The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven Chapter 670: Visiting Rosalie

The words hung between them, weighty and immovable.

For an instant, Randall just gazed at him, before exploding into laughter. It wasn't mirthful, but filled with incredulity, laced with annoyance.

"You have to be kidding," he declared, shaking his head. "Rosalie might be your mother, but she's my wife first. And since when is the underground residence a jail?"

He edged closer, his voice growing keener. "That spot is plenty luxurious. She wants for nothing."

Draven eased back into the couch, his poise undisturbed. If possible, a subtle hint of enigma flickered in his face, like he was observing more than participating.

He was relishing this too intensely.

Randall spotted it, and it rattled him.

"Or is there more to it?" Randall pressed on, his words now tinged with blame. "Are you seeking a reason to bind my actions?"

Draven offered a slight, nonchalant shrug. "If that's your view, suit yourself."

The brush-off in his voice cut sharper than any slur.

Randall's face grew stormy, the restraint he'd clung to finally crumbling. He stood up, his dominance surging back as he towered over his son.

"I'll pretend this talk never occurred," he stated resolutely. "And that you didn't address me that way."

That's when Draven reacted. He leaned in, shedding all casualness as his features turned stern and grave.

The change was understated, yet it transformed the room's vibe in a flash.

"You ought to heed my warning," he advised.

Randall scowled, his frustration hardening into fury. "Has less than a year on that throne scrambled your judgment?"

Draven stood up fully now. The gap in their command became glaring then, radiating purely from his aura.

"You'll learn if my judgment holds when my mother arrives at this palace in two days—unharmed," Draven stated flatly, his tone steady yet loaded with unmistakable intent.

The icy declaration lingered in the air on purpose.

Randall's look altered, but before he could reply, Draven added, "You're excused. Leave on your own."

His commanding voice brooked no argument.

For the first time in ages, Randall remained standing, ordered about plainly by his own son.

---

Randall departed without further words.

Yet the instant he exited, the control he'd maintained indoors started to crack. His strides were brisk, his visage grim, and once inside his vehicle, the quiet surrounding him thickened oppressively.

He made no calls on the drive back to Oatrun Estate.

Tension coiled tightly within him, agitated and unyielding, his mind churning with rising vexation. Draven’s declaration rang too vividly—

It went beyond rebellion. It was an ultimatum—a menace cloaked in serene power. And that disturbed him deepest.

Upon reaching the estate, any remaining calm vanished. He strode the corridors with sharp footfalls, staff bowing low and steering clear instinctively.

"Summon Dennis to me," he commanded.

It happened swiftly. Dennis entered shortly, offering a deferential bow. "Father."

Randall skipped the invitation to sit. He faced him straightaway. "Have you talked with your brother lately?"

Dennis blinked, momentarily surprised by the query. "Draven?"

"Yes," Randall urged. "Did he mention anything? Drop any hints?"

Dennis eyed him intently now. Trouble was evident.

The strain in their father’s bearing was impossible to overlook. Even so, he replied straightforwardly. "No. We haven't talked in weeks."

Randall clenched his jaw faintly. Dennis paused, then ventured cautiously, "Is everything alright?"

Randall flicked his hand aside, already pivoting. "You're free to leave."

Dennis didn't push. He nodded briefly and exited. Once at a safe distance, he pulled out his phone and rang Draven.

The connection clicked, and a faint grin appeared at once.

"Spill it," Dennis said, skipping greetings. "What did you say to father that sent him home fuming and calling for me right away?"

Draven’s reply flowed serene and firm. "I issued him a command."

Dennis’s grin broadened. "Regarding?"

"Our mother." Draven went on, "Two days to deliver her to the palace, alive."

"That tracks." Dennis whistled lowly, evidently admiring. "He seemed rattled when I saw him before. Doubt he'll rest easy tonight," he noted, amusement creeping into his voice.

"Precisely my goal," Draven answered.

Dennis chuckled lightly. "Excellent. I could toast to this."

A short silence fell before Draven continued, his edge subtle. "Monitor him closely."

Dennis sobered up. "You suspect he'll act out?"

"No," Draven assured evenly. "But observe regardless."

Dennis inclined his head, unseen by Draven. "I shall."

The connection stilled briefly before disconnecting.

—

Unease clung to Randall relentlessly.

It trailed him down endless halls, into his office, and out once more. Sitting proved impossible. Clear thoughts eluded him.

Each bid for calm only fueled the aggravation simmering under his surface.

Dwelling on Draven’s ultimatum grated against his ego, his power, his grip until at last, he acted.

Needing no summons or directives, he headed to the estate's depths using the lift.

The drop to the subterranean quarters was silent, the atmosphere chilling and thickening with every descent.

When he arrived at the entrance, his forbearance was spent. He pounded fiercely. The noise reverberated harshly in the confined area.

Soon after, the door swung open. The attendant appeared, first shocked, then hastily bowing.

"My Lord—"