How did she know that now? Because never in a million years would Annwyl the Bloody allow her brain to torture her over her idiot brother.

Because if anyone had deserved to die, it had been her brother, Lorcan the Butcher. When she’d taken his head, he’d earned every second of his pain in that world and this one.

Standing behind her, glowering, Lorcan reached for Annwyl but she slapped his hand away. That did what it had always done. Pissed him off. So he grabbed at her again.

Annwyl caught his grasping hand and twisted, turning her body at the same time. She dropped him to the ground and twisted his entire arm until she heard something break and her brother began screaming.

They were dead, but they could feel pain. That made sense since it was hell.

Releasing her brother’s hand, she faced her father.

“What do you want?”

“Is that how you talk to me? Your father? Your king?”

“Dead king. I’m queen now. I rule.”

“Not very well. From what I hear.”

“Who have you been talking to? Men I’ve already killed? I doubt they’d be fans.”

“You even killed your own brother—and would you shut up, Lorcan!”

His rage getting hold of him, Lorcan stopped screaming in pain and struggled to his feet, cradling his broken arm.

“You always take her side!” Lorcan accused.

Father and daughter rolled their eyes, having heard this particular argument since the day Annwyl had been brought to her father’s house all those years ago.

“You always say that,” Annwyl finally told her brother, “but he hates us equally.”

Her father nodded. “I really do. Of course,” he added, “at least you aren’t a whore for a dragon, Lorcan.”

“That’s because the She-dragons I know wouldn’t want anything to do with him.”

Her father turned those gray-green eyes on her. “You think this is funny? You don’t think I’m disgusted by you?”

“No, I just don’t care. And I do think it’s funny.”

“I don’t understand how you could do what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” Annwyl asked her father. “You mean fuck a dragon? He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Speaking of which . . . you do know that you’re a grandfather, don’t you?” She smirked. “I’d love for you to meet the twins. Especially Talwyn. She’d adore you.”

Annwyl had to laugh at that, knowing her daughter as well as she did. But it seemed to her father as if she was laughing at him. Something he could never abide.

Her father grabbed her by the neck of her chain mail shirt and yanked her close. Like he used to when she was a child.

“You betrayed me,” he snarled at her. “You betrayed our name. You betrayed our blood.”

Fighting her rage, Annwyl told her father, “Get your hands off me.”