The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 237

Chapter 237: Fertility Idol & Emotional Support Chickens

"One more thing," Asher said, turning from Ronan. He pulled a small vial from his pocket, dipped his finger in it, then rubbed it on his front teeth.

He turned to face Ronan and gave a wicked grin. "It’s convincing, right?"

Three of his front teeth were black. Completely, aggressively black, painted with what appeared to be ink, giving him the grin of a man who had lost a bar fight and most of his dental structure.

"That’s disgusting," Ronan said flatly.

"Exactly. She takes one look at this smile and she’s back on her ship before the first course."

"If this goes the way I think it will, I am going to tell this story for the rest of my life. At banquets. To your children. On your deathbed. I will never let you forget this day."

"That’s the spirit," Asher clapped him on the back, then straightened. "If all else fails, I paid a serving girl to burst in during the second course holding a baby. She’s going to slap me across the face."

Ronan closed his eyes. "Is there a baby?"

"I sourced one. Keep up, Ronan."

The doors opened.

Asher straightened, planting his most disinterested expression, the one he’d rehearsed in the mirror twice, which Ronan had witnessed and would never let him live down.

A woman with Serena’s hair and face entered. Dexmon watched the seventeen year old version of himself take her in.

Asher’s carefully constructed mask of indifference disintegrated. What replaced it was a sequence of expressions so rapid and so devastating that Ronan would later describe it as watching a man fall off a cliff, catch fire midair, and land in a river that was also on fire.

Everything Asher had prepared, every sabotage, every calculated insult, every escape route he’d mentally mapped, evaporated in the span of a single heartbeat. His lungs forgot their function. His cock hardened so fast it was physically disorienting. His nostrils flared and every nerve ending in his body detonated simultaneously.

Beside him, Ronan went rigid.

Asher’s head snapped sideways. Ronan’s pupils had blown wide, swallowing the color of his irises. His chest had stopped moving. Every muscle locked.

They looked at each other for exactly one second. Two teenagers who had spent their lives reading the other, who had survived wars and pranks and grief and every shade of chaos in between, and in that one second, they both understood.

They were fucked.

Above them, the chandelier dropped six inches with a metallic shriek and stopped, swaying on its loosened chain. The sound was enormous in the marble hall.

Natalia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she jumped back, her eyes going wide.

"What the, oh gods, oh no, no no no." Asher lunged for the rope he’d rigged, yanking it to re-secure the chandelier before it could drop further. A sabotaged chair chose that precise moment to buckle under the weight of a decorative vase he’d placed on it as a decoy.

The vase hit the marble floor and exploded.

That’s when the first chicken came out of nowhere.

It burst from behind a marble column at ankle height, wings half-spread, moving with the frantic energy of an animal that had been confined to a corridor for reasons it did not understand or support. It cut directly across Natalia’s path, close enough that she had to sidestep.

The second chicken followed immediately, louder and more agitated, weaving between the legs of her father’s entourage like a drunk at a parade.

The third chicken, the one Asher had specifically chosen for its calm temperament and had clearly misjudged entirely, launched itself off the floor with a sound that could only be described as violent. It hit the wall, bounced, scrambled across the stone floor in a blur of feathers, and disappeared behind a statue of Asher’s grandfather.

"Emotional support animals," Asher said, because apparently his survival instinct had left with his dignity.

King Ragnar entered at that moment and looked at Asher. "What," he clipped, his voice low enough that only Asher and Ronan could hear, "are you wearing."

"Clothes," Asher answered, for the second time that day.

"You are meeting your future wife in a tunic that smells like a horse sweated through it."

"That’s the stone. Very old building. Retains moisture."

Ragnar’s eyes closed for exactly one second. When they opened, they held the quiet, terrifying patience of a father deciding whether to murder his son now or after the guests left.

"We will discuss this later."

"Looking forward to it."

"You should not be."

He then looked past his son to the girl. He studied her the way a king studies assets and threats alike.

"Natalia Moonveil. Lethos’s adopted daughter. He tells me you’re the best thing in his kingdom and he is not a man who exaggerates."

Natalia dipped respectfully.

"Thank you, my King. I hope to prove my father right."

A man wearing a crown stepped forward and clasped Ragnar’s arm. "Ragnar, old friend. It’s been too long." His eyes moved between the two boys. "Which one of them is taking my daughter?"

His attention landed on Ronan again after asking the question. He smiled. Warm, genuine, the smile of a father who sees a future son-in-law and is pleased.

"You must be Asher." He nodded at Ronan with open approval and turned back to Ragnar. "You raised him well. He holds himself like a king already."

"That’s my other son, Ronan."

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