Page 66 of Dragons' Future

I twist to her. “We? Who is we?” Stars, I am sounding like Bodie. “What do you know, Autumn?”

She clears her throat, her voice mockingly official. “Oh. Right. Her majesty Queen Leralynn of Slait Court is respectfully requesting permission to dock at Massa’eve," she says. “Well, after she dispatches a set of snake pirates on the high seas, but that shouldn’t take long.”

"I beg your pardon?" I stutter. "Wait. What?"

“My question exactly,” Tavias says, coming up to my shoulder. Just then a sudden rapport of a lot of guns echo over the water. Tavias stiffens. “Princess Autumn. Clarity. Please.”

“Right,” Autumn says without missing a beat. “Like I said, the fleet of her majesty Queen Leralynn of Slait Court is currently in free waters just outside of Massa’eve. The queen appears to have crossed paths with a few ships intending on mischief, and intends to deal with them before proceeding. The rapport of guns we just heard is likely a signal ordering the pirates to turn their serpent asses around.”

“A few ships?” I start. “The Serpari?—”

“- have declared nothing,” Tavias says, cutting me off quickly. “We don’t know what’s happening far out at sea. I’m certain Queen Leralynn is engaging pirates and not firing first shots at a nation state.”

Autumn smiles. “Exactly.”

Tavias tilts his head in a way that says he’s relaying information to Cyril, then bows to Autumn. "However your are doing it, please tell Queen Leralynn that a host of dragons will escort her vessels in when she is ready.” He clears his throat. “And then perhaps you can explain what dark deal you made with physics to make any of that possible."

For once, Autumn's smile is anything but kind. "Not with physics,” she says. “With a priest.”

“Emric,” I whisper.

“Let us say that he had a change of heart at the end of his life,” Autumn says. “And wanted to… make amends. Anyway he could.”

Three hours later we are in the receiving room, Cyril and I standing shoulder to shoulder to welcome Queen Leralynn to Massa’eve. Tavias and Hauck are one step behind us and Quinton lurks by a wall, a familiar stone expression on his face.

In a gorgeous red dress that flows off her shoulders, Leralynn carries herself with an easy regalness that I don't think I will ever master. "My apologies," I tell her, wincing in Quinton's direction once the official greetings are completed. "I'm afraid that's as friendly as that one gets."

The large yellow-eyed wolf at Leralynn's side snaps his jaw toward Quinton's shadows.

I feel more than see Quinton open his mouth and instinctively know what's going to come out of it.

"Offer him a chew toy and I will cut off your balls," I hiss at my mate. If I know that one of Leralynn's mates is a wolf shifter, then I'm willing to bet my soul Quinton does to. Whatever reason the shifter has to choose his wolf form now, the least we can do is respect it. Especially after Leralynn just saved us from invasion.

Quinton shrugs.

My face flushes. "I'm so sorry." I tell Leralynn again. “I seem to be saying that quite a bit.”

The Slait Queen grins, then leans forward conspiratorially. "Don’t trouble yourself on our account. Really, he’ll be content with any old leather shoe to chew on."

The wolf snorts.

Ironically, Quitnon does too.

“I think you might be my new best friend,” I tell Leralynn.

She laughs, but the third and final member of her party looks far less amused. Blond, beautiful and deadly, the dark-clad male standing behind Leralynn has piercing eyes and more daggers on him than I've seen in armories. Although he towers over the queen, there is an echo of her in his too-long lashes and the way his chin dips slightly, just as hers does, when he turns his head.

“Why are we not in the throne room?” the male asks, surveying the receiving room as if expecting archers to come out of the corners and attack. “This isn’t protocol.”

Leralynn holds her hand out to him, her mouth tightening when the male steps forward. “Allow me to introduce my son, Kai. He is not a member of our diplomatic corps."

"A pleasure," Cyril offers his hand.

Kai crosses his arms over his chest, and I don’t miss that the motion puts his hands within easy reach of a pair of daggers strapped at his ribs. Distrust radiates from every line of his tense, chiseled body. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him to make him like this, especially given his mother and aunt’s friendly nature. As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Kai shifts his attention to me. His face darkens.

Cyril pulls his hand back diplomatically, and bows instead. “To be blunt, the throne room is in shambles just now,” he tells Kai, inviting everyone to sit. “Does the informal setting bother you?”

“No.”

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