Another warning blast rang out, and Fragma ran into her home with her daughter held tight against her. She slammed the door behind her with her back pressed against it.
They’d be coming now. And all Fragma could do was pray to her gods that they’d keep riding right through—and that it would be someone else’s child they’d come for. But not hers. Please, gods, not hers.
Taking the hand of her mate, Morfyd the White Dragonwitch left their room and walked down the hall to the stairs. Before they reached their destination, Brastias stopped, and when Morfyd turned to him, he kissed her.
She sighed, her mouth opening under his, her eyes closing while a fresh wave of desire coursed through her.
His big hand caressed her throat, her jaw; and when he pulled back, he asked, “Do we really have to go down today? Can’t we stay in bed?”
“We both have work to do. Besides”—she gripped his wrist, smoothed the pad of her thumb against his work-hardened palm—“if we stay in bed today, we’ll want to stay in bed tomorrow and the day after and the day after.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” he teased.
As hard as Brastias was trying, he couldn’t fool her. She knew he wanted to cheer her up, keep her distracted. And he was doing that for one reason and one reason only—the return of Keita the Family Darling. Or, as Morfyd liked to call her, Keita the Momentous Pain in Morfyd’s Ass.
It had always bothered Morfyd how easy it was for Keita to get under her scales and pluck away at the last nerve she possessed. From the moment their mother had brought Keita back to Devenallt Mountain from the hatching chamber, Morfyd’s sister had the unmistakable ability of pissing Morfyd off at every turn. And every time she did, Morfyd was blamed for it.
Keita would toss all that red hair, smile at their father as if butter wouldn’t melt and the next thing any of them knew, Bercelak the Great would turn to his eldest daughter and gently remind Morfyd that she was older and she should be taking care of her little sister—“not trying to throw her off the mountain when you know she can’t fly yet.” Which, if Morfyd remembered correctly, had only happened one time and the little brat damn well deserved it!
But they were adults now. And they would act like adults, even if Morfyd had to twist that snotty little cow into a knot and rip the scales from her body to ensure it!
Morfyd wouldn’t worry about that now, though. Not when the man she loved was smiling at her, teasing her, doing his best to make her happy.
Honestly, she could never ask for more.
“You, my lord,” Morfyd teased back, “will not lure me into a life of laziness.”“Why should we be different from everyone else in this house?” he asked, kissing her again when she laughed.
“Must,” a voice snapped, startling them out of their embrace, “you do that right here in front of everyone?”
Morfyd glared up at her brother, all gold and beautiful this morning, as he was every morning. “Must you do that every time you see us? You could simply walk away.”
“You’re my sister, Morfyd, not some whore. He’s treating you like a whore!”
“You treat everyone like whores.”
Gwenvael the Handsome shrugged. “And your point?” Brastias, rarely taking her brothers seriously these days, pulled Morfyd around a glowering Gwenvael and toward the stairs that led into the Great Hall. As they walked down, she saw that most of her kin were awake and halfway through their first meal.
As soon as they stopped at the bottom step, Brastias released her hand and walked around so that the dining table separated them. Keeping inanimate objects between them seemed to lessen the glares from Briec and Fearghus. After two years, she’d thought her brothers would become used to her choice of mate. But for some reason they all seemed to feel “betrayed” by Brastias. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t care. The arrogant bastards would simply have to accept their union…one day. In the next thousand years or so.
“Annwyl?” Brastias asked the entire table, reaching between Talaith and Briec to grab a loaf of fresh bread.
“Training,” Fearghus mumbled, his attention on the parchments in front of him.
“My, my,” Gwenvael said, his big body dropping into a chair beside Morfyd, “she certainly does train a lot these days.” Fearghus raised his eyes from the papers in front of him. “Meaning what exactly?”
“Just an observation, brother.” Gwenvael reached for his own loaf of bread and ripped it into several pieces before adding, “Although we never actually see her training. Not like we used to. She simply disappears for hours before returning all sweaty and looking rather used. I wonder where she goes…and who she goes with.”
Morfyd opened her mouth, a caustic reply on her tongue, but Talaith—Briec’s mate and, although human, a fellow witch—beat Morfyd to it, a big, round fruit winging its way across the table and slamming into Gwenvael’s nose.
“Owww!” he cried out. “You callous viper!”
“Sorry,” Talaith hissed with no obvious remorse to back up that apology. “But it seemed like your never-closed mouth needed something to fill it! Tragically, my aim was off.”
Briec threw his head back and laughed until black smoke snaked from Gwenvael’s nostrils. Then Briec sneered, silently daring Gwenvael to do something. Gwenvael, of course, sneered back, and then they were both reaching across the rather wide table for each other’s throats. Morfyd leaned in, swinging her arms wide to separate them.