“This is a gentleman’s club,” the little twit said in a French accent that was as pretentious as his hairstyle—and as fake. She’d known Antoine since he was a child, had gone to school with him. Knew he’d been born here in South Dakota half a century ago, the same as she had. But none of those ties—nor the fact that she was the only living member of the Wyvernmoon royal family—kept him from throwing his arms wide in an attempt to ensure that she didn’t try to scoot around him.
She finally stopped walking, but only to avoid running into him. She didn’t like touching people any more than she had to.
He sighed in obvious relief, but she had no intention of letting him off the hook that easily.
“I know exactly what this place is, Antoine,” she told him in her haughtiest tone. It wasn’t one she employed often, as it was about a million times too snooty for her, but she hadn’t been raised by Silus Fournier for nothing. Observing her father’s interaction with his subjects had taught her very early on how to put someone who needed it in his place.
Antoine flushed with embarrassment at the obvious disgust in her tone, but, for once, she couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about humiliating someone. She was too annoyed that he’d felt the need to remind her what the Dracon Club was. Like she was some imbecilic twit who had come down from her ivory tower for a spot of tea.
What an idiot. But he was an idiot who was slowing her down—something she couldn’t afford. With each second that passed, her already less-than-steady resolve only got shakier. She stepped to the side, but he followed her, refusing to get out of her way.
Anger welled up inside her. Could he possibly believe her decision to breach these hallowed halls had been made lightly? That she hadn’t spent the better part of a week agonizing over what she knew she had to do? Could he actually believe that she
wanted
to be here?
If so, he couldn’t be more mistaken. Her father had come here every day of his long, 605-year life to deal with his
Conseil,
his council
,
and the business of running a clan. Her brother, Jacob, had done the same from the time he’d reached adulthood. While she, on the other hand, had been barred from its doors every day of her forty-seven-year existence.
But, then, she was still a baby by dragon standards, only a few years beyond her adolescence. Jacob had tried to tell her that things would change when she got older, more mature, and she hadn’t bothered arguing with him. It hadn’t been worth it, not when she’d known the truth all along.
Yes, most of the business of running the clan happened in here. But she was a
woman
. A princess, yes, but still just a woman in her father’s eyes. She didn’t need to know anything about how the clan was run because she would never have control of it.
Of course, that had been before her father and his son died within days of each other, leaving her the only living member of the royal family. And though clan law and thousands of years of tradition clearly stated that she would never be able to rule the clan, she was here to change that. Not because she wanted to. Not because she was power hungry. But because she had no other choice.
The months between her family members’ funerals and the present had been rife with the kind of infighting and posturing and power struggles that, if left unchecked, could very easily bring the Wyvernmoons to their knees. That was the last thing her father would have wanted after his years of hard work, and she was determined to ensure that it didn’t happen. The strong dragons might be able to survive on their own, but what about the submissives? Or the civilian dragons who’d never had to learn to fight? What would happen to them if the clan’s power structure fell down around all of them?
She’d kept out of it as long as she could. She had been trained to be seen and not heard, after all. But she couldn’t do that anymore, couldn’t afford to just sit around and be shut out any more than the clan could afford for her to—not if it wanted to survive another decade.
The thought of the Wyvernmoons’ ultimate destruction made her cringe, especially considering just how long her clan had been around. More than three millennia now, and ruled by a member of the Fournier family for every day of those three thousand and some odd years. The idea that all of her ancestors’ hard work might have ended with her father made her sick to her stomach—almost as much as it frightened her.
Feeling her shoulders start to sag under the weight of everything before her, Cecily locked them in place. She couldn’t afford to show a moment of insecurity—not to Antoine, the mealymouthed maître d’, and certainly not to the much more forceful dragons who had been her father’s
factionnaires—
his sentries—for much of his rule.
No, her family’s rule wasn’t going to end with the annihilation of the clan they had sacrificed so much for. She wouldn’t let it.
Couldn’t
let it. Just as she couldn’t let the fact that she knew less than nothing about the day-to-day business of running a clan stand in her way. She was a fast learner when she had to be, and today she would find a way to do what she should have done five months earlier. And she would start with the clan member currently blocking her path.
“Get out of my way, Antoine.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Highness.”
“I’m afraid you are going to have to do exactly that. I’m not leaving before I see my
factionnaires
.” She very deliberately used the first-person-possessive pronoun. Then waited to see if Antoine was smarter than he looked.
For one long minute, she was convinced that he wasn’t. That he was really going to force her to bully her way past him. She’d never used physical violence in her life—and wasn’t looking forward to doing so now—but she
was
going to get into the room at the end of the hall. And no one was going to tell her she couldn’t.
At the last second, though, the maître d’ stepped aside, and Cecily was left facing a long, empty hallway. Now that the impediment to her path had disappeared and there was nothing barring her way, she couldn’t ignore the bowling ball weighing down her stomach. For a second, she was desperately afraid she was going to vomit all over the black Aubusson rug she was currently standing on.
She forced the sickness down, took several deep breaths through her mouth as she walked slowly toward the private room at the end of the hall. Each step had become an effort, and she couldn’t help feeling like she was going to her execution rather than her first
Conseil
meeting.
And could the hallway get any longer?
she wondered distractedly. It stretched before her like the Black Hills she liked to fly over late at night—dark and silent and seemingly infinite, at least now that she was walking down it. She started to turn back more than once, but she knew if she did, she’d never again be able to look herself—or any of her clan members—in the eye again.
She prayed she was going in the right direction. She wasn’t sure she could work up the courage to do this again if it turned out she’d chosen the wrong hall to walk down.
She didn’t think she had, though. While she’d never been inside the Dracon Club before, Jacob had told her enough about it when they were children that she had a pretty good idea of the layout. The dining room was in the front of the club, with several small, private rooms off each side of it, while her father’s meeting room—Throne Room, really—was all the way at the back.
She paused when she got to it, spent long moments doing nothing more than staring at the huge, carved mahogany doors that barred access to the most exclusive place on the Wyvernmoon compound. How many pictures had she seen of her father standing in front of these doors? How many times had she wondered what was behind them? The fact that she was about to find out . . . it sent chills down her spine, and not in a good way. She might be inexperienced, but she was smart enough to know that she was in for the battle of her life—today, now, and in the weeks and months to come.
The deep breathing she’d started on her walk down the hallway hadn’t worked. But, then, she hadn’t really expected it to. How could she calm down when the arguments against her being here were lined up in her head like soldiers on a bloody field of battle?
She was not supposed to step into the breach.
She didn’t know a thing about actually running a clan.
She was well under one hundred years old—little more than a child in the eyes of most of the clan.
She was female in a clan that had always been extremely patriarchal.
She had no business even thinking of trying to hold on to the throne. That right belonged to the husband she had yet to choose.
The confidence she’d spent most of the day working up deserted her, and yet again, Cecily contemplated turning around and going back to her father’s house. It would be so much easier. Wiser, even. Or at least that’s what most people would say.
But they would be wrong. How wise was it, really, to sit back and watch her entire clan—three millennia of work and compromise and survival—just fall apart around her? How wise was it to stand by and watch as the
Conseil
destroyed itself?
No. Despite what everyone would say, she had to do this. Had to interfere, and to hell with whether it was her place. She was the last surviving member of the Fournier line, and though women couldn’t rule in her clan, she figured all those days and years and decades of observing her father had to count for something.
I can get them through this,
she told herself as she closed her eyes.
I have to.
It was her duty. And more, it was her right. She’d spent almost her entire life being used as a pawn by her father—being dangled like a prize in front of the men he wanted to do his bidding. Was it any wonder his
factionnaires
had continued treating her the same way after his death?
It was her fault that she’d let them, but all that stopped here and now. It was time she stepped out of her sheltered existence and figured out how to be not just a princess, but the queen her clan so desperately needed.
She reached for the huge doorknob before she could change her mind.
Twisted it and pushed the door open halfway.
Then slipped silently inside, hoping to have a few minutes to observe the proceedings before drawing attention to herself.
She should have known better. Dragons had keen senses, even in their human forms, and the second the door opened every man in the room turned to stare at her. Within seconds, she was nearly drowning in the weight of the disapproval rolling in waves off most of the room’s occupants.
The heaviness in her stomach got even worse, but she refused to acknowledge it. Just as she refused to let her hands clench in nervousness or her eyes to drop in submission. She might not be able to ascend to the throne, damn it, but she
was
a princess of the royal family. No one could take that away from her.
“Cecily? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?” Julian, a dragon shifter who was one of the highest-ranking
Conseil
members left, and who had been in the front of the room speaking when she walked in, headed down the aisle toward her, a frown on his too-handsome, too-boyish face.
She tried not to be offended by the fact that he had called her by her given name and not her title, as her father had always insisted that the
factionnaires
do, but she couldn’t help it. The look on his face said the slipup had not been an accident. Not that she was surprised—as one of the main dragons jockeying for the position of Wyvernmoon king, it was only natural that he try to claim an intimacy in their relationship that just wasn’t there.
Still, it irritated her, and when he reached to cup her elbow, she very deliberately turned away. From the way his mouth tightened, she knew he had caught the slight—and was aware that the others had, as well.
“I’m fine, Julian. Thank you for asking.” Again she surveyed the room, made sure she let her gaze fall on every man in the hugely ornate space. These were her father’s
factionnaires,
after all, his
sentinels
. Which meant, for all intents and purposes, that they were hers, as well. She was here to lay claim to them, and that was exactly what she would do.
Better late than never.
Acel and Remy, two of the oldest clan members, sat rigidly on a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs positioned in the front of the room. Though both were pushing six hundred, they still looked like young men—as long as you didn’t spend too much time staring into their eyes. If you did, you could see every one of their years—and every one of their prejudices—reflected there. She had always figured their attitudes, like her father’s, came from being born in a totally different age. But right now she couldn’t afford to care about what had shaped them, only that neither was happy she had crashed their little party.
Too bad for them, because she wasn’t going anywhere until she’d had her say.
Dashiell, Dax and Wyatt, on the other hand, looked almost pleased to see her. Three of her favorite
factionnaires
, each was lounging indolently on a huge sofa in the back of the room. When she looked at them, they smiled, especially Dash, who gave her a subtle thumbs-up.
She felt the tightness in her stomach begin to relax just a little bit. It was nice to know that someone was in her corner—or three someones, for that matter. It made what she had come here to do just a little bit easier.
Of course, that was before she got a look at Luc, Garen, Eriq and Blaze, all of whom looked like they had swallowed something particularly distasteful. Too bad for them. If they thought her presence here was distasteful, she couldn’t wait to see their reaction to her words.
Even Thierren, her oldest friend, seated in the center of the room, wasn’t looking particularly welcoming.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said, forcing a smile she was far from feeling. “It’s so nice to see all of you again.”