When the massive oak doors of the banquet hall swung open, I was instantly assaulted by a suffocating mix of heavy soot, aged wine, and a dominant, territorial Alpha pheromone that scorched my throat.
The ancient, rule-bound aristocracy of the wolves was here in full force. Every high-backed chair around the long, scarred table was occupied by a representative of a bloody, centuries-old history. They rejected technology with a primitive pride; they still dressed, ate, and drank as if they were frozen in the dark ages. They ate with their bare hands, tearing flesh from bone with a raw intensity that made my stomach turn and my pulse race simultaneously.
Varg's hand settled on the small of my back, his palm a searing brand. His fingers applied a punishing pressure to the exposed skin where the midnight silk ended, marking me as his in front of the entire assembly.
