The Dragon Who Loved Me Excerpt
Vigholf the Abhorrent slammed the head of his warhammer into the ground and leaned against the handle.
Poor thing. She looked positively devastated by the damage to her cute little spear. Gods, a spear? He hadn’t used one of those since he’d started training at the age of six winters. His father, a bastard of a Northlander, didn’t believe that his sons should wait until they were a little older. He believed they should be able to kill with their own claws and weapons before they could even fly. In case, according to Olgeir the Wastrel, “I ever need to throw one of you little bastards into the fighting pit to make a bit of coin.” But Vigholf had grown out of that spear by the time he was ten winters, moving onto a mace, then a sword, and finally his favorite weapon, the warhammer. He had two hammers. One that he could use whether in his natural form or as human, the entire thing extending with a good slam to the base. And the other hammer, that he only used when dragon, had a head big and heavy enough to crush a dragon’s skull with a single blow. Sometimes, if Vigholf was in a bit of a rush, he’d work his way through a battalion, by swinging his hammer from side to side until every soldier was dead or broken enough that the rest of his troops could finish them off.
But a spear? Only a female would use that for anything other than first wave attacks by an entire legion.
Since she was still just sitting there, staring at him, stunned by nearly being killed, Vigholf held his claw out to her. “Come on, Rhona. Let’s get you inside.”
She took his claw and he helped her rise. But halfway up, she stopped and whispered something, her pretty brown eyes downcast. Vigholf leaned in, thinking she’d been hurt during the skirmish—and that’s when the treacherous little bitch head-butted him!
Gods-damn Cadwaladrs! None—absolutely none—of them could be trusted!
Vigholf released her and brought his claws to his forehead.
“What was that for?”
She was up now, the broken staff of her spear pressed into his throat. “If you get between me and a kill again, you overbearing ox, I’ll tear out your eyes!”
“I was trying to help, you unbearable She-demon!” he snapped, fighting his desire to shove her back to the ground.
“Well don’t! Don’t help! Don’t assist! Do nothing!”
She reached down and swiped up the other end of the spear. “My father made me this,” she told him, holding the pieces up to him. “My father!”
“Oh, Rhona.” Another Cadwaladr female, one of the pretty triplets, stepped forward. “Your spear. What happened?”
“I was trying to help!” he cut in.
“Shut up!” She cleared her throat, looked down at the ground. Vigholf knew what she was trying to do. Get control. She was Rhona the Fearless after all. The perfect soldier. Or so she believed. In her female mind, soldiers didn’t lose control, they didn’t get angry, they didn’t shout unless it was to relay an order. And all of that was true—in battle. But Rhona was like this all the time.
To be honest, he was enjoying seeing her lose control for once. Even if it was just a little bit.
Wanting to see her pissy for a few seconds longer, Vigholf helpfully added, “I’ll have another adorable little spear made just for you.”
Brown eyes locked on him. “And you can take that spear and shove it up your—”
“Rhona!” all three triplets cried out, their green eyes wide, their attempts not to laugh weak.
Snarling, black smoke snaking from her nostrils, Rhona the Fearless stalked off.
“Bring those bodies back for the commanders,” she ordered over her shoulder.
“You’re very adorable when you’re angry,” he told her.
“She’s going to kill you while you sleep,” one of her sisters—Edana, maybe?—warned once Rhona was out of earshot. “Daddy made her that spear.”
“We’re relatively sure she slept with it,” another said.
“And you went and broke it. While getting between her and a kill and taunting her.” Another observed. “It’s like you wish for an early death.”
“I was really trying to help. You lot shouldn’t be—”
“If you say as females we shouldn’t be out here—”
“—we’ll cut off your legs while you sleep—”
“—and let the forest animals have ’em for dinner.”
One of them patted his chest—Nesta? Gods, who knew—“We like you, Lord Abhorrent. Don’t make us regret that.”
And having been curious on the answer for the last five years, Vigholf asked, “Rhona likes me too, yeah?”
“Gods, no!” one said laughing, dragging two of the bodies away by their back claws.