The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 580

Chapter 580: The Dragon King Drops His Queen

Some men play chess. Some men play people. Tiberon Drakenfell played both, simultaneously, and still had a hand free to pour his whiskey.

He hadn’t portaled across continents to make friends. He portaled across continents because his son’s mate was dying.

Tiberon let the silence stretch. Nightspire let it stretch further. Two bull-stubborn, bone-deep bastards were each waiting for the other to flinch first, and neither of them was going to flinch because flinching was for the fool-borns, the faint-hearted, the fantastically fucked, and for men with fewer goddamn years of practice.

Then Nightspire leaned forward like the silver-tongued, silk-spined son of a bitch he was.

"We’re dancing around why you’re here, Tiberon."

Nightspire had just called bullshit on fifteen minutes of brass-polished, blue-blooded diplomatic foreplay and told the King of Drakenfell to get to the point, which was either brilliant or balls-out insane. For someone who didn’t know the game, it is the latter.

The line between the two was thinner than Nightspire’s patience.

But Tiberon saw this for what it was, Nightspire had sacrificed his queen. Patience was his strongest piece, and he’d just given it up voluntarily, which meant he’d already seen a checkmate that didn’t require it.

Which meant Tiberon was missing something.

"I don’t dance, Nightspire."

Dancing was for diplomats who didn’t have the balls to say what they meant and the bastards who charged them by the hour for the privilege.

"Everyone dances, Drakenfell. The men who claim they don’t are usually the best at it. You’ve been leading for ten minutes."

"And you’ve been following."

"Following is how I learn the choreography. I know the steps now. You didn’t portal to my throne room unannounced, for the first time, to discuss ward modifications or temple architecture. You came because you learned something on that island that you can’t verify alone, and you need me to fill gaps that your mages can’t reach."

Nightspire sat back in his chair. "So. Fill the gaps. Or we can keep circling for another hour. I have the time. I suspect you don’t."

"You suspect correctly," Tiberon said. "Which you already knew, which means the suspecting was a performance."

"Everything in this room is a performance, Drakenfell. The difference between us is I admit it."

"Admitting it is also a performance."

"Now you’re getting it."

"I’ve always had it. I just don’t announce it."

"And yet here you are. Announcing."

"I’m not announcing. I’m allowing. There’s a difference you should learn before this conversation gets expensive. And my performances produce results," Tiberon said. A fair statement. His results were built on the bones of every poor bastard who’d ever sat across from him and thought bullshit and bravado would be enough.

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