To this day, Bercelak had no idea how his mother, a beautiful dragoness of royal blood tolerated the old bastard. He was loud, rude, and crude. Growing up with him had been a horror to every male offspring he had. The females fared much better, but as they came into full age, they found that having a slag as a father worked against them when time to mate came along. Everywhere they went, their father’s reputation preceded them.

Now Bercelak had to face the old bastard and he didn’t know why. Ailean had demanded his presence, sending four of Bercelak’s brothers to bring him back. Not wanting to kill his own kin, Bercelak had finally agreed to return to the castle. But he wanted this over with so he could go home. Now that the wars were over he had plans to make and his father was delaying him.

He stormed into his father’s study, then winced and turned away. “Think you could get off my mother long enough to tell me why you demanded my presence?”

“When did you get so shy, boy?” Bercelak heard his mother slap his father, which she seemed to do often, then he could hear her getting off the desk Ailean had tossed her up on and pulling her clothes back on. For Ailean, his mother stayed human. Bercelak just didn’t know why.

“Put your clothes on!” he heard his mother hiss and he shook his head. The bastard lived to embarrass him. He did a good job of it, too.

His mother’s hand rested on his shoulder. “My son.”

He turned and looked down into her beautiful face. “Mother.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’m glad to see you.”

A corner of her mouth quirked up. “Really? I have to admit that with all of my hatchlings, it’s hardest to tell with you.”

“Boy.” His father, who finally pulled on his leggings, leaned against the desk. Why the old bastard insisted on calling him that, Bercelak would never know. He wasn’t human and he was no “boy.” But still, his father called him, more than any of his brothers, “boy.” Most likely because he knew how much it irritated the living hell out of him.

“Father. You sent for me.”

“Aye. Word came from the queen today.”

His mother stiffened beside him. She always did that whenever a mention of the queen came up.

“About?”

“Princess Rhiannon.”

His heart stopped in his chest. “What about her?” Although he was afraid to ask. The acrimonious relationship between mother and daughter had almost taken on legendary proportions. And Rhiannon was barely a hundred and twenty-five winters. Gods, could the queen have finally done something to her?

“You are to have her.”

Bercelak frowned, which seemed amazing even to him since he frowned most of the time. But this made him frown more.

“What does that mean?” his mother asked before he had a chance. “He is to have her?”

“It means that the queen wants you to mate with her daughter.”

“Over my dead—”

“Shalin,” Ailean cut her off. “This isn’t your decision. It’s the boy’s.”

“Yes, but—”

“I know how you feel about Addiena, Shalin. But, again, this is Bercelak’s decision. Not yours. Not mine. Nor the queen’s.” Silver eyes focused on him. “If you don’t want her, tell me now and I’ll fight the queen on this. I haven’t seen her in centuries, but I’m sure I can still be quite”—his father grinned—“persuasive.”

Shalin snorted and turned away, but his father continued, “But I wanted to give the option to you. What is your decision?”

He had no decision to make. He’d made it long ago the day he saw the white dragoness. He was barely fifty winters and she was already fifty-two. An older dragon. He’d never been to court before and he’d accompanied his mother this time. He made his first misstep as soon as he entered the Queen’s Hall. He stomped on the snowy white tail of a princess. Her rage was instantaneous and without waiting for an apology, she sent the tip of that tail directly for his eye.

What few knew, but eventually learned, was that all of Ailean’s children were raised . . . well . . . differently than other hatchlings. Bercelak couldn’t remember a day when his father didn’t come jumping out of somewhere dark, grab his tail and toss him across the room. Not to be abusive—although it was—but because he wanted his offspring’s reflexes to be better than anyone else’s. And, to Bercelak’s annoyance, it worked. While other dragon warriors were caught off guard or had run from fear during battles, Bercelak never flinched, never feared, and he definitely never ran. Not ever. Instead, he destroyed any and all in his way until they finally gave him the title of Queen’s Battle Lord. The highest rank a low-born warrior dragon, such as himself, could hope to obtain.

So, on that day, when he saw that razor-sharp tail point coming for his face, he reacted as he would with any of his kin; he grabbed hold of that tail and swung, flinging the princess and heir to the queen’s throne across the Queen’s Hall and right past her mother.

As the queen’s guard took firm hold of him, he thought for sure he’d die that day. But the Queen . . . she had other plans. And, to be honest, didn’t seem to care how he’d treated her daughter.

But he did care. After that, he tried everything to get Rhiannon to forgive him. To get close to her. But when she saw him, she rolled her eyes and went the other way. If he tried to speak to her, she yawned in his face and left him standing there.