Slayer by D. L. Snow

nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. “That’s it,” Brea sighed. “We did it. We killed them all.”
    In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, “Maybe not all. What the hell is that?”
    Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, “Fuck a duck.”
    Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.
    “That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this.” Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oozed blood.
    “You fought that thing?” he said with admiration.
    Brea nodded grimly. “As you can see, it won.”
    Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. “You’re still here,” he said. “I call that a draw.”
    The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.
    “We’ll save that one for another day,” Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

    Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She’d washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that’s all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.
    Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill’s valet to remove the washtub and bring in some food. She tucked a fur around her shoulders for decency’s sake, then Brea sat at the table and waited for the food and Cahill to arrive. He came in moments later, smelling clean and masculine. Brea kept her lashes lowered as a sudden shyness descended over her.
    They ate in relative silence, making mundane remarks about the flavor of this dish and that. Finally Cahill cleared his throat and said, “I cannot go on like this. I must make my intentions known.”
    Slowly Brea looked up from her food. The firelight flickered in Cahill’s dark eyes, making him appear more sinister than regal.
    “Breanna, I beg you. No, I beseech you to consent to be my wife.”
    Though Brea knew it was coming, had known his intentions all along, her answer became lodged in her throat. She licked her suddenly dry lips and said, “I’m sorry, Cahill. I can’t.”
    He didn’t move for a long time. Finally he spoke. “Why?”
    All her old resentments, her old prejudices about marriage reared their ugly heads in her mind. “I know how these things work. The minute I marry you, I belong to you. I give up everything.”
    “What do you give up?” Cahill argued. “Marry me and you gain a title and a kingdom.”
    “Both of which I already have,” Brea countered.
    “Bah!” Cahill fumed. “You have nothing.”
    “Nothing?” Brea rose in anger. “I have everything I need, Prince.” She limped purposefully around to the other side of the table, using the fact that he was still seated to her advantage. “I don’t need your land, I don’t need your title.” With each item she listed, she poked him in the shoulder. “I don’t need a stinking husband to make demands of me once he thinks he owns me.”
    “What do you mean, make demands?”
    “Don’t pretend