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Sam looked her over and winced. “For someone so good at fighting, you do get hit a lot.”
    “You know, I could have you flogged for insubordination and being a right prat.”
    “Really? And who are you going to get to replace me?”
    “Well—”
    “That’s what I thought.” He unbuckled the leather straps holding on her steel breast plate. “You’ll need another one of these before you return to combat.”
    “Well—”
    “I’ll take care of it. Marcus still refuses to deal with you.”
    “For a burly blacksmith, he’s awfully sensitive.”
    Sighing in disgust, Sam added, “And someone will need to sew up that arm. I’ll get the healer.” He headed to the exit but stopped before walking out and glared at Izzy. “Don’t move until I return.”
    Of course, when he turned his back, Izzy began to shimmy, stopping when he looked at her over his shoulder.
    She could see him trying not to laugh and she winked at him before he walked out to get her fresh armor.
    Stretching her tired shoulders, Izzy first poured herself a mug of water to drink, then another to pour over her bleeding arm. It hurt, and she was becoming concerned about the amount of blood she seemed to be losing, but then she decided that instead of worrying about that, she would pour herself a mug of ale. Perhaps the ale would help the wound.
    With drink in hand, she headed toward her favorite chair, her mind already plotting her next moves to finish off the ogres in this region while simultaneously attempting to force out the image of one big, blue, idiot dragon flat on his back and looking gods-damn delicious.
    The bastard. What was he doing here anyway? After ten years of never seeing him, he suddenly appeared. Back in her life. How bloody annoying!
    She turned, about to drop into her chair when she abruptly realized she was no longer in her tent. In fact, she could be wrong, but she felt relatively certain she was no longer in her world but rather in the most beautiful glen she’d ever seen. But she wasn’t alone.
    “Hello, little Izzy.”
    Slowly, Izzy turned and faced what was behind her. And what was behind her was a god. A dragon god, specifically. With black scales, twelve horns on his massive head, and long black hair streaked with every color in the dragon pantheon. She wished she could say he was an ugly demon from the underworld, but he was, as always, beautiful.
    “Your arm,” he noted, pointing a talon at her wound. “You’re losing much blood.” When she didn’t say anything, he drew his talon down her arm and she knew immediately that he’d healed her.
    “Better?” he asked. When she didn’t respond to that either—“Izzy? Have you nothing to say to me?”
    Did she have anything to say to him? Well, since he’d asked . . .
     
     
    “Where is she?” Éibhear asked his cousin and, in answer, Branwen crossed her arms over her chest, pursed her lips, and snorted.
    “I want an answer, cousin.”
    “And I want a longer tail, but we can’t always get what we want, now can we?”
    Éibhear’s eyes narrowed. His cousin had passed the Trials three years ago, officially making her one of the elite Dragonwarriors. And since then, it seemed, she’d become quite the snobby cow.
    “Maybe you’d like me and my mates to tear your human camp apart until I find her?” Éibhear asked. “Because you know I will.”
    “Your mates,” she sneered. “The Mì-runach.”
    “The tone seems unnecessary,” Aidan joked.
    “Shut up, royal.”
    “Éibhear’s a royal, too.”
    “He’s kin so I overlook the flaw.”
    “I’m not a royal.” They all looked at Uther and he shrugged. “Well . . . I’m not.”
    Brannie sighed and focused back on Éibhear. “What are you doing here, Éibhear?”
    “That’s for me to discuss with Izzy.”
    Brannie’s pursed lips returned, one foot tapping. Knowing how stubborn the females in his family could be, Éibhear grabbed one of the human soldiers by the throat, ignoring the man’s