Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King novel Chapter 321

Chapter 321: Stepdad Wants A Vasectomy

The gods had been split-screening it since the first domino. The show was a three-ring circus and every character was a clown.

Wine came out at twenty. The good shit at thirty. But today, the pantheon is doing tequila shots.

They canceled everything. Wars, orgies, therapy, that one guy’s eternal punishment. All of it. Every split screen slammed into one giant screen like the universe just hit "watch this, bitch."

Why?

Domino Seventy-Three was the closer. The final tile. The big one.

✦✦✦

Welcome to the season finale of The Real Alphas of Nyros.

On tonight’s episode: Stepdad and Dad meet at the gaslighting table in a chamber full of Alphas with the collective attention span of a concussed goldfish mainlining bath salts.

The Alphas thank you for watching. The Betas advise you to buckle the fuck up.

ROLL CALL:

Shadowfell:

"Big Nick Energy. Look it up."

The Blackmoor Twins:

"I didn’t draw on her. Do you want me to go back to the floor and show you AGAIN?"

Lunaris:

"I don’t work for the map. The map works for me. Cry about it to your beta."

Stonehowl:

"She did NOT call me dumb."

Ironmaw:

"I did the hokey pokey with my token and I turned myself around."

Ashwick:

"I WAS BY THE DOOR."

Ashfang:

"Four wives. Fourteen pups. And I still show up looking this damn good."

Veilcross:

"Twice I said I was leaving. I lied. Shut up."

Thornback:

"I switched sides and I’d do it again."

Redmoon:

"The Beta was SHOVED in a CLOSET."

Duskwin:

"I told Tharos to sit down before it was cool."

GUEST STARS:

Damon Tavian:

"I am that motherfucker."

Brennan Pike:

"Statistically one in every four spells explodes."

Reed Cross:

"You seem like you have a great personality, Alpha."

✦✦✦

DOMINO 73: THE LEGEND BEGINS

GREYHALL CROSSING — COUNCIL CHAMBER — 8:29 AM

Last night Renwick Lunaris sat at this table for four hours trying to finish one goddamn agenda. Hell took notes and put it on the brochure.

Four hours of blade-angle reenactments. Four hours of double-dipping debates. Four hours of forty-seven grown men who collectively possessed the attention span of puppies in a room full of socks.

They did not get through the agenda. The summit agenda was a corpse. Renwick had tried CPR. Shock paddles. Threats. Insults. Nation-shifting oratory. The agenda stayed dead. Every attempt to resuscitate it resulted in a new tangent about who drew on whom, which twin lost the bet, and whether the princess was double-dipping.

At 8:30 on the dot, he entered the chamber like he owned every motherfucker in there. Eight of his men flanked him. Some had traveled with him the day prior. Some had arrived with his daughter.

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