The Alpha’s private chambers were not meant for spectacle. They were austere, shadowed, lined with ancient tomes and the pelts of long-dead rivals. A single heavy iron chandelier hung above, its candles guttering in the draft that slipped under the doors. Tonight, however, the room felt like an arena.
Alpha Blackwood—Elias—stood in the center, arms folded across his broad chest, silver-streaked hair catching the firelight. His face was stone, but his eyes burned with the cold fury only a father could summon when his heir threatened everything they had built.
Rowan knelt in the middle of the rug, shirt stripped away, wrists bound behind his back with silver-threaded rope that bit into his skin. Two guards—massive Betas loyal only to Elias—stood on either side, leather whips coiled in thei
