By evening, I'm still alive—but now I don't want to be.
The man's an absolute psychopath.
Psycho. Path.
Since when does "go straight to the source" mean waltz into the middle of the grand event welcoming the fucking Lycan King?
And, even if that is what it meant—which it isn't—what madman throws a bound and gagged woman to the floor in the middle of the room?
Him. That's who.
My skin burns with everyone's eyes on me, and I know my face is redder than a tomato. Everyone can see the state I'm in, and there isn't a single friendly gaze in the bunch.
The meticulously decorated event hall is gorgeous, filled with random, expensive-looking floral arrangements. Everyone in the pack is here, from Alpha and Beta down to the lowliest omega; the main lodge is the only building on pack lands large enough to handle a crowd this size.
