Marcus smirked as he stepped out of the restroom, his wolf, his wolf, growling low inside his mind. "So he's not the Blood Master," his wolf mused.
Marcus chuckled darkly, his fingers brushing against the other dagger in his pocket—the real one. The blade was cold against his fingertips, humming with an ominous energy. The one he had handed Malakai was a fake, a mere test. If Malakai was the Blood Master, he would have instantly recognized the forgery.
But he hadn’t.
That bastard isn’t our real problem, his wolf muttered. But something tells me we’re being watched.
Marcus’ sharp gaze scanned the cruise bar, his instincts on high alert. The air was thick with the scent of expensive liquor, sea salt, and perfume, but beneath all of it was something else—something foul.
Just then, Alpha
