Narrator's pov
Council chambers always feel like a coffin, don’t they? Air so thick with torch smoke and suspicion you practically choke on it. Dominic parked himself at the head of the table, jaws clenched so tight. He hated this place, and who could blame him? The walls were crammed with scowling portraits of Alphas past, all looking down their crooked noses like, “Oh, we’d never mess this up.” Liars. None of them ever ruled with blood running hot and betrayal stinking up every decision.
Now he’s the prey, not the predator, every pair of crusty old council eyes aimed right at his throat.
“Alpha,” wheezed good old Elder Greaves, voice like gravel dragged across asphalt, “the pack’s on life support. Rogues pour in, warriors trip over each other, folks are gossiping like market hens.” H
