“Mum’s here,” Gwenvael said with his feet in Dagmar’s lap and Izzy running a brush through his hair for his nightly three hundred strokes. She was the only one among them willing to do it without complaint.

Keita didn’t know how all her siblings, their mates, their offspring, Ragnar, his brother, his cousin, Dagmar’s dog, Annwyl’s dogs, and in a few seconds, her parents had all ended up in Fearghus’s and Annwyl’s bedroom—but here they were.

Ragnar, more used to warriors than “dainty little princesses” as Gwenvael kept calling Keita when she complained about the Northlander’s rough hands, helped Annwyl get her shoulder back in its socket while Morfyd healed Keita’s damaged ribs and tended to the lacerations that could lead to unattractive scars if not carefully handled.

The door burst open, and Rhiannon came into the room, her arms spread wide. “My little ones!” she exclaimed.

Only to receive muttered, “Mum. Mother. Mumsy.” The last being from Keita and Gwenvael.

Her arms dropped to her sides. “Is that all I get?”

“I’m eating,” Briec explained around a mouthful of food.

Rhiannon walked all the way inside the room, and her mate followed behind her. As soon as Bercelak saw his youngest daughter’s face, though, Keita scrambled up out of her chair and caught hold of her father’s arm.

“Don’t, Daddy.”

“When I’m done there won’t be anything left of that green bitch for my brother to put on the pyre.”

“Ghleanna’s handling it,” she told him.

“I don’t care.”

Realizing her father was moments from walking out the door and that no one was even trying to stop him, Keita slapped one hand to her bruised side and cried out in pain.

Instantly, her father’s arms went around her. “Keita? Are you all right?”

She managed a few tears. “It hurts a bit. Take me to the chair, Daddy.”

“Of course.” He helped her inside, Keita kicking the door closed with her foot. “My brave, sweet girl,” he said. “Isn’t she amazing, Rhiannon?

Facing that bitch Elestren all by herself.”

Rhiannon had picked up her youngest granddaughter, and was rubbing their noses together. “I don’t think she had much choice, my love.”

“She knew she was at risk, but she was brave to protect this family and your throne.”

Keita saw Morfyd roll her eyes and sneer. When her father turned his back to make sure he brushed off the chair before placing Keita’s delicate and perfect ass in it, Keita yanked Morfyd’s hair. Morfyd slapped at her hands, and Keita slapped back. They were in a mini-brawl before Brastias barked, “Pack it in!”

“You promised me,” Rhiannon reminded Keita, “that you’d let me know as soon as you were contacted.”

“I lied,” Keita admitted.

“Then I guess you shouldn’t be shocked you got your royal ass kicked.” Her mother pointed at the window. “And why are there scantily clad warrior women with tattoos on their faces lurking in your courtyard?”

“They’re the Kyvich,” Dagmar explained. “Sent by the gods you insist on worshipping to protect the babes. But, of course, Annwyl had to fight nearly to the death before they’d take the job. They are Ice Landers, you know. That’s their way.”

“I hate the Kyvich,” Talaith complained from her spot on the floor, tucked comfortably between her mate’s widespread legs.

“You keep saying that,” Briec pointed out, “but you haven’t explained why.”

“Because the Nolwenns hate the Kyvich.” When everyone only stared at her, “I shouldn’t have to explain myself! I just don’t want them here.”

“Well, suck it up,” Annwyl said. “I didn’t decimate wave after wave of barbarian, murdering scum in tiny little outfits so you can claim, ‘I just don’t like them,’” Annwyl finished in a high-pitched imitation that Talaith didn’t seem to much appreciate.

Making sure Keita was in the chair and comfortable—Elestren seemingly forgotten at the moment—Bercelak asked Annwyl, “Were they the ones you’d been dreaming about?”

“Aye. It was them. Down to the horses and those bloody dogs.”

“I love those dogs,” Dagmar whispered to Gwenvael. “Think they’ll lend me a breeding pair?”

Bercelak studied Annwyl. “And how did you do then?” Annwyl’s answer was a warm smile that had Bercelak grinning back at her in return, and giving her a proud nod.

That’s when Fearghus stood up, his finger pointing between the two.

“What was that?”

Annwyl quickly looked down at the floor, and their father shrugged.

“What was what?”

“That look between you two.”

“And how did he know she’d been having dreams about violent warrior witches?” Gwenvael asked, ever the instigator, and earning himself a swat to the head from Izzy, who wielded a brush much like she wielded her sword. “Ow!”

“Be nice!”

“You?” Fearghus demanded of Annwyl. “You and my… father?”

“I can explain.”

“How can you explain this? ”

“Maybe we should all calm down?” Morfyd begged.

“Annwyl, answer me!”

“All right, fine!” Annwyl bellowed back at her mate. “You want the truth? I’ve been training with your father every day for the last year! There!