Alaric stood there. He was still in his leathers from the mines, covered in soot, his golden hair wild, and his face a mask of such raw fury that the air in the library seemed to freeze instantly.
He saw Zane looming over Julian. He saw the proximity. He saw Julian's hand on Zane's chest, the flush on his face that looked, from a distance, like a guilty heat.
"Lu-Lucien!" Julian gasped, finally pushing Zane off and scrambling backward, his hip hitting the edge of the desk with a sharp thud.
He winced, but he did not pay attention to the pain; his heart was racing, worried that Alaric would misunderstand.
Alaric didn't say a word. He walked into the room, his boots sounding like the tolling of a funeral bell as they clicked on the marble floor.
He didn't look at Julian. His blue eyes—darker than a winter midnight—were fixed solely on Zane.
Zane slowly straightened, a lazy, unbothered grin spreading across his face.
