The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 388

Chapter 388: Tiberon Is A 7.5 (Thor’s Math)

DRAKENFELL — OUTER DRAGON YARD

Thor Crushturn was having the best day of his life, and the day involved a dragon and a rag, which was a combination he had never anticipated and was fully committed to.

He was polishing Styx.

The war dragon was sprawled across the courtyard stones with the boneless contentment of a creature being groomed, his massive head resting on his forelimbs, one eye open, watching Thor work a cloth across his scales with meticulous attention because he treated dragon maintenance the way other men treated religion: with devotion, with reverence, and with a complete inability to explain why it mattered so much.

"Looking good, big man," Thor said, buffing a section of Styx’s shoulder plating. "You see how the light catches that? That’s a natural sheen. That’s genetics. You can’t buy this. People try. They fail. We were born with it."

Styx rumbled. The rumble was warm, deep, vibrating through the courtyard stones with a frequency that rattled a water bucket fifteen feet away.

"We are the two most attractive beings in this kingdom," Thor continued, working the cloth along a ridge. "And I’m including the royals. Dex is a solid eight. Tiberon is a seven, maybe seven-five on a good day. You and me? Tens. Easy. We don’t even have to try, and that’s the tragedy of it, Styx. We don’t even have to try."

A sound interrupted the monologue. Small, warbling, the vocal equivalent of a foghorn discovering sadness.

Thor looked up.

The juvenile dragon was sitting thirty feet away.

Guinevere’s dragon. The one that had fallen from a portal and interrupted an execution and bonded with a woman who was currently in the dungeons. The juvenile was green-scaled, and was sitting on its haunches with its tail curled around its feet and its head bowed, producing a sound that was, by every biological and emotional metric, crying.

The warble came again. Longer. Louder. The kind of sound that made hardened soldiers turn their heads and stable hands stop working and every person within earshot experience the involuntary chest-tightening of a living creature encountering the unfiltered grief of another living creature that lacked the sophistication to hide it.

Thor set down the polishing cloth.

He walked toward the juvenile. His stride was unhurried and confident, as if he were not approaching a creature that outweighed him by a factor of ten.

"Hey." His voice dropped. Lower. Gentler. A register that nobody in Drakenfell had ever heard from Thor Crushturn, because Thor Crushturn’s voice typically occupied the range between loud and painfully loud, and gentleness was a gear his personality had never previously required. "Hey, little man. What’s going on?"

The cry came again, quieter this time and directed at Thor. The sound of a young dragon asking a question in the only language it had: where is she?

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