The Draxmores

Dedication

“To those who believe in warrior-women and ancient dragons. To those who believe in princesses with steel in their hands, in wise kings, and in princes whose loyalty knows no bounds. To those who know that the mad are the sharpest-sighted in this world. To those who believe in unconditional friendship and all-consuming love—strange, at times forbidden, yet drowning them until it grows hard to breathe.

To those who believe... this is dedicated.”

“Draxmore: where sheep, wolves, and dragons are but the very same men.”

“Out, girl!” The oak doors of the royal bedchamber shattered open with a deafening crack.

A tall woman of five-and-thirty stormed into the room. With a sweep of her long, slender hand—swarming with rings, some fingers burdened with two heavy bands at once—she pointed the naked favorite toward the exit. Cecilia’s thick, dark hair fell in a heavy, cascading mane down to the very base of her spine, shrouding her back and shoulders. A gown of green velvet clung tightly to her broad chest and stately, statuesque frame. Standing nearly six feet tall, she looked the king dead in the eye, a true equal. Her sharp, prominent nose, full lips, and eyes so dark they bordered on black beneath thick raven brows gave her countenance the cold perfection of an ancient marble statue.

“Cecilia, what in the Seven Hells are you shrieking for?” From a tangled heap of sheets came a groggy, gravelly male voice.

“Move!” she barked again, casting a glance of pure disdain at the girl, who was scrambling fruitlessly to gather her shifts as they skittered across the waxed parquet. “Today, I have not the slightest desire to join you!” the queen snapped. With long, sweeping strides, she marched toward the massive bed beneath its heavy canopy.

She sat heavily upon the edge without ceremony, her slender fingers twisting the costly fabric.

“Well, come now, Your Grace!” With a swift, practiced motion, Cecilia ripped away the final layer of silk.

A man of some forty years emerged from beneath the blankets. Fair-haired, like the bright day breaking outside the window, he winced with displeasure, praying his wife would leave and let him sleep. The morning sun, piercing through the narrow lancet windows, turned the dust motes dancing over the bed to spun gold. Arthur did not shift an inch; his truffle-brown eyes remained tightly shut, his thick, toned body as still as an effigy.

“Arthur!” she rasped, her black brows knitting fiercely over the bridge of her nose. “Your daughter is throwing yet another tantrum at me!”

“She is your daughter too, Cecy...” he muttered barely above a whisper, cracking one eye open.

The chamber reeked of stale wine and crisp morning air; in the heavy, motionless haze drifted the bitter tang of candle wax dying at dawn. But Arthur could smell the scent of an impending row far more clearly. Knowing his peace was shattered, he resignedly lifted his head, his fair, shoulder-length hair brushing against a pillow of black silk.

The king sat up in the hearth of the bed, carelessly gripping the edge of the precious cloth over his thighs. Facing Cecilia, he held her gaze with stubborn resolve.

“You look magnificent in this light,” he said softly. A large, warm palm brushed against her cheek, flushed red with fury. Arthur looked at his wife with naked devotion, drinking in her fierce, tempestuous wrath.

“Oh, how touching!” she spat, though a sharp, barbed smile flickered across her lips despite herself. “And what of that wench?” Cecilia jerked her hand toward the door where the favorite had just vanished.

“When I caught you with that whelp, I didn’t say a word. Did I?” Arthur narrowed his eyes, a note of buried resentment hardening his voice.

“You drove a broadsword through his shoulder!” she flared.

“I was drunk,” the king cut her off short, a sudden spark of mirth lighting his eyes. “Drunk on you.”

With a sudden lurch, he pulled her to him, burying his face in the thick wave of her hair, slowly weaving his fingers through the dark tresses.

“Cool your heels, you silver-tongued rogue,” the queen said sternly. Yet she did not pull away. Instead, Cecilia pressed her face into his broad shoulder, trying in vain to hide a reluctant smile.

“There will never be anyone better than you,” he whispered.

In Cecilia’s near-black eyes, the morning sun danced like sparks of live fire. Arthur kissed his wife—hard and brief—so suddenly she hadn’t the breath to protest.

“And what of Isabella?” she asked, pulling back to fix her tumbled locks, her fingers thoughtfully tracing her lips, still wet from his mouth.

“What of our Isa?” The king looked at his wife intently, a father’s dread shadowing the depths of his truffle-brown eyes. “Perhaps it’s too soon for her to wed? It seems you’re in quite a rush to be rid of her.”

“She is sixteen, Artie!” Cecilia snapped, her lips thinning into a stubborn line. “Lord Stanford is a brilliant match. He is young, comely, and tall... the spitting image of you when we first met. He is martial, skilled in the yard, and unlike our Richard, he hasn't grown into a shiftless loafer who knows nothing but how to bleed the treasury dry!”

“Oh, my Queen, now you’ve set your sights on Richy...” Arthur rolled his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “Let the lad draw a breath or two before you brand him a profligate.”

“Do you not see it? Do you see how he lives?! You were never like that, Artie!” The woman thrust her hand into his face, bending down three fingers right before his nose. Her eyes widened with outrage. “Yesterday, I caught him with three! Three girls at once!”

“And what of it, Cecy?” Arthur broke, a broad smile splitting his face. The king stretched lazily, feeling the old, hot blood of his youth stir in his veins. “Richy is different. He’s but eighteen; he’ll have time enough to choke on the miseries of the state. Let him live while his blood runs hot!”

“You are maddeningly detached!” Cecilia crossed her arms over her chest, seething.

“Not a bit, my love.” Arthur touched her face again. His fingers slid over her pale skin, soothing the queen, though he was on the verge of laughter—her regal fury amused him to no end. “You know I am king. We have a duty, and so do the children...” His voice dropped, suddenly grave. “But when I look at Isa, I still see the tiny thing who would fearlessly climb up the scaled flank of our Drummer, trying to find a seat between his wings. She never feared his fire, and the old drake would only hood his eyes, letting the girl play with his leathery membranes.”

Arthur pressed his lips together, a flash of unbidden sorrow gleaming in his stare.

“And in Richy... in him, I see the scamp I used to race through the woods, trying to outrun the drakes soaring above the canopy.”

“Of course, for my Moone would never let a soul near her,” Cecilia said with a bitter smile, a dull, aching pain instantly flaring in her dark eyes. “And old Drummer is failing fast... He spends his days languishing, his roar growing raspy and hollow.”

For a moment, it looked as though tears might spill from the fierce queen’s eyes. In this instant, she was no ruler, only a faithful companion to a dying beast.

“Everything changes,” Arthur sighed heavily, casting his gaze up toward the high, vaulted ceiling, as if looking through the stone at his very first flight. “Dragons grow old, and children grow up. Let them taste what little time they have left. There is so little of it, Cecy... We ourselves do not know how much we are allotted under this sky. Do not suffocate them.”

A moment ago, the fiery Cecilia looked ready to reduce the realm to ash, but now she softened beneath her husband’s heavy gaze and quiet words. She sank gently onto the mattress, yielding against Arthur’s side.

Meanwhile, in the forest—where but ten minutes ago a deathly silence had reigned, broken only by the rustle of leaves—a desperate moan ripped through the air.

“Yes! Yes! More!” the flushed voice of Isabella echoed through the thicket.

The young princess threw her reddened face back, screwing her eyes shut as her slender fingers clawed into the boy’s shoulders. From her father, she had inherited striking golden hair, a dusting of pale freckles across her nose, and eyes the color of deep truffles. Her skin, white as fresh milk, stood out in sharp relief against his sun-browned arms. In form, she favored Cecilia, though she was cast in a more delicate, slender mold.

The flaxen-haired youth, who bore an uncanny resemblance to King Arthur in his youth, squeezed her breast and let out a long, low groan. Catching that sudden spike of ecstasy, he froze, throwing his head back and biting his full lip until it bled. Conor’s blue eyes burned with the amber fire of raw lust.

“Well, well!” Isabella, still drifting in the clouds of sensory bliss, heard her brother’s agonizingly familiar, mocking, and grating voice.

Richard materialized from between the trees upon a milk-white destrier like a specter, ruining his sister’s sport in a heartbeat. The boy looked strikingly like his mother: a wild mane of midnight-black curls framed his face, and his thick raven brows were perpetually knit in a sneer. From his father, the heir had drawn his immense height and a deathly pale, near-porcelain skin that seemed to gleam in the gloom of the woods. The prince sat his saddle carelessly, his long, spindly limbs and angular features giving him the look of a young, but lethal predator.