Kachka began to pour some of her people’s ale into Talaith’s chalice. But she’d barely put in a splash before Briec the Mighty physically lifted his mate and moved her away.
“Hey!”
“No. Just . . . no,” he insisted, carrying her off.
“What’s that look for?” Annwyl asked, waving off the ale when Kachka offered it.
“She allows male to tell her what she can and cannot drink? My mother cut one of her husband’s throats once because he suggested she had ‘had enough.’ She did not kill him, but he never questioned her choice of drink again.”
“Your mother was . . . unpleasant.”
Kachka didn’t bother to argue that point.
“And Talaith can’t hold her drink,” Annwyl went on. “He’s just saving himself the bother of having to carry her to bed tonight while she miscounts absolutely everything. Loudly. The drunker she gets, the worse her math gets.”
The queen’s dragon mate passed them. He signaled to Annwyl with a slight jerk of his head toward the door at the back of the hall.
Suddenly smiling, the queen put down her chalice of whatever weak Southland wine she’d been drinking.
“See ya,” she said.
“Wait.”
The queen stopped. “What?”
“You go to fuck him?”
“Unless he’s calling me back there to yell at me about Talwyn . . . most likely.”
“Do you not mind that he is not human?”
Annwyl put her hands on her hips. “Is this an Abomination question? Because those just make me angry.”
“No. I do not care about you and your unholy children.”
“I would never call my son or Rhi un—”
“But Fearghus has scales. That does not bother you?”
“Oh.” Annwyl grinned, chuckled. “That.” She shrugged her big shoulders. “I find his scales beautiful. Human or dragon, he’s always been beautiful to me. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Watching my sister, she seems very happy.”
Annwyl frowned, head tilting to the side. “Does she? Really?”
“For Daughter of Steppes . . . she is happy.”
“Well . . . if you say so.”
The queen followed after her mate, disappearing through the back door. Kachka stared after her for a long time, wondering if she was being a little too . . . harsh about dragons. Unlike her mother, she was willing to change her opinion when it was truly warranted. She just didn’t know if it was.
Once she became bored staring at the empty doorway, she studied the room. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Even the Rebel King, laughing at whatever Gwenvael the Handsome was saying to him.
Kachka lost track of how long she stared at him, but he seemed to sense her, glancing at her across the room. He raised a brow, silently asking if all was right. She gave a small head shake to let him know she was fine. Then he nodded toward Zoya, who had some poor young soldier practically pinned against the wall, her big arms caging him in from either side as she talked to him. About what, Kachka didn’t dare to guess.
If only the woman hadn’t healed so damn quickly. Or, you know . . . at all . . .
Celyn eased up behind his mate and kissed her neck.
“Your sister done slapping you around?” Elina asked.
“She’s so drunk now, I’m sure she’s done slapping everyone around. And she didn’t slap me around,” he argued. “We had what my father calls a Cadwaladr Disagreement.”
“Southlander way of saying she slapped you around.”
“Thanks for that.” Celyn leaned his butt against a nearby table and pulled Elina close, her back against his chest. “Your sister seems quiet tonight.”
“There is much on her mind. No time for dancing, I think. She will hunt later. She works out much when she hunts.”
“You two look for any excuse to hunt things down.”
“We are good at it.”
Celyn rested his chin on Elina’s shoulder, his arms loose around her body, and he asked the question that had been plaguing him for a few weeks now.
“You wish you were going with your sister, don’t you? To make a name for yourself.” He’d understand if that’s what Elina wanted to do. She’d be no different from nearly every one of his kin.
So, when she turned her head to look at him, Celyn readied himself for her answer.
“Truth?”
“Of course.”
“I would rather set myself on fire than go with my sister in this task she undertakes for Annwyl.”
Celyn reared back a bit. “I . . . uh . . .”
“You are disappointed in me.”
“No. No, not at all. I’m actually relieved. But, I thought—”
“My sister and I are close. As close as you and Brannie. But we are vastly different from each other. There are some things I just cannot do.”
Celyn kissed the side of her head and hugged her closer. “And to be quite honest with you, Elina Shestakova, I’ll be forever grateful for that fact.”
Gaius stood back and watched the Riders show Izzy and Branwen the dances of their people. As drunk as Izzy and Branwen now were, it was so much more than simply entertaining.
“Why do you not drink or dance, foreign king?”
Gaius glanced down at Kachka. She stood next to him, her pert ass resting against the thick wood table. “Because I am a foreign king not in his homeland.”
“But you are safe here.”
“I am safe from my enemies. But I don’t think anyone’s really safe from Annwyl.”
“Good point.”
He studied the group dancing and clapping. “Where is Tatyana?”
Kachka looked up at him. “You noticed?”
“I may have one eye, but I notice lots of things. You live longer that way.”
“She has gone to town. Talk to people in pubs. That is what she does. She talks to people. She gets information. She is very good.”
“When you’re done here, you know, she won’t want to go back.”
“I know.” Kachka sighed. “She hugs, you know.”
Gaius laughed. “What?”
“She hugs. Who hugs?”
“I don’t know.... Everyone?”
“Not Riders. What is there to hug about? You hug your children, of course. When they are young and needy. You hug your horse, if it lets you. You do not hug each other. It is so weak.”
“It’s not weak. It’s affectionate.”
“Which is weak. Affectionate is for the weak. The strong do not need.”
They silently watched Zoya Kolesova dance by, a very large soldier in her arms. Since he didn’t seem to want to dance, she hugged him off the ground as she moved by.
“Zoya seems to like to hug.”
“The Kolesovas—”
“Have a use if you would just look beyond how annoying their good humor may be.”
“Is this kingly advice?” she asked.
“It is. The first thing my father taught me was how to use what you have access to. Nothing is worse than trying to force others into roles that do not fit them.”
“What role would you fit me in?”
Gaius didn’t hesitate. “Lord Executioner.”