With every step Selena took up the stairs, the abyss-like weight of the Blackthorn bloodline—a suffocating Alpha pressure—ravaged the manor. The air seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by a heavy, metallic density that pressed down on the spines of everyone present.
The servants, who lived by the pack’s hierarchy, turned pale. Their knees trembled uncontrollably, and some, unable to withstand the near-physical killing intent, sank directly onto the cold marble floor. Beverly, the catalyst of this farce, was drenched in sweat. The revealing outfit she had donned to entice a man now only served to make her look pathetic. Her long, stockinged legs shook beneath her skirt, and the vanity and defiance in her eyes were finally replaced by primal, raw terror.
In the shadow falling from the
