POV: Thorne
Thorne knocked the tea off his own desk.
On purpose.
He stood over the spreading puddle, breathing hard, watching the liquid soak into the stack of border reports he had been pretending to read for the past hour. The cup had shattered cleanly against the stone floor. He looked at the pieces. He looked at his own hand, still extended from the motion.
He had not planned to do that. He had simply looked down at the steaming cup the one delivered every morning now, without fail, without him ever asking and felt something animal and furious rise up from somewhere below his ribs, and his arm had moved before his mind had any say in the matter
His wolf.
It had been clawing at the surface all morning. Restless and angry in a way it hadn't been in days, pressing against the inside of his chest like it was trying to get his attention, like it had been trying to get his attention for a while and was running out of patience.
Thorne stared at the broken cup.
