amazing in red.”
“I do?”
“Aye.” His gaze swept her from head to foot and back again. “You do.”
Morfyd felt her confidence grow under that gaze. Blossom. “Thank you.”
He stretched out on the bed and let out a wonderfully contented sigh, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a tragic shame you won’t be wearing it for long, though.”
Walking toward him, her fingers already sliding the sleeves of the dress off her shoulders, she said, “Aye, Brastias. A tragic shame.”
Gwenvael shook his hair out of that stupid braid and began to pace his room.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself, “don’t send Gwenvael. He’ll just muck it up. Useless, worthless Gwenvael.”
From one of his three brothers, Morfyd’s comment could and would have been dismissed. But from either Morfyd or his younger sister, Keita, it hurt. Deeply. For them to think he didn’t take any of this seriously hurt. Annwyl meant the world to him, and he wouldn’t risk her or the twins. So why did his family not see it? Was it because he refused to face every challenge as some grim test to the death? Should he constantly glower at every living thing like Fearghus? Or show nothing but constant disdain like Briec? Or perhaps be constantly wide-eyed and openly earnest like Éibhear? Could his kin only then take him seriously? How, after all these years, could they still not see?
And he refused to hear any longer that it was his “whoring” as his father loved to call it. None of his kin had been monks, though Morfyd was the closest to that ideal than any of the others.
Yet when it was all said and done, it was only Annwyl, a human he hadn’t even known five years, much less two centuries or more, who seemed to understand his worth. Only she had any true faith in him.
Because of that, she would be the reason he would not fail.
A knock pulled him from his rather depressing thoughts—and the gods knew he hated being maudlin—and he walked across the room to open the thick, sturdy wooden door. When he thought about it, most things in the north seemed made of wood and sturdy. Even the people.
Gwenvael blinked down at the servant girl standing in the hallway.
“Aye?” When she frowned, he said, “Yes?”
“I…uh…” She looked him over and shivered a bit before she boldly walked into his room. “Is there something I can help you with, love?”
“I’m a gift,” she said, already pulling off her dress. “A gift for you, my lord.”
Her gaze devoured him. She wanted his cock, but he wasn’t exactly surprised by that.
“Are you now? A gift from whom?”
“The Reinholdt, of course.”
“I see.” Gwenvael walked across the room and leaned his back against the wall by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. “And what kind of gift are you?”
Her dress fell to the floor, and she stood before him confident and beautifully naked.
His body stirred, but that wasn’t surprising either. It had been awhile. Nearly a whole week! And yet—
Gwenvael abruptly pivoted toward the window and watched as Dagmar Reinholdt slipped out of the shadows beside one of the stables, walking away from the fortress gates. She was dressed warmly in a wool cape and gloves, a satchel over her shoulder.
Now where is she going?
He had to admit, he found the Lady Dagmar quite diverting. At dinner she seemed confused by what he was up to, but intrigued—and thoroughly entertained. The image of a cat with hidden claws always seemed to come to mind when he saw her. Especially when he watched those cold, grey eyes look around the room, taking everything in, processing, and sorting what she saw.
So what was a demure Only Daughter to a Northland warlord doing wandering about in the evening?
He had to know!
“My lord?”
Gwenvael scowled at the girl, and she stepped back. To be honest, he’d forgotten she was in the room.
He smoothed over the scowl with a perfectly acceptable smile. The kind he kept for elderly ladies and detestable small children. “Sorry, love. Can’t tonight.”
“What?”
He picked up her dress, pushed it into her arms, and as gently as possible shoved her toward the door.
“I do, however, really appreciate you stopping by. Very nice of you.” He opened the door and pushed her out into the hall. “Tell Lord Sigmar thanks and, uh…nice tits.”
Then he closed the door and locked it. He stripped off his clothes and walked to the window, throwing it open. By the time he slipped outside into the cold Northland night, he’d shifted to dragon, his claws digging into the stone walls. He then blended into his surroundings and went off after Dagmar Reinholdt.
Eymund and his brothers watched as the lovely Lagertha came tumbling into the hallway from the dragon’s room, as the door was slammed shut and immediately bolted. She was naked but had her dress held up in front of her. She hadn’t been in there three minutes. That wasn’t even time enough for a good suck, in his estimation, much less a worthy fuck.
He motioned to her, and she ran over, her face red and her body shaking.
“That bastard tossed me out. Me!” There had been few men on Reinholdt lands who had not had their time in Lagertha’s bed. She enjoyed a good ride and made no apologies for it. When they’d pointed out the dragon as he’d been heading back to his room, she’d practically tripped over her tongue with lust, and readily agreed to be his “gift.”
“What did he say to you? Did he give you a reason?”
“No. He just wasn’t interested.”
Eymund looked at his brothers and they were equally as confused. How could the bastard, even a dragon pretending to be human, not be interested in free pussy? What male wasn’t?
“Maybe he only likes his own kind,” one of his brothers reasoned. “Can’t say I’d be too comfortable bedding one of them dragon females, though.”
“I don’t think it’s only because he wants a dragoness,” said Valdís. “More like he only wants Eymund.”
And that’s what worried him. Usually it was Dagmar they felt the need to protect from strangers from the outside. But for once she seemed to be at no risk at all. “I’m going to see Father,” Eymund said abruptly.
And off they all went to the pub.
Dagmar got herself comfortable on the roof of one of the army barracks. She had extra furs because she knew she’d get cold. Plus in her favorite satchel she had a bottle of wine, the dessert from the earlier evening’s meal, and a chalice. With everything set into place, she crossed her legs and pulled her plain but comfortably warm skirt over her knees and feet. Then she waited for the entertainment to begin.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Kikka tiptoed from the shadows, looking this way and that, making sure no one could see her. But she wore the expensive cape she’d insisted on buying. It was bright yellow and although dark out, there was enough light coming from the different buildings to make her stand out like a spot on one of the bloody suns.
Foolish girl.
Since she’d come to the Reinholdt Fortress to be Eymund’s bride, Kikka had made it her business to bring Dagmar to heel. She didn’t trust her, didn’t like her, and felt threatened by her. Fair enough, since Dagmar felt the same way about her. The difference, however, was that Kikka was stupid. Dagmar wondered if there was a brain at all in her addled little head. While Kikka tried to sweet-talk Sigmar