His mother was of royal birth. His father . . . not so much. Which meant no one handed Bercelak a damn thing. He worked for everything he had and he did it with one thing in mind. Crystal blue eyes, long white hair, and a snarl that could scare an army of demons.
The day he met her—when those gorgeous blue eyes locked on him with such hate—he knew he had to have her.
“I want his head!” she’d screeched. And for a minute, he thought she’d get it.
But then he heard, “Oh, leave him be. As usual, my daughter is overreacting.”
A red dragon, big and beautiful, walked toward him. “He didn’t mean it, Rhiannon.”
His mother bowed but he continued to stare at the queen. And he knew it was the queen. Just the way she moved and held herself told him that. He’d been in awe.
She’d motioned for her guards to release him and smiled, showing her fangs. “Shalin’s son.”
Now free, he immediately bowed. “Yes, my Queen. Bercelak the Black, Son of Ailean.”
“Yes. You look very much like him. So handsome.” A red claw with pitch-black talons reached out and caressed his jaw. He felt his mother stiffen beside him and knew this was for her benefit more than his. For years Bercelak had heard how the queen had taken one turn in his father’s bed and had never forgotten him. Nor had she forgiven him. For the very next morning he’d left the then-future queen to meet with Bercelak’s mother and the queen’s one-time friend, Shalin. Who, if the story was to be believed, threw an ax at his father’s head when Ailean found her.
Up to that day, Bercelak never believed any of the stories. His low-born father with a dragon princess? Not bloody likely, he used to think. Still . . . one look at the female before him and he wondered if perhaps all the stories were true. For she looked at him with something he could not name. Perhaps something he did not want to name. At fifty winters, he was much too young for such deep thoughts. . . .
“Tell me, Son of Ailean, what is your life’s dream? Wizard? Warrior? Sword maker? What is it you think of when you lie awake at night?”
He answered honestly, unable to lie to those dark blue eyes. “Of glory and wealth. Of power.”
“I see. So you may look like your father, but his aspirations had never been as lofty.” She glanced at his mother, but he didn’t realize until years later what that look meant. Then she turned and walked off.
“You shall stay here, Son of Ailean,” the queen casually tossed over her shoulder. “You shall train to be one of my battle-dragons. You will protect this throne and me and anyone else I deem worthy.”
Then she was gone. Up the stairs to her private chambers.
Her daughter stomped her foot and glared at him, before marching off in quite a rage.
Once activity began again in the court, he heard his mother mutter under her breath, “I hate that bitch with every fiber of my being.”
Still . . . his mother left him there when she returned home. She had no choice. After that, the queen’s daughter treated him like so much trash caught between her talons. And the more she did, the more he knew he’d do anything to win her. The meaner she was, the more deadly he became. Soon, with the moniker of Bercelak the Vengeful firmly in place, he’d led the troops into the war against the lightning dragons . . . the barbarians. Barbarians they may have been, but worthy opponents. The war lasted decades, but when the smoke cleared, Queen Addiena’s throne stood secure and she graced him with the new title of Bercelak the Great. Fair enough. He’d earned it and had the scars to prove it.
Now he wore the elaborate armor of Battle Lord, Dragonwarrior Leader, and Queen’s Champion. He had the attention of every female from the lowest born to some of the most important royalty. And although he found pleasure among those scales, he knew there was only one whom he wanted for life.
“I must feed. I’m starving.”
Pulled from his reverie, he looked at the princess and frowned.
“You put on clothes.” She wore a bright blue robe she must have taken from his treasures. It covered her from shoulders to feet. Although the color of her robe brought out her eyes, he liked seeing her naked. Then again . . . hiding those delicious full br**sts and gorgeous ass from his view was probably for the best. At least for now.
“This skin is so fragile. . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know how they tolerate it. Being so defenseless. At least forest animals have fangs or claws or, at the very least, good instincts. Humans have none of these things.”
He shrugged. “A few do. They vary.”
“You like them?” She didn’t sound haughty, merely curious.
“Not really. I find them treacherous and painfully annoying. Although made with the right seasoning, they are very tasty.”
She nodded in agreement. “This is true.”
Of course, he’d only been joking.
With a quick shake of his head, he said, “Why, Princess, did you just agree with me?”
Startled, she blinked. “Uh . . . no. No, of course not.” She turned away from him, walking over to a boulder. She sat on it and looked at him, her head held high. “I’m hungry. I await food.”
He had to give it to her. She certainly didn’t let a change in her current circumstances faze her for long. “Then you best get that rump in gear. The potatoes and vegetables are over there. There’s a pot to cook them in and fresh water. Good luck.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You . . . you expect me to cook food?”