Hayley lounged in the sprawling Presgrave den, a picture of indulgent dominance, her morning glass of red wine cradled like a talisman of privilege. The silken robe draped over her frame felt like armor, a shield for her entitlement. Before her, the maids of the pack had laid out a breakfast fit for an Alpha golden croissants, rich fruits, and honeyed meats, all arranged as if to honor her status in the hierarchy.
Her conversation with Erica was abruptly interrupted by the sharp trill of an incoming call. "I'll talk to you soon, Erica. I need to take another call," she said, snapping the connection with a flick of her claws, then slid May's line open.
"Hello?" Hayley's voice was cool, deliberate, like the Alpha's ice in the forest at dawn.
"Miss Seymour, it's me, May," came the obedient, quick voice of the pack's loyal lieutenant.
"You did well last night," Hayley purred, already sensing the currents of loyalty shifting in her favor.
