The Alpha dragged his bleeding fist from the vehicle window.
Vespera Morcant saw the silver residue before she saw his face.
It dusted the sleeve of his orchard jacket and clung to the wet skin around his wrist. His pupils were too wide. Scratches crossed his throat in four raw lines.
Bloom.
Sable Wythe dropped the bloody cloth into a sealed pocket of her medical case.
“Back,” she said.
The Alpha turned toward the sound.
His gaze fixed on Vespera.
“You stopped the lines.”
His voice carried uneven Alpha pressure. It pushed across the parking area in short bursts, strong enough to make two Beta workers retreat.
Vespera felt no scent warning.
That absence left her half a second late when he moved.
Rhydian Arkwright crossed between them. He caught the Alpha’s forearm and turned the
