Her eyes narrowed. “You kissed me.”

“And I believe you kissed me.”

Annwyl’s rage grew, her patience for games waning greatly. “Perhaps you failed to realize that I have a blade to your throat, knight.”

“And perhaps you failed to realize”—he knocked her blade away, placing the tip of his own against her throat— “that I’m not some weak-willed toady who slaves for your brother, Annwyl the Bloody of the Dark Plains.”

Annwyl glanced down at the sword and back at the man holding it. “Who the hell are you?”

“The dragon sent me.” He lowered his blade. “And he was right. You are too slow. You’ll never defeat Lorcan.”

Her rage welled up and she slashed at him with her blade. But it wasn’t one of her well-trained maneuvers. It felt awkward and messy. He blocked her easily, slamming her to the ground.

Her teeth rattled in her head. Good thing her wound had already healed, otherwise Morfyd would be sewing it up once again.

The knight stood over her. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” She stared up at him and he smiled. “Or maybe not. Guess we’ll just have to see.”

He wandered off. Annwyl knew he expected her to follow. And, for some unknown reason, she did.

She found him by the stream that ran through the glen. It took all her strength to walk up to him. She really wanted to run back into the dragon’s lair and hide under his massive wings. She wasn’t afraid of this man. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.

As she approached, he turned and smiled. And Annwyl felt her stomach clench. Actually, the clenching might have been a bit lower.

She’d never known a man who made her so... well… nervous. And she’d lived on Garbhán Isle since the age of ten; all she’d ever known were men who made it their business to make women nervous, if not downright terrified.

“Well,” she demanded coldly.

He moved to stand in front of her, his gorgeous smile teasing her. “Desperate are we?”

Annwyl shook her head and stepped away from him. “I thought you said something about training me for battle, knight.” For the dragon. She would only do this because the dragon asked her to. And she would damn well make sure he knew it, too.

“Aye, I did, Annwyl the Bloody.”

“Do stop calling me that.”

“You should be proud of that name. From what I understand, you earned it.”

“My brother also called me dung heap. I’m sure he thought I earned that too, but I’d rather no one call me that.”

“Fair enough.”

“And do you have a name?” He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“Really?”

“It will make beating the hell out of you so much easier.”

She wanted to throw him off. Make him uneasy. But his smile beamed like a bright ray of sunlight in the darkened glen. “A challenge. I like that.” He growled the last sentence, and it slithered all the way down to her toes. Part of her wanted to panic over that statement, since it frightened her more than the dragon himself. But she didn’t have time. Not with the blade flashing past her head, forcing her to duck and unsheathe her own sword.

He watched her move. Drank her in. And when she took off her shirt and continued to fight in just leather leggings, boots, and the cloth that bound her br**sts down, he had to constantly remind himself of why he now helped her. To train her to be a better fighter. Nothing more or less. It was not so he could lick the tender spot between her shoulder and throat.

Annwyl, though, turned out to be a damn good fighter. Strong. Powerful. Highly aggressive. She listened to direction well and picked up combat skills quickly. But her anger definitely remained her main weakness. Anytime he blocked one of her faster blows, anytime he moved too quickly for her to make contact, and, especially, anytime he touched her, the girl flew into a rage. An all-consuming rage. And although he knew the soldiers of Lorcan’s army would easily fall to her blade, her brother was different. He knew of that man’s reputation as a warrior and, as Annwyl now stood, she didn’t stand a chance. Her fear of Lorcan would stop her from making the killing blow. Her rage would make her vulnerable. The mere thought of her getting

killed sent a cold wave of fear through him.

Yet if he could teach her to control her rage, she could turn it into her greatest ally. Use it to destroy any and all who dare challenge her.

The shifting sun and deepening shadows told him that the hour grew late. The expression on her face told him that exhaustion would claim her soon, although she’d never admit it. At least not to him. But he knew what would push her over the edge. He grabbed her ass.

Annwyl screeched and swung around. He knocked her blade from her hand and threw her on her back.

“How many times, exactly, do I have to tell you that your anger leaves you exposed and open to attack?”

She raised herself on her elbows. “You grabbed me,” she accused. “Again!”

He leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Yes I did. And I enjoyed every second of it.”

Her fist flashed out, aiming for his face. But he caught her hand, his fingers brushing across hers. “Of course, if you learned to control your rage I’d never get near you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But until that time comes, I guess your ass belongs to me.”