Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King novel Chapter 71

Chapter 71: Hottest Bitch Daddy Ever Made

"You’re going to stop right there."

The man lifted his hand lazily. The exact same gesture she used a few minutes ago to request a severed head from Blair.

He was mirroring her again without realizing it, which meant the leash was on. He just couldn’t feel it yet. If she was Cassian, Renwick Lunaris would have said job well done.

The doors behind the dais opened. Two men dragged Maddox Drakencrest into the throne room by his arms. His torso was a canvas of blood. His armor was shredded across the left side, exposing gashes that ran from his ribs to his hip. His head lolled forward, chin to chest, eyes shut.

They dropped him on the obsidian floor in front of the dais like cargo.

RULE 7: Crying in public is bending over the negotiation table and telling them where the hole is.

The blood was dried, which meant he’d been like this for a while. She’d been crying about not being given a title, while he had been suffering. This man who had saved her life more than once. This man who had done nothing but be kind to her. This man who she loved more than anything on this earth.

Grief, worry, and guilt warred in her chest. Every part of her wanted to run to him. But she forced herself to give no visible reaction to his state.

Elders were dragged in behind Maddox. She had never been officially introduced to any of them. But she knew their names and faces because they had been at her wedding. Fifteen were shoved to their knees beside the king, wrists bound in dragon iron, their faces carrying the particular expression of powerful people adjusting to being made unpowerful.

RULE 8: Shut the fuck up and let the other man dig his own grave. He’ll hand you the shovel if you’re patient.

One of the soldiers approached the man and spoke in Setharii. "Commander. Perimeter seal has been holding since initial assault."

"Keep it that way. Nothing in, nothing out," the commander replied in the same tongue. "Converge on the white-haired female. Subdue by any means necessary. Do not kill."

He had either forgotten Guinevere spoke Setharii or it was an operational habit. Either way, she was listening.

The guards who had just entered moved as one. The fire answered for her before she blinked. A gold ring surrounded her body and expanded outward like a pulse.

The six guards froze. Looked at each other. Then at the commander. Then back at her. The math was visible on their faces. They were being paid to hold a throne room, not to walk into gold fire from a woman who had already decapitated their lieutenant.

One of them actually sheathed his sword. Just put it away. Stepped back. Folded his arms.

RULE 9: Walk into his house, sit in his chair, and fuck his wife. Once you score on a man in his own tongue on his own turf, he’ll start choking on every word after.

"Interesting." Guinevere said it in Common, then switched to Setharii. "Who are you waiting on? Your reinforcements are late. And you’re running out of room to pretend you’re still in control of this."

"Enough." He drew his blade and spoke in the common tongue. "Someone grew up in daddy’s war room. I get it. You’re good. Wrong house, wrong odds, wrong night. But the delivery? Phenomenal. You talk like you’ve done this before."

"Take another step towards my king and you’ll find out exactly what I’ve done before."

Fifteen out of fifteen elders’ heads swiveled to Guinevere with identical expressions on their faces. She didn’t notice. But Ryker did. If they weren’t in the middle of a hostage situation, he’d have laughed.

The commander’s expression shifted from amusement to something colder.

She advanced towards him and moved her blades in a figure-eight pattern she had seen Cassian do to impress women that served zero practical purpose.

The visual was spectacular. The flames trailed the steel in golden arcs that painted the air with light. The gap between appearance and reality was wide enough to park a dragon in. The trained assassin was a character she was playing, and the role was the best work of her career.

The hostages were recalculating hope. The commander was recalculating everything. Blair was recalculating how many drinks she would need after this.

The man took a step back. It was small. Involuntary.

Every hostage and soldier in the room saw it.

Behind her, Blair gripped an empty box with an expression that communicated: I am telling this at every dinner party for the rest of my life.

"Gorgeous," the commander commented. "If I’m being honest, and I shouldn’t be, I’m a little turned on." He jerked his chin. The guard behind Maddox pressed steel to his throat. "Put the flames out. Hands up. Or I redecorate the floor with your king."

She stopped. But that had less to do with his command and more to do with the fact that she was holding two flaming swords she had no earthly idea how to use beyond looking intimidating, and forward momentum would eventually require doing something with them that exposed the lie.

She didn’t look at Maddox. She looked through the commander the way her father looked through men who thought they had leverage.

RULE 10: Threats are a man jerking off at the negotiation table. If he could finish, he wouldn’t need to tell you about it.

RULE 11: Stop when you’re on top, and shut the fuck up. Silence is the kill shot.

RULE 12: If the math says you’re fucked, you’re not out of moves. The ones left just take bigger balls. Flip the goddamn table.

"The stance is theatre. Females in wolf packs are excluded from blade training."

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