The hardest part of watching a god bleed was realizing the man who built his cage didn't have a single scratch on him.
Arthur Sterling knelt on the freezing tar. He didn't look like a man who had just orchestrated a hostile takeover in the middle of a pack war. His charcoal trench coat was perfectly pressed. A silk pocket square rested precisely in his breast pocket. He smelled of bergamot, old money, and peppermint.
Not a single drop of blood on his collar.
Jane’s lungs stopped working. The dissociation didn't creep in; it slammed down like a sheet of bulletproof glass. The terror vanished, replaced by a cold, ringing silence in her ears. She looked at the scuff on her father's left Italian loafer. It was driving her crazy. He never wore scuffed shoes.
"The Guard awaits your orders,"
