Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King novel Chapter 239

Chapter 239: Firstborn Heir With An Alpha Wolf

Firstborn. Heir. Alpha wolf. Alpha abilities. Chosen by the Alpha.

Guinevere checked exactly zero of those boxes. Not even a partial. She was batting a perfect fucking zero on every requirement.

She was second born. Her wolf was not an Alpha wolf. She was a princess who had stolen a token from her brother’s chambers, borrowed his cape, and run eight hundred miles on the assumption that showing up was the hard part.

She was wrong. Her chest tightened.

"The rite predates every Alpha and pack in this room," Nicholas continued. "If the blood is deemed unworthy or is false, the territory will not answer. The one who offered it will forfeit their seat and the right to remain in this chamber."

He stole a glance at her for the first time since he began speaking.

It lasted less than a second. A flicker of something moved behind his eyes that looked uncomfortably close to pain. The kind of expression a man makes when he already knows the outcome and doesn’t want to watch it happen.

She understood.

He already knew this wouldn’t work for her. He knew it before he said the words. And he hadn’t challenged her seat or warned her because he didn’t have the heart to kick her out of a chamber himself.

It sat heavy in her chest.

But if he was hoping she would leave on her own, he was feeling sorry for the wrong woman. This woman was stubborn. She was already in the damn room and she was staying.

It was what it was.

If the Gods wanted to reject her, they could do it to her face.

She didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for her. Period.

She’d been whipped, frozen, ridden demons, glowed, and called a con job. A dark map wasn’t going to be the thing that broke her. Fuck that.

DOMINO 47: THE FINAL HORSE ROUNDS THE BEND

GREYHALL CROSSING - COUNCIL CHAMBER - 8:35 PM

Daggers appeared across the table. Short ceremonial blades pulled from belts and sheaths, each one different, each one old. Steel and bone and leather handles worn smooth by generations of the same ritual.

Gavyn stood from the gallery and crossed to her chair. He placed a dagger on the table in front of her, handle facing her, with the quiet efficiency of a man who had anticipated this exact problem.

"Thank you," she said.

Yes, she didn’t have a blade. Yes, she was absolutely regretting leaving Cassian’s sword in his chambers. Yes, this was embarrassing. A borrowed dagger from her borrowed Beta at a summit she’d borrowed her way into.

But she had bigger problems than a damn blade.

Stolen token. Borrowed cape. Borrowed Beta. Borrowed dagger. If there was an award for "most fraudulent delegate at a continental summit," she was winning it by a goddamn landslide and the competition wasn’t close.

Nicholas Shadowfell went first.

He drew the ceremonial dagger across his palm without ceremony, pressed his bloodied hand to the Shadowfell token, and placed it into the carved slot on the table.

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