He wasn’t a werewolf, though. His posture radiated hostility and fierceness, but he carried none of the furry scent Victory associated with most werecreatures. She shouldn’t be surprised. Not everyone in the delegation could be nobility.
Mikelos, however, gripped her arm as he gaped at two Qin men opposite, marked by their tilted eyes and black hair tied in clubs at the nape of their necks. One wore summer-weight silk robes in deep scarlet embroidered with abstract swirling patterns in dusky rose, though the other sported more familiar Western-style slacks and button-up.
But the invectives now pouring from the robed man’s mouth surprised even her. They were directed at the Brit before him, who stood with fists balled. “—So why don’t you run back to your mangy lord and tell him he’d bette
