Just because he hadn’t kept anyone before, it didn’t mean he couldn’t keep her, at least a little longer. His dragon blood stirred at the thought of another sword fight and another round of seduction on the furs. But even as he was about to release her, she woke, and, assessing her predicament correctly, she gave a shrill cry.
“You treacherous beast!” Which she followed with damn near kicking out his hind teeth.
He roared and spit her across the cave.
She was on her feet the next instant, wild-eyed and rumpled, her shirt stuck to her comely thighs. A fetching sight she presented, even as she swore like a goatherd and threw old chunks of armor at Draknart until one hit him square on the tip of his nose.
He jumped off his sleeping ledge and pulled to his full height, then sent a small cloud of smoke her way. “Cease!”
Instead, she fished a rusty sword out of the rubble once again and charged at him. Her breasts heaved beneath the shirt. Damned if Draknart wasn’t distracted. Which made it possible for her to cut into his wing.
He roared.
She roared back. “You cowardly bastard! You were going to kill me in my sleep!”
He stilled and tilted his head. That made her angry? “Would you prefer to be awake for it?”
Either way, his meals were dead at first bite—he had a strong jaw and sharp fangs. He meant taking her in her sleep as a kindness. He would have thought she’d appreciate the effort.
Instead, the lass bent and smashed the pommel of her sword into Draknart’s foot, nearly breaking off a talon. And yet, Draknart’s dark dragon temper did not wash over him in response. Rather, he found himself thinking with pride, That’s my Einin, giving as good as she gets.
She swung her newfound weapon in a wide arc in front of her.
He grunted at her. “I wish you’d stop before you get hurt.”
He was not surprised when she didn’t listen.
With a sigh that produced a small cloud of smoke, he backed into the middle of the cave where he could maneuver more easily. Sometimes, in a fight, his tail would swing on its own. He didn’t want to injure her. Although, he wasn’t about to tell her that the thought of harming her bothered him. If he lost his reputation—he’d be left with nothing. Dragons were very much like maidens in that one way.
“I was just taking a wee taste,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he was capable. “You taste sweet,” he added, in the hope that some praise would put her into a better disposition. “Calm yourself, sweeting.”
Her eyes narrowed; she held the sword high in front of her in a tight grip, both hands on the hilt.
That’d be a no, then.
Ah well, if she was disinclined to polite conversation, they might as well have a little sport. Draknart blew another careful puff of smoke and moved forward. She jumped back at last, with a yelp, and took off running. He chased her for a while. Then he backed away, let her try her skill on him. She was quick and fought more with brain than brawn. She sparred better than most of the knights Draknart had eaten.
He only thought to stop their game when her breathing grew labored. She would probably exhaust herself to the point of death before she admitted defeat. He watched her with admiration.
“We should rest then, aye?”
While she eyed his teeth and talons, he swiped his barbed tail around and locked the tip around her slim ankle, yanked her up, and dangled her upside down in front of his face.
Her shirt slid down to her armpits, revealing a silky tuft of fur between her legs and those breasts he’d been longing to see naked. He finally got his fill. He’d never looked forward to midnight more.
Then she twisted, and his blood cooled. Deep grooves covered her slim back, the ruined skin speaking of a merciless whipping. Old scars. Ragged. She must have received them as a child. She was a wee lass now, how much smaller must she have been back then? It was a miracle she had survived such torture. Dark fires ignited inside him, a rage that had him pawing the ground, dragging his talons over the stone.
She dropped her sword and scrambled to keep herself covered. “Put me down, you great beast!”
“Caught thieving?” He thought of his hoard and shifted with unease.
Even so, as much as any dragon hated a thief, the sight of her ruined back filled Draknart with a dark fury at the blackheart who’d flayed the small child she had been. “What did you steal?”
A half-embarrassed, half-outraged sound escaped her. “I stole nothing. I spilled the milk.”
He stayed silent as he tried to puzzle out her meaning.
Twisting to face him so she could glare at him, she added, “My mother died when I was young. The people in the village didn’t think it was right for a girl to be raised by all men in the house. A farmer’s wife offered to take me in. She had only sons. She told my father she would raise me for a daughter.”
