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understand, of course, Princess. Thank you for coming for Nikolai.”
    “Of course.” Ciopori reached out and gently touched Napolean’s arm, and a collective hush settled through the room.
    Few beings touched Napolean so casually.
    Few of his subjects took such informal liberties with the most ancient and feared of their kind, and it was still a bit unsettling for the males to witness such a simple—yet powerful—connection with their leader. Indeed, the princess rarely shied away from him.
    Marquis stirred in reaction.
    A low, almost inaudible growl resounded in Marquis’s chest, and Napolean instinctively displayed a lightning-quick flash of deadly fangs. It was a clear, unambiguous threat…a prominent, unequivocal show of dominance. Normally, Napolean found humor—if not delight—in the possessive ministrations of his males, but he would not be challenged, warned, or corrected in front of an assembly of his warriors, not even by Marquis.
    Not even if the male couldn’t help it.
    “Blessed Andromeda,” Ciopori sighed, rolling her eyes. “Vanya and I must get working on an anti-testosterone spell immediately. There must be some magic-spell in the coffers somewhere…” Her voice trailed off.
    Napolean smiled.
    Marquis growled. “Go home, woman. We have important things to discuss here.”
    At that, Ciopori punched him in the arm, and to her credit, she didn’t draw back her fist to rub bruised knuckles. “Do not push your luck, warrior,” she chastised softly, still smiling. Then, she swung around, bent down, and planted a sound kiss on Marquis’s lips before sauntering out with Nikolai in her arms.
    Marquis’s face remained hard, but Napolean could have sworn he saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile. This was good—very good. All was well with the Silivasi family for the first time in years.
    Returning his attention to the room, Napolean crossed his arms and regarded the warriors as a whole. The males quickly stood at attention. “If there are no more interruptions,” Napolean said, “then I would like to get on with the meeting. Ramsey, do you have the report I requested?”
    Ramsey Olaru pushed off a large column he was leaning against and slowly removed a thin reed of grass from between his teeth. As he made his way to the front of the room, he rolled his head from side to side, popping his neck to release tension, his cold, calculating eyes staring straight ahead.
    The six-foot-five sentinel was a stormy combination of tightly wound energy and barely leashed aggression in his most relaxed state of mind, a countenance at complete odds with his looks: While, for all intents and purposes, one could argue that something had gone terribly wrong in Ramsey’s childhood—perhaps he had taken a dark turn during his studies at the University—he had the face of a GQ model. A very large, dangerous, somewhat unstable GQ model. His massive shoulders were contrasted by a fall of chin-length, dark blond hair that he kept flawlessly tapered to frame his face; and his solid frame of titanium muscle was encased in baby-smooth skin that remained perpetually tan, though he made no effort to keep it that way. And while women might faint at the sight of his rather…sensual…mouth, every warrior in Dark Moon Vale knew the guy would just as soon rip your head off with his bare teeth than look at you. There was nothing mellow or soft—or GQ—about Ramsey Olaru.
    “Evening, milord,” Ramsey drawled, turning to face the other warriors.
    Napolean nodded and stepped to the side, careful to keep Ramsey in his sights. Not that any of the valley’s three sentinels were anything but loyal to the death, but it simply went against instinct to turn one’s back on a wild tiger.
    Ramsey placed one foot on the seat of the nearest chair, rested an elbow on his knee, and glanced at the notes he held in his hand. “Got a few stats,” he said, and then his eyebrows creased and his face went deathly serious. “As