Anton’s POV
The absolute, freezing terror that had paralyzed Anton’s lungs slowly evaporated, leaving behind a toxic, burning residue in the pit of his stomach.
He stood alone in the shadowed alcove of the royal library, his grip on the heavy crystal glass so tight that his knuckles ached. The ambient temperature in the room was finally beginning to rise as the Alpha’s presence faded, but the suffocating scent of ozone and charred pine, the unmistakable, catastrophic signature of Fenrir, still clung to the ancient tapestries like a threat.
“Do you honestly believe that a dog can sire a god?”
Fenrir’s voice echoed relentlessly in the hollow chambers of Anton’s mind, a jagged blade twisting directly into his fractured pride. The King had looked at him with such absolute, pitying disgust
