“Again?” She sounded so annoyed, he wasn’t about to tell her the truth. “Can’t you do it, Brastias?”

“I do not rule this land.”

“Fine!” She threw her book across the room and stormed past him. Once she was too far away to get in a good punch, he sighed quietly in relief and followed her.

He cringed when he saw what she wore. Leather breeches, leather boots, and one of those damned sleeveless chainmail shirts she insisted on wearing. Her branded forearms exposed for all the court to see. He thought about asking her to cover them with gauntlets, but he really liked his throat uncut and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

He thought of the upcoming evening and hoped that Morfyd had thought out this plan of hers carefully.

Annwyl stalked into the throne room. Some of the nobles began to bow, but seemed to remember how much Annwyl hated it and they stopped themselves. If she weren’t so annoyed with the whole process, she would laugh. But she was annoyed. Very, very annoyed.

Annwyl threw herself into the high-backed stone chair her brother and father once used as a throne. She hated it. And she only used it for occasions like these.

“Lady Annwyl—” Morfyd began, but Annwyl cut her off.

“Can we just get this over with?”

Morfyd nodded. “As you wish.”

Delegations from surrounding kingdoms began to come before her. They offered her a tribute of precious metals or gems. Or presented something that meant a great deal in their land. But Annwyl also began to notice something else. Every last one of the nobles who came before her brought a son. A strong, virile, unmarried male. When the House of Arranz presented three sons, one of them a boy no more than ten and two years of age, she’d had enough.

“Excuse me.” She stood up and walked over to Morfyd. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

She didn’t give the dragon a chance to answer, but grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the throne room and into a servant’s hallway.

“What is this?” Annwyl demanded.

“What do you think? And get off me.”

Annwyl silently reminded herself that Morfyd was a dragon. She could decide to shift right now and take the whole castle with her.

“I don’t want this.”

“No one is saying you have to take any of them as a mate. But you should at least look like you’re considering it. If they think one of their sons has a chance at being your consort, we’ve got a little more bargaining power.”

“Bargaining power for what?”

“Grain from Kerezik. Lumber from Madron. The list goes on and on. Do you not listen to our daily meetings about the state of your lands?”

“Of course I don’t. They’re dead boring.”

“Not everything can involve bloodshed, Annwyl.”

“Can’t you come get me when there is bloodshed? Otherwise just leave me alone to read.” Morfyd took Annwyl by the shoulders and none too gently shoved her back into the throne room.

Grudgingly, Annwyl returned to her throne and let the painful procession continue.

Eventually she stopped looking at any of them. She sat sideways in the big chair, her legs thrown over the arm. She responded to each representative politely enough, but she could no longer hide her annoyance at the entire process.

But when the heir to the House of Madron strutted in with his entourage, she knew she’d about hit the end of her tether.

The Madron advisor made the announcement. “Lady Annwyl of Garbhán Isle, the people of Madron bring you their thanks and undying loyalty.”

Annwyl glared at Brastias and Morfyd, huddled together in a corner watching her. They both knew her feelings about Hamish Madron. And how Hamish Madron felt about her.

Hamish stepped forward. “Lady Annwyl. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

“Lord Hamish.” She gave a wave of her hand and prayed the torture would end soon.

“Perhaps, lady, when you are done here we can dine together and discuss the future of our kingdoms.”

Annwyl smirked at the sudden look of panic on Brastias’s face. She knew what her old friend feared and she delighted in giving him exactly what he expected.

“No.”

A long pause followed as the Madron representatives took in her short, but direct answer.

Hamish pushed. “I’m sorry, lady. Is there something else that keeps your attention this night?”

“No. I just don’t like you.” Brastias rolled his eyes in exasperation. Poor thing, he didn’t realize that the torture had only begun. “You were ready to force me into marrying you. You’re lucky I let you keep your lands and your head.” Hamish glared at her. “Besides, Lord Hamish, any attempt to seduce me to get my crown would only have my dragon hunting you down and killing you. And I’d let him.”

Hamish became very pale and he didn’t bother hiding his disgust. “So the rumors are true then? You have mated with a dragon.”

“Very true. But, of course, if it bothers you, Lord Hamish... please, feel free to come and take my throne from me.”

* * *

Rhiannon landed and watched the men run for their lives. She really never tired of that moment. The panic on their tiny little faces. The sounds of their screams as they scurried off. She would have laughed and maybe sampled a few of the delicacies, but she had a purpose.

She needed that little human girl to get off her precious throne and return to her son. Any more time apart and there would be war. Already she’d regretted her recent insistence Fearghus come to the court. It cost Kesslene his life. It started with a simple, although admittedly crass, remark on Fearghus’s choice of mate. It should have led to a challenge between the two. But this time no challenge came. No warning. Fearghus calmly told him to apologize. Kesslene wondered aloud if he, too, would enjoy bedding the girl. And Fearghus snapped the dragon’s neck without a moment’s pause. All court activity stopped. True, it wasn’t the first time a brutal death happened in her court. Mostly due to Bercelak’s rage or parts of Gwenvael being where they should not. But this was the first time that Fearghus had caused the problem. And then Fearghus challenged any and all in the hall to take his rightful place among his clan. After seeing his hearty dispense of Kesslene, no dragon stepped forward. Not even his own kin would approach him.