AMAYA
The dining hall smells like roasted venison and power. Heat rolls off the platters, and the candelabras burn high, the flames pitching little crowns of light along the elders’ silver hair. They talk in low voices that make the long table feel longer.
At the head sits Darian, like an image carved from iron. That was how stiff he was, looking every bit like the ruthless Alpha he was.
To his right, Lucian lounges like the chair was built for him alone. Theron is two seats down, his eyes moving with a hunter’s leisure. He watches everything, like he always does.
I steady the serving tray against my hip. Evelara insisted I handle the entire table alone tonight, twenty settings, three courses, two decanters of red, one of white, all mine. She delivered the order with a smile and a tap
