The return of Vivienne to the Sanguine Council’s hidden sanctuary in upper Manhattan did not bring the operational victory Lord Cassian had anticipated. Deep within the windowless, stone-lined subterranean ballroom of the Nocturne Estate—a historic mansion hidden behind a massive private park—the atmosphere was completely dead. The room was illuminated only by the fragile, flickering amber glow of antique wrought-iron candelabras, casting long, twisted shadows across the pristine marble walls. The air was heavy, carrying the distinct, stagnant scent of centuries-old velvet, expensive silk, and the cold, metallic sting of preserved blood.
Lord Cassian sat on a high-backed gothic chair carved from dark walnut wood. He didn't possess the heavy, muscular bulk of a werewolf Alpha, nor did he d
