“Eat,” Gwenvael ordered her. “I’ll get you more ointment for your hand.”

Before she had the chance to tell him that wasn’t necessary, he was already gone.

“Where are you going?”

Éibhear the Blue, youngest son to Queen Rhiannon and Bercelak the Great, cringed when he heard that voice behind him.

That voice. That damn voice!

“To see my father.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He stopped. “Shouldn’t you be training?”

“I was. But my commander told me I could take off the rest of the day.”

That was probably because no one in her unit would fight against her anymore. In less than a year, the spoiled brat had become a one-woman wrecking team.

“Well, go find something else to do.”

“I’d rather go see Grandfather.”

Éibhear flinched. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? He is my grandfather.”

Exactly the problem. Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith, wasn’t blood, but she’d been accepted by his parents and siblings as Briec’s daughter. And, in the process, they’d turned her into nothing more than a spoiled little brat … and his niece.

His annoying, spoiled, never-stopped-talking niece.

“Your mother doesn’t want you flying.”

“She doesn’t want me doing anything.” He could hear the frustration in her voice, understood it himself. At ninety-one winters he’d been in few battles. Most of them sudden skirmishes that had involved mostly human troops—very easily killed, those humans—and very few dragons. Like Izzy, he was ready for more. Ready to earn his name. Although he’d always enjoyed being Éibhear the Blue, he was ready to be something a little more substantial. Éibhear the Benevolent perhaps. Or Éibhear the Strong.

He had big plans for his future, and they didn’t involve some brat who thought she was a warrior. He still couldn’t believe her unit commanders wanted to send her into combat. She’d only just turned seventeen, and, more importantly, Éibhear saw how the men in the troops—and several of the women—looked at her. She’d be at great risk out there alone, without any kin to watch out for her. To care for her. To hold her close and smell her hair and lick that delicious-looking scar on her neck …

“Dammit!”

“What?” She stood in front of him now, never letting him ignore her—no matter how hard he may try. No one had a right to be that pretty with a severely bruised eye and a just-healing busted nose.

He simply needed to remember that she was his niece. Exactly right. His niece!

His nubile, firm-breasted, perfect-ass niece!

“What’s wrong, Éibhear?”

“Nothing. I’ve got to go.”

“Oh, come on.” She grabbed his arm. “Take me with you. I promise I’ll be quiet and won’t braid your hair.”

“No.” He tried to pull his arm away, but the girl did have a grip on her. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could still feel the grip she’d had on his tail once, many months ago. It was one of those memories that woke him up in the middle of the night—sweating.

“Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeee!”

“No!” He yanked his arm away. “Go play with your friends.”

Light brown eyes looked up at him through those damn long lashes, her full lips lifting slightly at the corners. “But … I’d rather play with you.”

Snarling, Éibhear pushed past her, stomping off to a clearing so he could shift and take flight in peace!

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she yelled after him. And he might have believed her, if only she hadn’t been laughing when she said it.

Dagmar stretched, waking up yet again. She’d been napping off and on for the last few hours. Each time she woke up she was still alone and her body was still reacting to that kiss. If he’d come back to her, she knew she would have taken him into her bed like so many women had done before her. But so far the dragon hadn’t come back.

No, he’d probably found someone else. Someone fuller in the hips and prettier in the face. Though that was probably best for both of them.

Dagmar moved her right hand, waiting for the searing pain she’d been experiencing since she’d rubbed her palm on his leggings. But there was no pain. Nor was she able to move her hand very well. She blinked, bringing her hand closer to her face so she could see. It had been properly bandaged again, and she could now feel the fresh ointment underneath.

Squinting, Dagmar looked around the room and saw Gwenvael sitting in the only chair, staring out the only window.

“Gwenvael?”

“It’s me. You’re safe.”

“Are you … is everything … I was just—”

“Go to sleep, Dagmar. I’ll wake you when the two suns rise. Until then”—the blur that was Gwenvael turned his head to look at her—“go to sleep.”

It was something in his voice, a seriousness she’d never heard from him before, that had her nodding and turning onto her side, away from him.

“Good night, Dagmar.”

“Good night,” she whispered.

Had he been with another? Her instincts told her no, but she could be wrong, trying to turn her hopes into truth. Would she blame him if he had?

Who was she kidding? Of course she would!