The fingers Vespera used to hold Varg's hand suddenly went weak. The scent of orange in the room turned sour in an instant; the warmth of the cinnamon froze over. Her father hadn't sent her a sanctuary; he had sent an invitation to her own humiliation.
Varg slammed his whiskey glass onto the nightstand, a mocking, savage growl rising from his throat. The news Samuel brought had instantly turned the melancholic orange scent into the smell of gunpowder and blood. The Alpha rose from the edge of the bed, running his teeth over his lower lip; the redness in his eyes was now a lust mixed with the fire of revenge.
"Let's go and give our real gift to that beggar Alpha, to that disloyal human-loving man on his knees," Varg said, his voice becoming more macho, more destructive with every word. "Let's shove it in all their faces in those fancy halls—who the real Luna is, and who they truly need to kneel before."
