Unable to face his own feelings about Izzy, Éibhear had lashed out. And it was, honestly, the worst beating Celyn had ever taken. But he knew if he’d survived that—which he obviously had—he could survive bloody anything because his cousin had wanted him dead that day. And, as a Cadwaladr, Éibhear would have been allowed to kill Celyn because it had been a “proper challenge.” Among their clan, “proper challenges” were allowed and expected. And if one of their kin died because of it . . . oh, well. That was just the way of things.

Éibhear studied Celyn for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, his entire, big body tense and ready to attack. But then, one side of his mouth lifted. It was almost a smile.

“Forget it,” Éibhear said, and Celyn pushed himself off the bed.

“Come on,” Celyn implored. “Be a lad!”

“Not on your life! You’re stuck with that morbid little bitch. She’s your problem now.”

“Izzy’s still in love with me. She’s never loved you. She’s just using you to get me jealous.”

Éibhear threw back his big head and laughed. “That pale bitch is better revenge, cousin, than beating the shit out of you was that first time. And watching her make you miserable will bring me such joy.” He scratched Celyn’s head as if he were a small child. “Absolute joy.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“Good luck on your trip to the Outerplains. Best bring something warm. I hear those Steppes are surprisingly chilly.” Laughing, Éibhear walked out.

“You bastard! Ow!” Celyn covered the spot on the back of his head where Brannie slapped him and faced his sister. “What was that for?”

“Have you gone mad?” Brannie demanded. “He’s a bloody Mì-runach!” she reminded him. And Brannie had a point. The Mì-runach were feared for a good reason.

But none of that mattered when Celyn was desperate.

“He could have torn you apart in seconds,” Brannie went on.

“But he didn’t even try, did he?” Celyn sadly complained.

“Are you really so desperate over one human girl that you’d actually goad Éibhear the Contemptible into a fight you couldn’t possibly win just so you could be too wounded to leave?” Izzy asked, shaking her head in disgust.

“I suffered a beating before,” Celyn reminded her. “For our love.”

Izzy rolled her eyes and walked away while Brannie sneered, “You are pathetic.”

A nice woman who’d been cutting up a pig in the kitchen had been kind enough to get Elina a bowl of stew and a few loaves of freshly baked bread, then lead her to the enormous dining room. The woman had called it the Great Hall and sat Elina down at one of two long tables in it.

Once alone, Elina dived into her meal. The food was hot and good and fresh. Her people often lived on dried supplies, especially during the winter storm months.

Even better, as Elina reached the bottom of her bowl, it was whisked away and another full bowl of hot stew quickly replaced it. Elina looked up into a smiling woman’s face.

“If you need anything else, m’lady, you just let me know. Name’s Jenna.”

Elina nodded her thanks and went back to her food.

So . . . this was the “decadent” Southland lifestyle she’d always heard about from the Elders in her tribe. Stories of the materialistic ways of the Southland royals, who let their people starve while they lived in luxury, were repeated among her people, who shared everything. Life on the Steppes was hard but rewarding. There were no luxuries. There were no servants to bring hot food without one asking for it.

Elina had to admit . . . she could easily get used to this life. But the tribes’ Elders always reminded everyone about how seductive the Southlander’s awful lives were.

Of course, with stew like this . . . how awful could it really be?

“Mind if I join you?”

Elina finally lifted her head from her second bowl of stew and looked into the face of the handsome man who’d stepped between the queen and the dark-haired female nearly an hour ago. Now he stood before her alone, his silver hair reaching past his broad shoulders while warm blue eyes patiently waited for her answer.

“Are you dragon?” she asked.

He blinked. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, but when Elina didn’t—what else was there to say?—he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.

A servant suddenly appeared and placed a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread in front of him. Another servant brought a chalice and a crystal pitcher of water. The man poured himself a glass of water, smiling as he glanced at Elina.

“Decadent, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Does it offend you?”

“No. But I enjoy looking down on others and judging them for things that are none of my concern.”

The man laughed. “Good to know.” He placed the pitcher aside and took a sip. “Your name—”

“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains.”

“Yes. Well, Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains,” he repeated back to her perfectly, “mind if I call you Elina as Queen Rhiannon suggested?”