The doors of the Alpha’s study clicked shut with a heavy thud, instantly severing them from the vibrant life of the house. The distant clatter of dishes, the high-pitched shrieks and wet giggles of the twins, the soothing hum of pack life—it all vanished, replaced by the suffocating silence of the room. The air in the study was thick, smelling of old leather, cold tobacco, and an ancient, suffocating tension that felt older than the faded oil portraits lining the walls.
Damon crossed the room in silence. He moved to the sidebar, unstoppering a heavy crystal decanter and pouring four fingers of aged, amber scotch into five heavy-bottomed glasses. He handed one to Jax, pressed another into Finnegan’s hand, and then carried the remaining two to where the Elders sat sequestered in high-backed
