Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King novel Chapter 372

Chapter 372: HOLY MOTHER OF—

Kael heard Nicholas out. Considered it. His eyes moved from Nicholas to Brennan and back, running a calculation that took two seconds and arrived at a conclusion he kept to himself.

"Fine." Kael pushed his chair back and stood. "Give me a minute."

He left the war room. The door closed. Nobody spoke. Everyone was chewing on something different. Blair was chewing on murder charges. Sterling was chewing on proximity. Griffin was chewing on a question he was absolutely going to ask in about four seconds.

He looked at Blair. Looked at Damon. Looked at Blair again. "Quick question. Unrelated to anything."

Blair didn’t hesitate. "No."

"So... Damon."

"Griffin."

"I was GOING to ask if you two were a thing."

"GRIFFIN."

"What? I’m asking what everyone’s thinking."

"Nobody was thinking that."

Griffin’s filter was off and not coming back. "Ryker, did you see the arm-grabbing?"

"I saw the arm-grabbing."

"Sterling, did you see the arm-grabbing?"

Sterling said nothing. His silence was so aggressive it left a mark on the table.

"Brennan, did you see the arm-grabbing?"

"I saw the arm grabbing."

"If you two aren’t together," Griffin continued. "Can I have him? Because anyone who holds a bucket that well—"

"He is sitting right here, Griffin," Blair snapped. "If you want to go out with him, then ask him."

"I don’t want to go out with him. But I DO want you and him to KISS before tomorrow because I have twenty silver on it."

The look that Blair shot Griffin suggested she wanted to light him on fire.

Nicholas addressed the room but looked at Damon. "For the record, my Beta has never once held a bucket for me."

"It’s on the record," Ryker said, because Ryker was also enjoying this.

Damon killed the rest of his mimosa. "I’m surrounded by traitors."

"You’re surrounded by witnesses," Nicholas corrected.

Kael returned carrying a locked iron box, dark metal, warded. The runes on its surface pulsed faintly as he set it on the table. He pressed his thumb to the lock. Gold flame licked across the mechanism. The lid opened.

He lifted the parchment out and placed it in front of Brennan.

Brennan leaned forward. He didn’t touch it. His hands stayed flat on the table, palms down, the posture of a man who had learned the hard way that touching unfamiliar documents was how you ended up with a dick tattoo on your face for three weeks.

He scanned the script, eyes moving left to right. Then right to left. Then left to right again, slower this time, his brow furrowing deeper with each pass.

Damon: He’s about to cry again.

Nicholas: He’s fine.

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