Grace
I blow out a breath and knock on the large oak doors.
“Enter,” Killian’s voice calls.
I step inside.
The space is vast but not grand. It doesn’t flaunt wealth; it whispers authority.
Dark wood panels line the walls, etched with ancient Lycan runes—symbols of legacy, dominance, and blood-bound loyalty. A massive fireplace dominates one side, its mantle carved with the crest of Killian’s reign: a Lycan entwined with a Dragon, both crowned in flame. I know it’s his crest because it’s stitched on the cloak he sometimes wears, and a flag bearing the same crest flies high on the pole outside the house. The hearth rarely burns, but when it does, the flames cast flickering gold across the room like war banners.
Killian’s desk is a monolith of black stone and polished iron, wide enough
