Billionaire Dragon's Bride(2)

If he had to keep talking for long, that breeze wouldn’t just be wind anymore, it would be a hurricane.

“I must put forth a new set of guidelines to be followed by each house for the remainder of my reign, ensuring that our gold supply stays consistent and our enemies behave, including rules of combat in case of war with any other areas,” he continued, each word coming out more strained than the previous. “And I must marry before the next gold moon, meaning within three weeks at the latest.”

Remington’s eyes blazed at the last bit, his smirk growing wider.

“It is the only way, yes,” Remington said.

Oh, Devon could see his dragon so clearly behind those light, menacing eyes of his. Out of the four men present, Remington was the only one who had taken a wife (much to the chagrin of said wife, Devon mused), and his house was the next in line for the council. For the umpteenth time, Devon wished his forefathers had had the good sense of just killing the Redblade kin altogether, instead of welcoming them into the council – a bit of a Bluewing tradition, wishing death on Redblades. A rare ancient rite of passage Devon wasn’t keen on breaking.

“Sounds about right,” Cillian confirmed, smiling like a man with tickets to the best show in town.

All around the same age, the four dragons of Treasure Lane had all been extensively groomed and prepared for the day their fathers would pass and it would be their turn to stand in the name of continuing the dragonkin traditions. Aside from Remington, Devon got the feeling that his co-council members were not entirely ready for all that came with the responsibilities.

At least, he knew that he wasn’t. And while Remington was chomping at the bit to take over, Devon needed no convincing to know that allowing that to happen would spell doom for all of them.

“It is settled then,” Devon said, receiving a nod from the ever-serious Alexander, whose wheaten hair glinted like gold in the last remaining rays of the sun before it was blacked out completely by Devon’s foul mood and the clouds above. “We will meet again during the gold moon, and if I am not wed then, we will have a new Head of Council.”

Just speaking the words made Devon want to break something. Something fragile and priceless, preferably. Or a particular red-scaled dragon, if he had his choice.

Remington sneered, puffing up a bit with anticipation. Clearly, the man did not expect Devon to follow through. In all honesty, Devon couldn’t blame him – he wasn’t entirely convinced he would do it either. He watched as one by one, the dragons of Treasure Lane changed from their human forms to their dragon bodies, making the mountains shudder with their roars as the beasts were finally freed from their human confines, and the trees shake from the wind as they spread their wings, their massive bodies distinctively graceful as they took to the skies.

“Make sure she’s pretty. Eternity with an ugly hag is not something one should look forward to. And save a bridesmaid for me,” Cillian said with a smirk before the shift took him, getting only a glum glare from Devon in return.

Leave it to the American Irish dragons to make light of things as thoroughly depressing as the situation Devon had been thrown into.

Now, where the hell do I find a bride in three weeks?

***

Devon stood by a window in his study, overlooking the valley. The village was like a little speck of pure gold down there, all the buildings kept in pristine order and the sandy-gold roofs his forefathers had demanded all the buildings have gleaming even in the scantest sunlight. The clouds had begun to disperse slowly as his immediate anger waned and Devon retreated into the quiet calm of the Bluewing mansion.

It was more of a castle, really, all solid rock and polished hardwood floors. Having stood there for centuries, overlooking the valley from a hilltop, it was a testament of the Bluewing fortune. Of course, no one but the dragons themselves really knew how big that fortune truly was, but the piles of gold and riches hidden under the mansion in elaborate tunnels and dark passages were more than enough to warrant bitter feelings when they were put at jeopardy.

Nothing mattered more to a dragon than his possessions, and for Devon, those possessions began and ended with his hoard.

Devon took a sip of whiskey, feeling the alcohol trickle down his throat. It didn’t burn. Few things struck a note with a man, who could breathe fire when he felt like it. Still, the conversation he had had with his fellow council members had left him feeling a bit scorched. Reluctantly, he had to admit that he had known the day would come.

The last council session, held more than a decade ago, had been between the elders of all four houses, and then, the men that had shared the rooftop with him now had been but the eldest sons, one day to wear the heavy crowns of their fathers but not really ready to take over yet.