The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 411

Chapter 411: Eight Steps Between Bellatrix & Checkmate

STEP SEVEN: ADOPT A CAUSE

"Champion something publicly. Orphans. Education. Widows. The cause is irrelevant. The optics are everything. A woman who feeds the hungry cannot be abandoned by a man who wants to look moral."

Onyx was in the bathing chamber.

Petra was kneeling beside a copper tub, sleeves rolled to her elbows, washing a baby dragon who was sitting in warm water with his wings extended and his eyes half-closed, fully surrendered to the experience. The tuxedo was hanging on a stand beside the door, a towel beneath it, because Bellatrix had instructed Petra to treat the garment with the care afforded to royal vestments and Petra had complied because compliance was her primary professional skill and her secondary survival strategy.

Bellatrix was in the chair beside the window, drinking tea, reading the Knotty Omega’s Step Seven with the focused attention of a woman executing a campaign.

"Orphans," she said.

Petra looked up. Onyx chirped, because the word had interrupted the bath and Onyx considered bath interruptions a personal slight.

"Orphans, Petra. Wolf children displaced by the conflict. There are camps. There are orphanages. There are children whose parents were killed in battles that my husband ordered, and those children need a champion, and that champion is going to be me."

"Your Grace has never visited an orphanage."

"Correct. Which makes the visit more impactful. A queen who has always cared about orphans is expected to visit. A queen who has never visited and suddenly arrives with supplies, funding, and the personal attention of the Crown is a story. Stories travel. Stories reach the Knotty Omega. Stories make divorcing me feel like divorcing a saint."

She set the tea down.

"We are going to the orphanage, Petra. We are bringing supplies. We are bringing gold. We are bringing Onyx, because a queen arriving at an orphanage with a baby dragon in a tuxedo is an image that will be painted, described, and retold for decades, and the retelling will always include the phrase ’and her husband divorced her,’ and the phrase will always sound monstrous."

"When, Your Grace?"

"Tomorrow. Prepare a carriage. Pack blankets, bread, dried meats, and whatever else orphans require. I will research their needs tonight."

Petra did not comment on the fact that Bellatrix Drakenfell was about to research the needs of orphans for the first time in her life. Petra wrung the sponge and continued washing Onyx, who had resumed his state of aquatic bliss and wanted no further involvement in the conversation.

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STEP EIGHT: COMMISSION A PORTRAIT

A large, public portrait of the two of you. Hang it where everyone will see it. The empty space it leaves on the wall after a divorce asks a question no man wants to answer.

Onyx was on a velvet cushion.

Petra was rubbing oil into his scales with the methodical attention of a woman performing a task she had never anticipated performing and was executing with the professionalism of a person whose job had evolved from attendant to dragon spa technician over the course of a single day. Onyx’s eyes were closed. His tail was limp. His purring was audible from across the room, a low, steady vibration that communicated total and complete physical satisfaction.

"Step Eight," Petra said, working the oil into the scales along Onyx’s spine. "Commission a portrait. Something large. Something public. Something—"

"I am doing better than a portrait."

"Bellatrix Drakenfell adapts, strategizes, and wins."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And if all eight steps fail, which they will not, I will write my own column for the Knotty Omega and burn his reputation to the goddamn ground with a pen name and a subscription base."

"I will begin drafting, Your Grace."

"Under a pseudonym, Petra. Something elegant. Something untraceable."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Bellatrix picked up the Knotty Omega and read the article one final time. She closed it. Set it face-down on the desk. Looked at the checklist on the parchment beside it, eight steps, eight weapons, eight moves on a chessboard that Tiberon did not know had been set.

"Checkmate takes patience," she said to the room.

Onyx purred in agreement.

He was wearing a tuxedo, being massaged by a servant, and sleeping on a velvet cushion in a queen’s parlor. He endorsed the institution.