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Amelia took a deep breath, and refocused. Of course they’d been bred for war, for conquering other nations, and of course that had entailed some sinister and unnatural biology. “Right, then. Flammable blood. Anything else of note?”
He shook his head. “The blood is black, as you know, and bone much denser and harder than that of any animal I’ve encountered before. I’ve found something in the back of the mouth, though, right at the top of the tongue.” He walked round to show her, and revealed a rough patch of skin, far sharper and rougher than a cat’s tongue, its texture akin to stone, he told her – she declined to reach in with her bare hand and feel for herself – and the animal’s uvula above long, thin, and rough-edged as well. “When he flexes this muscle here, uvula strikes throat, and ignites a spark. That’s the secret to the fire-breathing, I believe: they expel a flammable liquid of some sort – stomach acid, as you said, most likely – and flex the back of the throat to ignite it on its way out.”
“Incredible,” she said, and itwas…but not overly helpful. Her own drakes breathed fire. She didn’t need to know how they did it, only if the Sel drakes did it differently, and if this piece of one might help them learn how to fight them.
She stepped back from the table, keen to be away from it, and its host of grisly smells. “Let me know if you discover anything else.” She nodded to them both, saw Leda’s silent, amused glance – she knew right where Amelia was off to – ignored it, and headed into the main part of the house.
Her pulse quickened as she mounted the stairs, and though she tried to slow her steps, and keep her expression smooth and businesslike, relief hastened her on her way, until she was nearly jogging by the time she reached the upper hall. She paused a moment, on the landing, took a deep breath, smoothed her tunic – rumpled and dusty from flying – and approached the bedchamber with head held high, shoulders back, expression (hopefully) composed.
It was a south-facing room, warm and sunny most of the day, and at this hour of the afternoon, the sun fell in warm panels through the window, puddles of gold on the floorboards and across the foot of the bed; molten in the unwashed waves of Leif’s hair, loose and unbraided over his shoulders and chest. Even swathed up to his armpits in bandages, bruises and cuts still healing on his face, thin and raggedy in the beard thanks to three days in bed, he was a striking vision. He sat propped against the headboard on a stack of pillows, and no amount of infirmity could make him look small or weak, it turned out. In the spill of sunlight, his eyes glowed vibrant, as though backlit, like blue stained glass.
She froze in the doorway, staring, all her carefully-planned greetings flown right out of her head.
“Have a nice ride, m’lady?” Ragnar asked, and snatched her focus.
He was sprawled back insouciantly in the chair by the bed, but she saw the restless tapping of his fingers on the arm of the chair, and noted the way he’d positioned himself between the door and Leif. His expression was easy, his gaze slumbrous and appreciative as it traveled down to her boots and leisurely back up again, lingering on her chest – but she had no doubt he would move lightning-quick the moment he sensed a threat to his alpha. His easiness was a ruse, and a convincing one, but Ragnar was poised on a knife edge. Amelia thanked her life of working with animals for the acuity to read him in that way.
“I did, yes, though it was more practical than relaxing.” She turned her gaze back to Leif, and allowed a small smile. “It’s good to see you awake, your grace.”
He made a face that fell short of his stern scowl on the road, before the ambush. It looked more pouty and petulant, in his current state, and Amelia wanted to laugh. “There’s no need for titles.”
“He’s bashful about being a prince, you see,” Ragnar chimed in. In a stage whisper behind his hand: “Doesn’t want the lads to know he’s required by law to wear silken underthings.”
Leif sighed.
“Powder blue.”
Amelia bit her lip.
Leif said, “Titles are for strangers. First meetings and enemy negotiations. We don’t stand on ceremony among friends in the North.”
She lifted her brows, hopeful. “Are we friends, then?”
Ragnar said, “We could be more than–”
Leif cut him off with a sharp growl, and Ragnar subsided peaceably. Examined his nails.
“Friends, yes,” Leif continued, his expression serious – but not angrily so. Earnest, she thought, and more open than she’d seen it before he’d been injured. “I fear we got off to a rocky start, my people and yours. But after your…” His gaze took a turn around the room, resting briefly on the lumps of his feet beneath the covers. “Hospitality, I find that I’m ashamed of my earlier conduct. I was ungenerous, and unreceptive, and I hope you’ll accept my apologies on behalf of my entire pack, and convey them also to your generals and their men.” Formal words, and words that had taken no small amount of effort and humility to offer.
Amelia didn’t take them lightly. She nodded. “I will do so. Thank you.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction on his next exhale. Relief. His tone grew warmer, and more familiar, then. “We are family, after all, in a way. Your sister and my brother. We shall be aunt and uncle to their children.”
“Hopefully not soon,” Amelia said. “They’re very young.”
“Very.” The corners of his mouth twitched up in a faint smile, and it deepened premature lines around his eyes. Lots of being outdoors, and squinting into the brightness of sunlight on snow. They were nice lines; a nice smile. There was something hopelessly charming about very fearsome and masculine men smiling awkward, but friendly little smiles. In her estimation, anyway.
Ragnar executed a dramatic, spine-cracking stretch, complete with arms raised overhead and overly loud yawn. Leif’s gaze snapped to him, his cheeks subtly pink, and Amelia felt her own heat as she glanced toward Ragnar…who wasn’t exactly a safer object of study, with his tunic gaping down the front, revealing a toned, defined stomach, and a trail of dark hair leading down into the waistband of his trousers. His grin, when he lowered his arms – muscles jumping and leaping invitingly inside his gold armbands – said he knew she liked what she saw, and her face heated another fraction.
“Well, then,” he said. “We’re all friends and family. How cozy.”
Leif sent him a warning look that went ignored, and returned his attention to Amelia. “Ragnar says you’ve plans to march.”
“Ragnar said you were to stay right there in that bed until you could walk under your own power,” Ragnar said, wagging a finger.
“Yes, Mum.” Leif rolled his eyes. To Amelia: “Are you? Marching soon, I mean.”
Amelia folded her arms and propped her shoulder in the doorframe. “Just before we went to find you, we received an influx of refugees from a small town called Merryweather, near the seat of the duchy of Kenmark, which borders the Bridelands.”
