Aria's POV
It was Peter.
He was sitting in a VIP room at some downtown bar, the entire place drowning in spinning neon lights, too bright and too loud even through a screen. The air looked thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. My wolf immediately bristled, ears flattening at the chaotic energy spilling from the footage.
Peter sat at the center of it all.
Even with the dim lighting, I could see the flush on his cheeks. He was drowning himself in alcohol.
Peter never drank like this.
My chest tightened. My wolf let out a low, uneasy growl.
"What's the matter, Mr. Clinton? Not going to give us the courtesy of a toast?" a man with a swollen beer belly sneered. His voice oozed smugness through the speakers as his eyes swept over Peter like he was prey cornered in a den.
Predato
