Ragnar let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure The Beast would use that particular term, but all right.”
“I’m just making it clear where we all stand, Liar Monk,” Gwenvael explained. “So you’ll understand why I’ll have to kill you if you try anything.”
“You still haven’t figured out I love your sister?”
“This isn’t about Keita. This is about me.”
“I thought it was about Dagmar.”
“In relation to me.”
Unable to stand any more of this, Ragnar leaned in and whispered into the Ruiner’s ear, “I’ve heard you’re getting your hair cut. All those long, golden tresses falling helplessly to the floor…”
Gwenvael lunged away from him. “Bastard! ” Keita quickly stepped aside—the two mugs of ale she’d been carrying over nearly tragic victims to a Gold’s idiocy—and let her brother pass.
“What was that about?” she asked, handing him one of the mugs.
Ragnar stared into it. “Is this your father’s brew?”
“Don’t be weak, warlord. Swill it!”
“Perhaps later.” He placed the mug on the table behind him.
“Well?” she asked, grinning.
“Well what?”
“Did my brothers come over here and threaten you yet? Tell you if you try to take their adorable baby sister as your own, they would beat you within an inch of your life?”
“Uh…no.”
Her brows lowered. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean no. They haven’t said a word. Wait. That’s not right.” Her face lit up. “The two eldest said, ‘Move!’ and I said, ‘Piss off!’ That was about it.”
She stamped her bare foot, and he knew at some point he’d have to find out why she refused to wear shoes. “Does this family not love me at all?
Do I mean nothing to anyone?”
“I—”
“Don’t say it!”
Ragnar laughed, pulling Keita into his arms.
“They threaten Brastias all the time,” she whined. “Why not you?”
“Because they know you don’t need their protection. You take care of yourself just fine.”
She sniffed. “That was actually very good.”
“I thought so.”
Smiling, Keita placed her ale on the table and put her arms around Ragnar’s neck. “Tell me, warlord, this Battle Slag—”
“Maid.”
“—position. Does it make me queen of the Northlands?”
“No.”
“Is there a throne?”
“No.”
“Shopping trips? A gold carriage? An entire troop of handsome warriors to protect me at all times?”
“That would be ‘no’ three times in a row.”
“Then what is the purpose of a Battle Trollop?”
“Maid. And, basically, you’ll get to braid my hair before I fly off into battle.”
Keita stared up at him. “You’re joking.”
“And unbraid it when I return.”
“Yes, because after more than a century of being a Protector of the Throne, I so look forward to braiding your hair for the next six or seven centuries.”
“I was desperate,” he admitted. “My c*ck was hard, you were wet, and I needed to come up with an excuse that would get you to travel with me. I was almost positive telling you that I love you and want you to meet my mother would not do the job.”
“And you would have been right.” Instead of running off once faced with the truth, she asked, “But what am I going to do while you’re out battling Irons? Besides sitting around looking beautiful and shaming all those pathetic Northland females?”
“Help me destroy those who would betray me and my kin?” Keita stepped away from him. “You’d willingly put me into danger?
Willingly risk my life to further your own gains?” He shrugged, unable to lie to her. “If it got me what I wanted.”
“Gods,” Keita said on a shaky breath, moving back into his arms and hugging him tight. “It’s like you want me to f**k you right here.” Ragnar held her close. “Well, if you really want your brothers to beat me within an inch of my life… that would be the way.”
Epilogue
It seemed that all of Dark Plains was silent this early morning, the suns barely awake themselves as the Blood Queen came out on the steps, dressed in full battle gear. Her mate, already shifted to dragon and in his battle armor, waited for her with his kin. Their last night together had been far too short, but, by the gods, it had been memorable. And would hopefully help them both get through the time they’d be separated from one another.
She stopped and looked back at her offspring. She crouched down and held her arms open. Her children tore away from their nanny and charged over to their mother, wrapping their arms around her, hugging her tight. She kissed them both and picked them up, handing them back to their keeper.
She leaned in and whispered, “Even a hint of trouble, Ebba—”
“And I’ll take all the children and be gone, my Queen. Have no worries.”
The Blood Queen stepped back and looked at those she called her sisters. The assassin witch, the scheming warlord. They’d all had their sobbing good-byes nearly an hour ago, in private. They’d have no more here for an audience.
The queen winked at her toddler niece, the little girl waving good-bye to her.
Turning, she went down the steps and met her mate. The Dragon Prince of Dark Plains pressed his head carefully against her, the pair long ago beyond words. She kissed his snout, and walked away from him to her waiting horse. Her eldest niece, now her squire, held out her helm. The queen put it on, tossing off her shoulder the long mane of purple hair that came from the crown of her helm, winking at the Northlander all that hair had once belonged to. He smiled in return and briefly bowed his head in respect. She put her foot in the stirrup and mounted her horse.
Once settled, she took one last glance around. General Brastias would ride to her left, his second in command, Danelin, to her right. Dragon Princess Morfyd had again taken up her role as Battle Mage to Queen Annwyl and waited patiently to leave with the human troops. Her brothers, along with their youngest sister and the three Horde dragons who’d accompanied Princess Keita’s return into the Southlands, would be traveling into the north to face their enemies near the Ice Land borders.
Manning the inside and outside of the Garbhán Isle gates and the sides of the Great Hall steps were the Kyvich warrior witches. Their leader bowed her head to the queen, the black tribal tattoos on her face unable to make her look as frighteningly fierce as that one female truly was.
The Blood Queen felt confident that she could do no more to ensure her children’s safety while she was gone—except win this war. Losing had never been an option for her during any battle, but there was even more truth to that now. She’d feel no regret, no guilt, no sorrow for what she’d have to do to win.
And Annwyl the Bloody, Queen of Dark Plains, knew that when this was all over, when the last shield had been cleaved, the last commander eviscerated, the last body burned, either her head would be on a spike in the ruling Quintilian Provinces—or the Blood Queen would have truly earned her name and her reputation.