Alexander’s POV
The heavy oak doors of the East Wing suite slammed shut behind us, their echoing thud neatly slicing through the torch-lit hallway to silence Delilah Thorne’s stunned indignation. I engaged the heavy iron deadbolt, my hand lingering on the cold metal for a fraction of a second to ground myself before I turned to look at my Mate.
Lilian stood in the center of the opulent, dark-stone room, her black cashmere coat still perfectly in place and her face an unreadable mask of absolute calm. For a long moment, the only sound in the suite was the crackle of the hearth fire and the steady, artificial, seventy-beat-per-minute rhythm of the blood in her veins.
Then, the tension broke. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in my chest, starting as a rumble and growing into a harsh, adrenalin
