The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 423

Chapter 423: There Is One On My Leg, Petra

"Your Grace, they are children."

"They are underdeveloped assets, Petra. Nobody in this kingdom is investing in them. They have no patrons, no mentors, no one teaching them how to stand, how to speak, how to enter a room." She looked at a girl of about twelve who was standing slightly apart from the group, watching the dragons with reserved interest rather than participating in the pile. "That one. Standing alone. Observing. Good instincts. She is reading the room before committing to it. Court material."

She walked towards the girl and stopped in front of her.

"Stand up straighter."

The girl, startled, straightened her spine.

"Better. The outfit is doing you no favors, but we will address that. What is your name?"

"Maren, Your Majesty."

"Maren, you have better situational awareness than half the nobles in my court."

Maren stared up at her with wide eyes.

It was both.

A boy of about seven approached Bellatrix from behind and tugged the hem of her dress. Bellatrix looked down at the hand on her fabric. She had no protocol for this.

"Are you a princess?" the boy asked.

"I am a queen. Queens outrank princesses. The hierarchy is important and you should learn it early."

Another child grabbed her other hand. A third pressed against her leg. A fourth appeared from behind Petra and attached to Bellatrix’s skirt like a barnacle with emotional needs.

Bellatrix stood very still.

She was being touched. By multiple children. Simultaneously. Without permission. Without warning. Without the social buffer of staff or distance or the specific physical barriers she had maintained between herself and unsolicited contact for the entirety of her adult life.

"Petra. There is one on my leg."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"It is attached."

"She appears to be, Your Grace."

"What is the protocol?"

"I believe you stand there until she releases, Your Grace."

Bellatrix stood there. The child on her leg tightened her grip. The child holding her hand swung it. The child on her skirt began humming.

Bellatrix Drakenfell, Queen of Drakenfell, architect of an eight-step divorce prevention campaign, was being held hostage by children whose collective age did not exceed her own and whose grip strength was disproportionate to their size.

She looked across the room at both dragons, who were still being adored by separate contingents of orphans who had apparently decided that the tuxedoed dragon and the waistcoated dragon were the two greatest things that had ever happened to their facility.

A boy in the Onyx pile was wearing rags. The rags were literal. The fabric was torn at the shoulder, patched at the knee, and carrying the specific wear pattern of clothing that had been handed down through enough children to have lost its original identity.

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed.

"Petra."

Petra looked up from the supply crate.

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