16 Chapter 16: A Charming Welcome

My first impulse is to run away, to hide from the hideous face I know so well. The child inside me feels pure fear, aching and absolute in its simplicity. But the woman I've become, the free were I am now, refuses to back down or to show Andre Dumont even a scrap of anxiety.

My wolf howls in my heart, her need to shred his throat in our teeth, to drink of his blood, and to bathe in the gore as he dies adds to the shaking of my hands. I'm forced to clench them tight at my sides, though I can't stop my feet as I lunge forward, down the steps and to the carpeted central aisle, a snarl pulling the corner of my mouth-

-he bends over me, a strap in one hand, his other reaching for the hem of my shirt-

Bile boils at the back of my throat, a low and menacing growl escaping me.

"Sharlotta." Oleksander's voice crackles with power, his dominance stopping me in my tracks. "Come. At once."

I can't resist his command, though I try for a moment, my body shivering with pent-up hate. Andre is so close to me, his arrogant smirk fading as I shudder, claws extending from my hands, the sharp points drawing blood from my palms.

"Sharlotta!" My grandfather is only trying to protect me. I'm well aware of his intent, but I feel like a dog leashed to a master. "I will not tell you again."

I retreat, but not before licking my lips with a smile of my own for the Dumont coven leader and his nasty children. I will never turn my back on him, slowly returning to Oleksander's throne one measured step at a time, eyes locked on Andre for the long seconds it takes me to reclaim my place beside my grandfather.

"What a charming welcome," Andre says, his faint French accent, the sound of his voice sandpapering against my insides as though he controls me all over again.

"You're fortunate you aren't already dead," Oleksander tells the coven leader in a flat and furious voice. "It is only our respect for the Councils of Witches you stand before me now, Dumont. Do not make the mistake, however, thinking that you have any say here."

I could hug my grandfather. Let me kill them, I send.

Patience, he sends to me. Your need to kill is understandable, but troubling. There is a plot afoot here, child. And I would know what it is.

Who cares? I certainly don't. I can taste their blood as Jean Marc and Kristophe shift uncomfortably under my gaze. The older brother's close-cropped dark hair and heavy brow make him look even more brutish the more he ages, while his dandy sibling's long, blond locks really need a trim. And his attempt at a male model's insufferable pout makes me want to slice it from his angular face.

I care, Oleksander sends. Andre Dumont knows he, of all people, isn't welcome here. The very fact he's come makes me suspicious.

It doesn't help my wolf agrees with Oleksander, after her initial drive to kill. I feel as if she's abandoned me for her more stoic nature and I am now adrift, on my own.

Fine, I send as Andre speaks.

"I am under no illusions," the coven leader says with his false smile, all charm and no substance. "While I know there has been bad blood between us, misunderstandings of the past," he dares to call torture, humiliation and abuse misunderstandings? "I have come to offer my well-wishes to the new and improved werenation."

He actually bows a little, his sullen boys doing the same when he glares over his shoulder. It must cause them great pain to offer even that little bit of respect.

"Your apology is accepted," my grandfather says while I choke on a barked laugh. Andre offered no such, and from the flare of blood to his cheeks, he never expected such audacity from Oleksander. "Now, if your moment of weakness is over, my people will escort you to our borders." The growl following his last word echoed softly in the huge room, carrying like a wave over the Dumonts.

The boys flinched, though Andre's fake smile didn't leave him, the flush of his anger fading.

"My business with you isn't yet through," he says, all arrogance returning, as though he has any right to be here, standing in our presence.

"I believe it is." My grandfather turns his head toward me, flicking his fingers at the Dumonts as though they are troublesome insects pestering his rest. Four of the hulking guards who followed the Dumonts inside move forward a step, at attention, cutting off the witch and his sons.

"Hear me out." Andre doesn't move, holding his ground. "There was a time when we worked together, Oleksander Moreau."

My power lashes out, slamming into Andre, driving him back a step.

"Your Majesty," I say in my most cold and casual tone.

Andre brushes at his clothes, anger pulling his brows together. "Of course," he says. "Forgive me my slip. Your Majesty."

Nicely done, Granddaughter, my grandfather sends. "I believe you mistaken," Oleksander says. "You owned us once, Dumont. But you never will again."

"Through no fault of our own," Andre says. "Your circumstances have changed. And thus, our relationship will do the same."

"We have no relationship," I snap. "And never will." Can he see his death in my face? I hope so. Though he must know if I ever catch him alone, his end will look like an accident.

"I am in need of bodyguards," Andre says. "And feel keenly the loss of your people in my coven."

Oleksander and I both gape at him as his words sink in. Surely he didn't just suggest-

"I would like to hire some of your people," the coven leader says.

My mouth dries up, my throat closing. Yes, there have been those who have approached us in the past five years, looking to hire us now we are free. And there have been instances when my grandfather has agreed to such arrangements, though the Mafia has stopped asking. Oleksander and I have discussed this at length, doing what we can to protect the pack from being taken advantage of. At least, our local pack. The few attempts to bully us have ended in the other parties agreeing to never set foot in our territory again.

But we haven't had that kind of trouble in years. Now, we mostly hire out to watch over royalty, rock stars and politicians. We don't need the money. The Black Souls left us very wealthy, this entire palace full of treasures that haven't seen the light of day in centuries. Still, there are those of our people who want to work outside the pack.

The confidence and self-respect of the werenation-both here and abroad-is at an all- time high. And there is no way I will allow anyone to take that away from us.

I fear, in the long second it takes my grandfather to finally respond, he may cave to the Dumonts merely to find out what Andre is really after. Because he is wealthy enough to hire anyone he wants, and doesn't need us weres to do his dirty work. That is, outside of his own greedy nature to control us again. I needn't have worried. Oleksander draws a deep breath and begins to laugh.

It goes on a long time, building in volume. Andre's smug smile and casual stance begin to alter as my grandfather's amusement rumbles out of him, louder and louder. I grin down at the huge were on the throne as his eyes squeeze shut, one fist hammering on the arm of his seat, tears trickling from his eyes as his white teeth flash through the heavy cloak of his beard. The throne room bounces back the song of our king's laughter while Andre's smile turns to a flat frown and his shoulders bunch in tense fury.

My grandfather mops at the tears on his cheeks with one big hand, looking up at me. I see the rage in his eyes and know his show of amusement is just that. A way to humiliate Andre and drive him from us. I am in awe yet again of Oleksander's ability to manipulate, his talent as a king, and I wonder if I will ever be able to fill his shoes while he turns his head to look at last at Andre.

"Thank you," he says. "I haven't laughed like that in an age."

Andre doesn't respond, though he seems to be doing his best to revert to his original poise.

Oleksander leans forward on his throne in a lunge, the wolf in him roaring in my head, calling out to the werenation as one. "You forget yourself," he says, voice so deep I feel my bones vibrating from the rumble of his words. "And who you were to us." My grandfather shakes his head, silver hair ruffling. "You may be under the protection of the witch council and therefore beyond my ability to eliminate personally. But no one," he chops his hand before him, "not one single were under my rule, will ever work for you or your miserable family." The wereking sits back in his throne while my pride swells for him. "Now leave, before I ignore the edict of the European Council and allow Sharlotta the revenge she so dearly desires."

Andre doesn't have time to answer. Not when Caine and his two shadows, Viveca and Roman, stride up the carpet toward us.

"I beg to differ, Your Majesty." Caine comes to a halt next to Andre. "My pack and I will serve. For the right price."

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