Cillian POV
The heavy mahogany boardroom felt stifling, the stale air thick with the scent of aged leather, dried ink, and the sharp musk of twenty high-ranking wolves. At the head of the long table, my father droned on about supply chains and regional border treaties, his deep voice grating against my skull.
I barely heard a word.
My mind was completely trapped miles away in a sunny second-grade classroom. I could still smell Lilly on my clothes. It had the faint trace of sandalwood and sweet vanilla clinging stubbornly to my dark collar. The skin on the right side of my neck burned with a sweet, exquisite tenderness where she had placed her teeth only two nights ago. Every time my collar shifted against the fresh mating bite, a jolt of pure electrical heat surged straight to my core.
