POV: Tristan
The air in the High Wing felt like a physical weight, thick with the scent of old wood, stagnant tradition, and the sharp, metallic tang of my own simmering rage. Every hallway I walked was a gauntlet of whispers. The pack knew. They had felt the shockwave from the dining hall; they had seen the way I carried an Omega through the corridors of power as if she were made of starlight.
But more than that, they were looking for the mark.
In the Silver Creek, a claim was a bloody affair—a bite to the scent gland at the base of the neck that fused two souls into one predatory unit. It was the law. It was the "proper" way. Without it, Rena was nothing more than a guest in my bed, a temporary madness of the Heir.
I stood by the window of my private study, watching the sun dip behin
