Chapter Eight
The War Room
The door to the northern delegation’s quarters slammed hard enough to shake dust from the stone archway.
Atlas did not apologize.
He crossed the sitting room in six long strides, tore off his formal coat, and threw it across the nearest chair. The coat slid to the floor unnoticed.
His wolf raged beneath his skin.
Not pacing.
Not prowling.
Throwing itself against his control with enough force to make his bones ache.
The marks on Willow’s jaw would not leave his mind.
Neither would the way Victor had watched her when she ordered Atlas to stop.
Not feared her.
Studied her.
As if she were an experiment producing an unexpected result.
Atlas gripped the carved stone mantel.
The granite groaned beneath his fingers.
“If you pull that out of the wall,” Jax
