Wolf Princess Sold to the Dragon King

Nicholas Shadowfell had called this summit.

He’d just finished twelve hundred miles. His men were dehydrated, angry as hell, and one small problem away from losing their collective shit.

But they made damn sure to enter Greyhall Crossing like the final boss rolling up with his endgame squad, and every Alpha present stared at the formation like they were witnessing the second coming.

He came prepared for politics and the standard dick-measuring that occurred during every Alpha get-together since the beginning of wolf time.

He was not prepared for this.

The doors parted and hundreds of blades flashed in the torchlight, turning the entire chamber into a silverware drawer mid-earthquake.

His pack flowed in behind him and then locked up as one.

Nicholas’s eyes tracked across the chamber like a general reading a war zone, left to right, hunting the origin of the mess. There was always a center that explained the entire shitshow.

Found it.

Center of the chamber. Tharos Stonehowl had a blade pressed against the throat of his fated mate.

His wolf detonated.

The impact was so sudden and so violent that Nicholas’s legs locked mid-stride. Full stop. Zero transition between moving and frozen. His chest caved inward. His vision tunneled.

She had no idea he was there. Her chin was up, jaw set, and her attention was welded to the man threatening to open her neck.

His wolf was howling, raw and primal and so loud it drowned every rational thought he’d built.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Nicholas didn’t feel it.

His men stood behind their king, watching the most composed Alpha on the continent short-circuit in real time, and every last one of them had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.

Damon Tavian was the first of the Shadowfell men to take action.

"What the hell happened in here?"

His voice cracked the silence like a boot through thin ice. Heads turned. A few Betas recognized him instantly because Damon Tavian was the kind of Beta that had the respect of every single Beta in the room.

Beta Harwick of the Grimscar pack was three rows up, blade out, pointed at a man he’d never met, thoroughly enjoying himself. He spotted Damon and his face split into a grin so wide it was practically indecent.

"Damon fucking Tavian. You’re late. About goddamn time."

"Harwick. Why does it look like a tavern brawl fucked a political summit?"

Harwick jerked his chin toward the center of the floor where Tharos still had steel on Guinevere’s throat.

"He confronted her. She told him he was dumb."

Damon blinked. Looked at the drawn blades. Looked at the chaos. Looked at the girl.

DOMINO 45: THE FINAL BOSS WALKS INTO A KNIFE FIGHT

GREYHALL CROSSING - COUNCIL CHAMBER - 8:13 PM

Guinevere kept her eyes on Stonehowl’s blade because looking anywhere else while steel kissed your carotid was a fantastic way to die stupid.

Her breathing was controlled. She’d had worse nights than this, and the worst one was forty-eight hours ago, so the bar for panic was currently buried underground.

Then her wolf went completely fucking haywire.

The sensation hit her like a wave from the wrong direction. Unprovoked. Unexplained. A full-body rise that started at the base of her spine and climbed through her chest like heat through a chimney.

She blinked. Pushed it down.

It came back. Harder.

Her wolf was just as confused as she was, reacting to a pull it couldn’t trace.

She blinked again. Forced it down again.

Tharos caught it.

His eyes narrowed. The blade pressed a fraction tighter against her throat and the corner of his mouth curled upward with the confidence of a man who thought he’d finally found the crack.

"You are emotional. Your wolf gives you away, girl."

Before she could respond, someone beat her to it.

"Tharos. Why do you have steel at an unarmed woman’s throat?"

She flinched.

The voice came from less than two feet to her left, close enough that she felt the air shift when he spoke, and she had zero goddamn warning. No footsteps or peripheral shadow. One second the space beside her was empty. The next second a man was standing in it like he’d been there the whole time.

He must have moved at full Alpha speed because nothing else explained how a body that size materialized beside her ignoring every blade in the chamber.

Either every wolf in the room let him through or every wolf in the room couldn’t stop him. Both options said the same thing about whoever this was.

She couldn’t look at him yet. The blade was still on her throat and taking her eyes off Tharos was still a death sentence.

"With all due respect, Shadowfell, I don’t answer to you. This is between Stonehowl and Lunaris. You want a seat at this table? You have one. But you don’t get to referee my grievances just because you arrived last."

"I called this summit," Nicholas said. "Every blade in this room exists because I invited it here. You drew steel in my house, Tharos. Lower it."

Tharos didn’t move. The blade stayed exactly where it was, kissing Guinevere’s throat. He had committed to this shit and, apparently, was riding it straight to hell.

"With all due respect, Shadowfell, this is between Stonehowl and Lunaris. You want to run your summit? Run it. After she and I are finished."

"You’re finished now. You’re holding a blade on an unarmed woman in front of every Alpha on this continent. Your father built Stonehowl’s reputation on strength. You’re dismantling it in real time. Lower the blade or leave my summit. Those are your only options."

Tharos’s jaw flexed. The chamber was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that has weight and opinions and is actively choosing sides.

"Fine," Tharos said, blade still firmly in place. "She apologizes right now for every word she said about my family and my title. She does it loud enough for the back row to hear and she does it looking at me. Then the blade goes away and we move on. Simple terms. Even she can understand them."