Fearghus floated beside her, his body rubbing against hers. “He really wants you to pick him up.”

Annwyl nodded. “I’m sensing that.”

Chapter 31

Dagmar sat on the tree stump by the small stream. It was getting late, the two suns just beginning to set. But this was Dark Glen, according to Gwenvael, and aptly named because the surrounding trees were so dense it felt late at night rather than early in the evening.

It didn’t matter, though. Not at the moment. Not when she was clean, her hair gently scrubbed of all blood and gore by Gwenvael. He’d seemed to enjoy washing her from head to toe. He’d seemed to be relieved simply to have her by his side.

Whether he was or not, Dagmar knew she was relieved to have him. As soon as she’d heard his voice, felt his presence, she’d known she was safe. He made her feel safe without making her feel trapped; she adored that.

Not surprisingly, Annwyl and Fearghus had not returned to them. Dagmar had been a little worried when she heard the distinct sounds of battle—swords clanging, battle cries, a lot of yelling—but Gwenvael didn’t even seem to notice, busy tending to the few wounds she had. Nothing serious. Mostly scratches here and there, but he’d treated each one like a sword wound.

She glanced down at the cotton shirt she wore. Her dress was hopelessly soiled and she had no real desire to ever put it back on. She had found one of Annwyl’s rare gowns, but it kept falling off her shoulders and baring her br**sts. Although Gwenvael seemed to appreciate that, Dagmar had been in no mood to give Fearghus any additional entertainment when he returned. So she’d settled on Gwenvael’s shirt. It was simple and cotton, reaching down to her knees. Never before had she worn so little and been out in full view of anyone who could wander into this glen.

She smiled softly, glad her spectacles hadn’t been broken so that she could see everything around her. The old and beautiful trees, the small stream, the lovely flowers, the running deer … being chased by Gwenvael.

He flew low, tearing after the large buck. He got in close and bumped the animal with his snout. The deer flipped forward and into a tree, stunning itself. Gwenvael picked it up between his fangs and crushed it. Then he spit it out on the ground and followed that with a ball of fire, engulfing the deer’s body.

Gwenvael landed, sitting back on his haunches, his tail swinging out behind him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Dagmar pulled off her spectacles, carefully folding them and putting them into a small protective box Gwenvael found for her in the cave. “I think I’ll stick with the fruit and cheese.”

“All right then.”

Letting out a satisfied sigh, Dagmar looked up at the trees, now nothing more than fuzzy outlines, and gleefully ignored the sounds of flesh being torn from bone.

Because she had no doubts that at this moment … Life could have been so much worse.

Gwenvael watched as she crawled into the big guest bed Annwyl and Fearghus had in their cave. He’d used it himself more than once, but because he always liked his head right on his shoulders, he’d always used it alone. “Don’t bring any of your whores here,” Annwyl had commanded on more than one occasion. And he’d grudgingly obeyed.

But now he had Dagmar in that bed and he knew he couldn’t get in with her. How could he? She’d been through too much in one day. Gods and Minotaurs and Annwyl. Yet all he wanted, all he could think about, was getting into that bed with her and Claiming her as his own.

It was those damn wool socks. He didn’t realize he loved her until she told him about out-negotiating a god of war—the most haggle-loving of the gods—with socks! He knew now, though. He knew he loved her and knew that he’d never let her go back to her life in the cold Northlands. Not when he had a warm place for her in his bed and his heart.

Yet knowing all that, he still couldn’t take her. Not now. If he got in bed with her at this moment, he’d brand her as his and forever wonder if it was what she truly wanted or if she’d still been overwhelmed at witnessing an Annwyl-slaughter of fifty Minotaurs.

He had to wait.

Yet she didn’t make it easy on him, looking so vulnerable and enticing. Her hair had dried into loose waves down her back, and without her spectacles on all he could see were those lovely grey eyes blinking up at him. His shirt was much too big on her and made her appear innocent, like a virgin on the altar of his cock.

No, he had to wait.

Gwenvael handed her two books he’d grabbed off Annwyl’s bookcase. The couple had not returned and Gwenvael wasn’t exactly shocked. Nor did he blame them. They needed the time alone. He’d offered to take Dagmar back to Garbhán Isle, but she’d softly said, “No. That’s all right. I’d rather stay here for a bit, if we could.”

He knew his brother wouldn’t mind so they stayed. But now it was late and she looked exhausted. Exhausted and vulnerable. And delicious.

Gwenvael shook his head. “I have to go out for a bit.”

“Oh. All right.” She didn’t argue about it, or complain. Simply pulled open one of the books and started reading.

“You’ll be safe here. My kin are all over, so there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She nodded but kept reading.

Without another word, Gwenvael headed out of the cave and to the closest, coldest lake.

Dagmar growled and sat up. She’d tried to sleep. For at least an hour she’d tried. She knew she was exhausted. Knew she needed the rest.