Great Hall, Gwenvael almost missed it. He stopped walking, his nostrils flaring, instantly recognizing all the scents coming from one room. He took several steps back and gave one knock on the door before pushing it open.
His young cousin Branwen lay stretched out on the bed, stomach down, her gaze focused on a book. She still wore her chain-mail shirt and leggings while her worn boots stood at attention by the bed, ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice. Like her mother, Branwen seemed more comfortable in her battle clothes than in the gowns her sisters often wore when not in the middle of combat. It reminded him of why he’d always liked Branwen.
Across the room were Izzy and Celyn. Together they held one of the battle lances developed by Gwenvael’s ancestors, the Cadwaladr Twins. The weapon could be lengthened or shortened, should a dragon decide to shift from dragon form to human or back again. The twins, like his grandfather, had spent as much time human as dragon during their warrior years and found the use of the weapon important, and to this day they were still considered two of the deadliest beings who’d ever lived.
Yet Izzy’s form would never change, so there was no real point in teaching her to use the weapon other than it allowed Celyn a chance to stand behind her with his arms around her and his hands on hers, slowly moving from battle stance to battle stance together.
In Gwenvael’s extremely educated opinion, Celyn’s pelvis snuggled just a little too close to his niece’s rear.
As he stepped into the room, Izzy’s head came up. The intense expression—or scowl, depending on who you spoke to—she always possessed when learning anything to do with war or combat, quickly changed into that welcoming smile Gwenvael simply adored. For a niece, he couldn’t have asked for better than Izzy.
“Gwenvael! You’re back!”
“Hello, my heart. Dinner will be soon. You sure you want your mum to see you looking like that?”
Izzy glanced down at her dirt-covered clothes. Spending a day playing with young dragons was hard and messy work, and clearly his Izzy had enjoyed every second of it.
“You’ve got a point. Mum’s going to be pissed as it is, eh?”
“After watching you play Run and Jump? What do you think?”
She gave him her biggest grin, which caused her adorable pug nose to crinkle, making him laugh.
Glancing down at his young female cousin, he asked, “And how are you, Branwen?”
“Starving. When do we eat?”
“Soon. You two had best get dressed, so you won’t hear complaints from your mothers.” He looked at Celyn. “Mind if I talk to you for a bit, Celyn?”
Celyn didn’t even bother trying to hide his smug grin as he pulled away from Izzy. No doubt this was not the first time a male relative of some female Celyn had set his sights on had asked to speak to him, nor would it be the last time. “Of course. See you at dinner, Cousin Izzy.” He winked at her, his smug grin in place.
Gwenvael followed the young dragon out, closing the door behind him, quite pleased to hear the hysterical feminine laughter that followed their exit. As long as Izzy didn’t take Celyn seriously, Gwenvael would have less to worry about.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with the young hatching. To calmly remind him that although Izzy was not blood, she was still the niece of Gwenvael and Fearghus and the very much loved and cherished daughter of Briec.
Celyn turned to face him. “Is this the bit where you remind me little Izzy there’s kin and I should keep my distance?”
And then Gwenvael remembered. Celyn was a Cadwaladr. Explanations and calm warnings would be a waste of Gwenvael’s precious breath.
Keeping that in mind, Gwenvael grabbed his young cousin by the back of the neck and slammed him face first into the stone wall. When he pulled him back, a lovely splash of blood was left behind where Celyn’s nose had been shattered.
The hatchling almost dropped to his knees, but Gwenvael held onto the back of his neck and walked—or dragged—him toward the steps.
“I’ll make it simple for you, Celyn. You keep your hands off my niece, or you’ll be able to serve the virgin witches of the east as a eunuch. Understood?”