Chapter 404 A Beta’s Resting-Neutral Face

DRAKENFELL — THRONE ROOM

Across Skardos, in Shadowclaw, Serena was shifting and Dexmon goddamn knew it because every bone in his body was telling him so with enthusiasm.

He was mid-briefing with three officers when the shift hit.

His hands slammed flat on the war table. His jaw locked. The officers stopped talking because the Crown Prince’s eyes had just gone solid gold and his breathing sounded like a man being stabbed from the inside.

“Fuck…” The rest of the sentence stayed behind his teeth.

Twelve seconds. Twelve seconds of Serena’s pain channeled through a matebond that delivered the agony at full fidelity. The officers stood frozen, because there was no protocol for the Crown Prince of Drakenfell folding over a war table in the middle of a force deployment summary, and improvising felt dangerous.

At thirteen, Dex straightened. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“Continue.”

Dexmon Drakenfell did not pause for his own blood. His own blood could wait in line behind everything else trying to kill him this week.

The officers continued with the unspoken agreement that the last twelve seconds had been classified.

✦✦✦

VIREMONT KEEP — STUDY

Four hundred miles east, a different Alpha was having a different problem.

Reginald Viremont was pacing his study with the contained fury of an Alpha whose kingdom had been returned to him by foreign support. He had promised his daughter to the High Emperor of Orosia, and his daughter betrayed him.

The study was a room built for scheming and furnished accordingly. Dark wood. Heavy curtains. A desk that had witnessed more betrayals than a battlefield and bore the ink stains to prove it. Maps covered one wall. Correspondence covered the desk.

Reginald Viremont did not waste resources on atmosphere. Atmosphere was for men who needed to be liked. Viremont needed to be obeyed. The distinction saved him a fortune on decorations.

Reed stood by the door. His Beta had perfected the posture. He was present, available, and prepared to agree with whatever came out of the Alpha’s mouth. It was a posture he had maintained for twenty-two years and had refined into an art form.

“The Emperor wants a woman,” Viremont said, and the sentence carried the particular venom of an Alpha repeating a demand he had already failed to meet. “He wants a wolf woman with Alpha blood. Court-trained. Attractive enough to present publicly. Motivated enough to comply without constant supervision. And he wants her delivered within the month.”

Reed kept his opinions to himself. Only one goddamn month to find, acquire, prepare, and ship a highborn woman to a foreign emperor. Court-trained eliminated ninety percent of the continent. Attractive eliminated another five. Motivated eliminated everyone who had ever met Reginald Viremont. Brutal math.

Viremont stopped pacing, and faced him.

“Agnes was the play. Agnes was the entire architecture. Every contact I built in Orosia, every favor I traded, every concession I swallowed to get that invitation was structured around my daughter walking into that court and making herself indispensable.” His voice climbed. “And my daughter decided to develop a conscience inside an enemy castle, escape a secured compound, steal a slave, and deliver intelligence to the very alliance that put me in chains.”

Reed mentally noted that this was the fifth time Viremont had listed Agnes’s offenses in this exact order. The order never changed. The volume increased each time. They were currently at iteration five.

The last four words came out at a volume that rattled the inkwell on the desk. It had survived three Viremont tantrums this week. It was living on borrowed time.

Reed did not flinch. Reed had survived two decades as Reginald Viremont’s Beta by understanding that flinching was interpreted as disagreement and disagreement was interpreted as disloyalty and disloyalty was interpreted as a problem that required solutions Reed preferred to avoid.

“Agnes will be dealt with,” Viremont continued, his promise landing in the room with weight. “But dealing with Agnes does not solve the immediate problem, which is that the Emperor of Orosia put my crown back on my head with the understanding that I would deliver a woman to his court, and I am standing in this study with no woman, no candidate, and no time.”

He resumed pacing. The strides were shorter now. Tighter. His options were narrowing and his temper was widening. The two trajectories were converging at a point that would be unpleasant for every person in the room.

“I need a replacement. A woman from an Alpha bloodline. Attractive enough for the Emperor’s tastes. The man’s tastes are specific and his patience is finite. She needs to be court-trained, which eliminates every backwater territory on this continent. She needs to be attractive, because the position is a consort role that requires public presentation. And she needs to be motivated, which means leverage, which means I need a reason she listens to me and keeps listening.”

He stopped again. Looked at Reed. He had laid out a procurement list and was waiting for his Beta to produce the inventory.

Reed cleared his throat. “I have an idea.”

“Then deliver it before I lose what remains of my patience, which is currently the thinnest resource in this room.”

Reed reached inside his jacket and produced a rolled publication, which he held at a distance that suggested he was aware the presentation might require explanation.

Viremont looked at it. His eyes narrowed. The publication was printed on cheap stock, the kind used for mass distribution to audiences who valued scandal over paper quality. The masthead was visible through the curl: ornate lettering, a provocative illustration, and a title that Reginald Viremont had written off as filth the first time he’d heard of it and had continued writing off for the subsequent fourteen editions.

THE KNOTTY OMEGA

The title sat in the room like a drunk guest at a funeral. Reed’s face remained perfectly, professionally blank.

Viremont snatched it out of his Beta’s hands. He unrolled it, scanning the pages with rapid, aggressive eye movement. He was reading material he considered beneath him and was furious about the necessity.

“Why do you have this?”

Reed’s expression did not change.

“Confiscated it.”

His tone was calm. Just a Beta who confiscated it. Not a Beta who absolutely, categorically, without question had a subscription to the Knotty Omega and had been receiving it monthly.

Viremont stared at him for two seconds. Then he turned the pages like each one owed him money. His nostrils flared twice. His jaw tightened once. He was absorbing the content at speed and hating every syllable, which was the Viremont way of engaging with anything that was useful and beneath him simultaneously.

Viremont also probably found it entertaining, but Reed kept that to himself. He had served Reginald Viremont for twenty-two years. In that time, he had agreed with approximately eleven percent of the man’s decisions, survived one hundred percent of his tantrums, and perfected his resting-neutral face.

“My idea,” Reed said. “Guinevere Ashford.”

Viremont looked up from the publication. “Who the fuck is that?”