The woman raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Uh …” Dagmar couldn’t stop staring and finally she blurted out, “You’re Queen Annwyl. Aren’t you?” If nothing else, the dragon brands burned into her arms gave it away. Only a monarch would be brave enough to wear those markings for the world to see.

“Some days. But you can call me Annwyl.”

This softly sobbing woman was the Queen of Dark Plains?

And Dagmar began to wonder if her arranged alliance with this monarch had been a bit hasty. Her father needed a strong leader as his ally, not some whimpering mess hiding in a library. It was true enough, she knew, that being with child was hard on any woman, but even Dagmar’s sisters-in-law hid their misery better than this.

“And you are … ?”

“Dagmar,” she said quickly, realizing she had to hide any disappointment she may have at the moment. “Dagmar Reinholdt.”

The queen frowned. “I don’t recognize you, but that name sounds awfully familiar.”

“Dagmar Reinholdt. Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”

“Dagmar? You’re a woman.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. I’m also called The Beast, in some parts.”

“I was unaware that The Reinholdt had any daughters.” She leaned in a bit. “How did you get here?”

“Oh. Gwenvael brought me.”

It was strange watching it. That soft, sweet, scar-covered face so quickly and brutally becoming hard and very, very angry.

The queen’s fist slammed down against the thick wood table, and Dagmar felt it bend under the pressure, heard the sound of it splintering.

“That idiot!”

It took her a bit, to get that bulk up and out of its seat, but she managed without any help, her rage giving her a fluidity Dagmar guessed was denied the queen at most times. Then she lumbered off, words pouring out of her mouth that made Dagmar’s brothers seem more like holy priests than the salty warriors of the Reinholdt Clan.

She sat there a moment, letting out a breath. “So that’s the Blood Queen.” She knew now the rumors were true … The woman was completely insane.

“Oh!” Her hand covered her mouth as she realized what she’d done. “Gwenvael!”

Then she was up and running.

“Is there something wrong with you? Beyond that which we already know of?”

Gwenvael looked at his sister, the piece of fresh fruit he’d just taken off her plate still in his hand. “Huh?”

Morfyd sat down at the table where battle plans and decisions regarding Annwyl’s kingdom were made on a daily basis.

“What possessed you to bring her here?”

“I had no choice.”

“What do you mean you had no choice?”

“How was I going to find out why that Lightning wants her here if I didn’t bring her with me? Of course”—he glanced around—“I seemed to have misplaced her. But I’m sure I’ll find her again.”

Morfyd rubbed her eyes and took another breath. “Gwenvael, she is the Only Daughter of The Reinholdt. And the Northland men are intensely, almost rabidly, protective of their daughters. And you just traipse off with one.”

“I didn’t traipse. There was no traipsing. And I don’t know why you’re so angry at—”

“Don’t speak.” She held her hand up, palm facing him. “Just don’t speak. We have to figure out what we’re going to tell Annwyl before she finds out”—the door slammed open behind them, Annwyl glowering at them both—“on her own.”

“You idiot!”

“Annwyl! My heart!”

Annwyl stalked across the room, her belly leading the way. Actually, her rage led the way, her belly right behind it. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Well—”

“Don’t speak!” Morfyd cut in. “Just don’t speak.”

Dagmar charged into the room after Annwyl. She was out of breath and slightly sweaty. Did the woman exercise anything besides her manipulation skills? Weak as a kitten.

“If you could just give me a moment, Your Majesty,” she panted out. “I can explain what brings me here.”

Gwenvael snickered. “She called you ‘Majesty.’ ”

Annwyl hit him on the forehead with the flat of her hand.

“Ow!”

“How do you do that?” Annwyl demanded of Gwenvael. “How do you convince them to take the blame for you?”

“It’s all in the hands,” he countered.

“I assure you I’m not taking the blame for anything, Your Maj—”

“Call me that again, and I’ll tear you open from bowels to nose. It’s Annwyl, you sod.”

Gwenvael saw Dagmar’s eyes narrow, her nostrils flare, and he quickly jumped in before the little barbarian could say something that would forfeit her head. “Tell them how you blackmailed me.”

Dagmar’s back snapped straight, Annwyl’s rudeness immediately forgotten. “What?”

“She’s just using me,” he explained to Annwyl. “Using me to get to you.”

Adjusting her frames, Dagmar said, “It’s time for you to stop talking.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you will stop talking.”

“We’re on my territory now, Beast. You can’t strut around here and pretend you rule all—”