Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

Two nameless men, a midnight meeting in the middle of a fucking war, and the distinct smell of ”we’re about to royally screw you” thick in the air.

The alarm bells in her head weren’t just ringing—they were screaming bloody murder while waving a giant ”RUN, YOU STUPID BITCH” sign.

Little did she know it was about to get much fucking worse.

RULE 25: Motherfuckers who come in hot are never showing their real playbook on the first swing. Aggressive opening moves are just dick-waving. Don’t ever touch it.

The Master Mage slid a parchment down the table. It stopped in front of Guinevere. Perfectly normal in every way except for the fact that it had been presented to her before her father had spoken a single word about why she was here.

She didn’t spare it a glance.

RULE 26: A whiskey glass is a cock-and-bull detector. Least sips = the cold observer two moves ahead. Most sips = the fucker under pressure. Never assume the thirsty bastard is weak. He’s usually the one who’ll fuck you as soon as you turn your back.

Silence filled the tent.

Her rescuer drank first. Long pull. Set it down. Picked it back up ten seconds later and drank again. The man was either under pressure or wanted everyone to think he was.

Beta Draven sipped once.

Marek took two sips. Timed. Deliberate. A man rationing his own tells.

Guinevere noticed her father hadn’t touched his glass since the toast. She casually picked hers up and met his eyes as she took a sip, solely because she did not want to be clocked as the observer.

He drank after her.

She remained silent, and slowly lowered her glass, still not looking at the parchment on the table.

Beta Draven looked down and to the left. A micro-movement, the kind that lasted less than a second.

Filed.

Marek leaned back in his chair, watching Guinevere. Nobody leans back that deliberately in a secret meeting in the middle of the night unless they’re trying to convince the room they’re not leaning forward.

Filed.

Her father’s posture hadn’t shifted. He also hadn’t glanced down at the parchment.

Filed.

Her rescuer had finished his whiskey and was watching her. She slowly moved her eyes from her father to meet his gaze.

RULE 27: Eye contact is a game of patience before dominance. A man with nothing to hide doesn’t glare like a pissed-off guard dog or avert eye contact like a scared little bitch.

The tent contracted around the two of them.

She kept kind curiosity behind her expression. That part was genuine. She was grateful that he rescued her and was giving him the benefit of the doubt, waiting for context the way any grateful person would.

Five seconds.

Eight.

Twelve.

His eyes were sharp and they were looking for something in hers that she was choosing very carefully to show and very carefully to withhold. He was measuring her. The assessment was thorough, unhurried, and made zero attempt to disguise itself.

Ironic.

Fifteen seconds.

He broke first.

She would have laughed at how ridiculously long of a standoff that was if she wasn’t the one trying to big-dick in another dog’s war tent.

The yellow flags continued to pile.

RULE 28: Eyes drop first, mouth opens first. Every goddamn time. Shut the fuck up and wait. The next words out of their mouth are always a confession.

The silence stretched.

Her father’s eyes were on her. She could feel them the way you feel weather: constant, ambient, evaluating.

Her rescuer broke the silence first.

”Let me get this straight. You took a letter from a stranger in a dark corridor because he told you your father was here.” He paused. Took a sip. ”Now your father is sitting three feet from you, and you won’t touch the parchment. Explain that logic to me, girl.”

”You handed me a letter in a hallway after saving my life,” she replied. ”That bought credibility. In this tent, a parchment hit the table before anyone said a word. Those are two very different letters, Solandris.”

Addressing him as Solandris was the real play with that statement. He did not correct her. That was the answer.

Renwick’s left index finger pressed a fraction harder against his right hand. It was either approval or warning, and with her father, both lived in the same zip code.

”You are here to see your father, girl. You are also here because the events in Velkaris are more complicated than the war council understands.”

The words didn’t even fully register.

Marek’s finger moved. A twitch at his side, that she only caught because he was leaning back in his chair so far that it was blatant.

The jester demon landed on the table. By some miracle, she didn’t jump or scream. Probably because it was round three with this motherfucker today and she was out of screams.

Solandris didn’t look at it. He kept his eyes on her, steady and unblinking, like he was waiting for her reaction. But he had already told her in the hallway that he could see it. So he was either not seeing it now, or he wanted something else.

Marek’s finger. The flick. The timing. The jester hadn’t followed her from the Keep. It hadn’t crawled out of whatever dark magic still lived in her blood. It had been summoned. Called. Directed by the man sitting four feet to her left who was watching her with the quiet satisfaction of a scientist who had introduced a variable and was recording the results.

The hallway. The boy. The shattered lamps. The thing on the ceiling above her bed.

Marek.

The corridor had been empty because it was supposed to be empty. The guards were gone because someone made sure they were gone. Solandris had arrived at the exact right moment because Solandris knew exactly when she would need saving, because the thing she needed saving from had been sent on schedule.

Her chambers had been the opening, the rescue had been the gambit, and this tent was a check.

The jester opened its mouth, revealing a black tongue split like serpents. It crawled closer on all fours, bells jingling softly, as it tasted the air.

Guinevere moved her gaze past it. It didn’t stop until it was two inches from her face.

Her stomach dropped. Her pulse spiked. Every nerve in her body fired a single, unified command to run. She did nothing. If they were trying to rattle her, she wasn’t going to let them.

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.

Without looking away from Solandris, she leaned forward and grabbed her whiskey, waiting for him to continue speaking as if that jester wasn’t there.

Her hand went through it as her fingers closed around the glass. She took a slow sip.

The jester recoiled like she just smacked it. Good.

”Oi!” The creature pointed one too-long finger at her. ”This bitch just took a sip of whiskey? Un-fucking-believable!”

Either her father didn’t realize who he was doing business with, unlikely, or he did and she was in some deep shit. Neither he nor Beta Draven were reacting to this thing. If they could see it, they were hiding it very well.

Her face didn’t change as she put her glass back down, hand going straight through that thing.

Its bells jingled as it laughed. ”She’s pretending I’m not here!”

She wanted to mindlink Maddox. That was her instinct. But he was leading a very important war council. No, she would not interrupt that.

She loved Jaxon, but when she mindlinked him earlier, it’d been about magic. This was a game of chess and he wasn’t the tool for the table. She needed a scalpel.

Lux wasn’t on mindlink yet.

Ryker was High General. Sterling was High Marshal, minus today, which she was still confused about. Both were vital in that council meeting and a no go.

That left Blair or Kael. Both were scalpels in their own ways. She trusted both.

Blair knew every face on diplomat row and, more importantly, every secret behind it. Who owed who, who fucked who, and who couldn’t afford for either to go public. Blair also had bruises on her neck from the night prior and this would be putting her in danger.

Kael was new to his seat and Maddox needed his mind in this war council meeting. He had knowledge of dark magic and flame.

RULE 15:Hesitation is for cucks and corpses. Make the move. If you fuck it up, at least you’re still the one doing the fucking.

Every person at this table was reading her and a mindlink meant splitting her concentration.

Guinevere: Kael, are you still in the council meeting?

The jester leaned back and started moving its hips.

”Gwen...” It panted, short and ragged, then let out a low, broken whimper of pleasure.

Wet, obscene sounds followed.

Heat flooded Guinevere’s cheeks, but she kept her face carved from stone, eyes locked on Solandris.

”Fuck—yes—Gwen—”

Kael: Finishing now. What’s wrong?

Guinevere: I’m in a bit of a situation.

Kael: Define situation.